scopyroris

[scopyroris]

Сетка

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader

word count | 10.4k words

summary | when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, intimate sex, enemies to companions to lovers, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, winter soldier triggers, protective!reader, protective!bucky, mutual obsession, feral love, soft intimacy, violence, reader only speaks russian, bucky speaks english, emotionally devastated bucky barnes, shit translated russian (probably), reader does not play about her man

a/n | IMPORTANT TO NOTE: the events of black widow happen before ca:cw in this. Based on this request. (I'm posting this from work lol)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Москва, 2003 — Красная комната

Moscow, 2003 — The Red Room

The walls were too white.

Sterile. Silent. Watching.

That was the first thing you noticed—that kind of white that felt wrong. Like it had been bleached so many times, even the ghosts had nowhere left to hide. Even the steel doors looked polished, like they were proud of what happened here.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with the others—seven girls, fifteen on average. Not children. Not soldiers. Not yet.

The floor was colder than ice, and it bled through your thin uniform. But none of you shivered. That had been trained out early—along with tears, questions, and the word нет.[no.]

The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Underneath it, sweat clung to the walls like memory. Like shame.

Footsteps echoed.

Three sets.

Two sharp. One heavy.

No one turned to look. That was lesson one. Looking got you noticed. Being noticed got you hurt.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The shift in the atmosphere—immediate and suffocating. Like gravity got heavier. Like breath didn’t work the same anymore.

Он пришёл. [He’s here.]

You didn’t flinch, but your muscles locked up. Your knuckles pressed into your knees until they went white.

Then: silence.

Not peace.

The kind of silence that held a knife behind its back.

“Смотри вперёд,” Madam B’s voice cut cleanly through the air. [Eyes forward.]

You obeyed. All of you did. Like clockwork. Chins lifted. Spines straight.

He stood beside her. Taller than you remembered from the rumors. Broader. Real.

Зимний солда��.

The Winter Soldier

His face was half-shadow under the fluorescents, but his eyes—those eyes—were unmistakable. Dead, pale things. A shade too light. Like they’d been bleached, too.

He didn’t look at you. Or at anyone. His stare drifted somewhere behind the wall, like even he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

That metal arm glinted under the lights. Thick at the shoulder. Seamless. Inhuman.

Madam B clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture was perfect. Her smile was poisonous.

“Ваши инструкторы научили вас дисциплине, послушанию, терпению боли,” she said. [Your instructors have taught you discipline, obedience, pain tolerance.]

“Точность.” [Precision.]

She nodded toward him.

“Теперь вы узнаете страх.” [Now… you will learn fear.]

He moved without signal. No countdown. No command.

Just violence.

One second, stillness.

The next—he was on Yulia.

The smallest one. The quietest. The one who tried to hum to herself when the lights went out.

Her back hit the wall with a sickening crack. His left arm—that arm—pressed into her throat. Just enough to choke. Not enough to kill.

Her boots scraped the tile. A soft panic-sound left her lips—then cut off as her training kicked in.

She stopped fighting.

That was lesson two.

You didn't move. Not even your eyes.

Yulia turned her head slowly. Her gaze found you. Desperate. Wild. The kind of fear none of you were allowed to show.

You didn’t blink.

“Вы будете тренироваться с ним,” Madam B continued, like this was nothing. [You will train with him.]

“Вы выучите его методы. Его инстинкты.”

[You will learn his methods. His instincts.]

Yulia let out a breath that sounded like breaking glass.

And the Soldier?

He still didn’t look at her. Or at you. Or at anyone.

Because you weren’t people. Not to him.

Just shapes to break. Dolls to test.

Madam B’s smile never wavered.

“Если вы выживете.” [If you survive.]

────────────────────────

Красная комната — Тренировка, 2003

The Red Room — Training, 2003

The floor wasn’t white.

It was concrete—cracked, stained, pitted with impact. The kind of surface that remembered every body that ever hit it.

The air in the training room was humid with breath and blood. The walls sweated under the heat of fluorescent lights, buzzing like flies in your ears.

You stood alone at the center.

The others were pressed against the wall—backs straight, eyes forward, silent as statues.

Your breathing was even. Measured.

Your fists curled tight, knuckles aching with pressure.

You didn’t shake. You never shook.

You’d already lost blood on this floor. Skin. Teeth. You’d learned how to fall without sound.

But this was different.

He stepped into the ring.

Black tactical gear. Combat boots. Gloves pulled tight. His metal arm caught the light—chrome and shadow. It wasn’t a limb. It was a threat.

He didn’t speak. He never did.

Not even a command.

Madam B stood off to the side, clipboard cradled in one arm, her pen already moving.

She didn’t call a start. She didn’t have to.

The moment his weight shifted—you moved.

You struck first.

Open palm to the throat. Hook to the ribs. Low kick toward the knee.

They were survival strikes. Precise. Fast. Smart.

He swatted them away like you were nothing.

Effortless. Mechanical. Indifferent.

Then he hit back.

His fist caught the edge of your jaw—crack—and your skull snapped sideways. Your vision pulsed white for half a second, but you stayed upright.

You had to stay upright.

Then came the sweep. His left leg scythed yours out from under you, and before you even hit the floor, the metal arm slammed across your chest.

You went down hard.

Concrete kissed your back. The air tore from your lungs.

And then—pressure.

He was on top of you. One knee against your ribs, hand to your throat.

That arm. Cold. Absolute.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was claiming the ground beneath you.

You didn’t fight it. Not yet.

You stared up into his face, and for the first time—saw him. Not as the ghost of a myth. Not as the whispered fear behind training drills.

But as a man.

A machine.

Both.

His expression was blank. But that blankness said everything.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was a warning.

You don’t win.

You survive.

So you reached for his sidearm.

His hand snapped around your wrist. That sound—metal joints locking down on bone.

It should have crushed you. But it didn’t.

You kneed him in the stomach—your knee landing against Kevlar with a jolt. You twisted, shoved your shoulder down, and used his own momentum to roll you both.

It wasn’t elegant.

It was smart.

Calculated. Ruthless.

You weren’t bigger. Or stronger.

But you were sharp.

You learned.

He came at you again, and this time you didn’t flinch.

You dropped beneath the punch, spun inside his reach, and used his arm like a fulcrum—flipped over his shoulder.

You landed wrong.

Your elbow scraped open.

But you were standing.

There was no applause. No approval. Only the scratch of Madam B’s pen.

The Soldier didn’t react.

He reset.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just reset. Like you hadn’t earned a single thing.

But you saw it.

The twitch of his fingers. The micro-adjustment in how his feet planted. The pause—barely a pause—as his eyes followed your stance like he was filing it away.

He wouldn’t remember your name.

You didn’t have one here.

But that day? He noticed you.

────────────────────────

Красная комната — через шесть месяцев

Red Room — Six Months Later

The mat was stained with old sweat and old blood.

You stood barefoot at the center. Bruised. Breathing steady.

Fifteen years old. One of the last still standing.

You didn’t know what day it was. Didn’t need to. You measured time in bruises, in blood dried under fingernails, in how long it took for your ribs to stop aching.

This was your fourth session with the Soldat in six days.

They were testing something.

Durability, maybe. Threshold. Obedience.

Or maybe they just wanted to see if you’d finally break.

Above, behind the black glass, Madam B watched. Her voice came cold over the intercom.

“Начали.” [Begin.]

You moved instantly.

A blur across the mat. Feint left, then up—elbow aimed for the hinge of his jaw.

His metal hand caught your arm mid-strike. Effortless. Inevitable.

He twisted. Spun you. Drove a knee into your side.

You blocked—barely. The pain reverberated through your ribcage like splintering glass.

But you didn’t grunt.

Didn’t cry out.

You never made a sound.

Pain didn’t mean stop.

Pain meant continue.

The room rang with impact. Bare feet sliding. Fists connecting. Breath coming sharp between attacks.

He was bigger. Stronger. His reach eclipsed yours, his strikes heavier, colder.

But you were faster. You had studied him. Memorized every tick, every tell. He never led with his right. The metal arm always came second—the trap after the bait.

You slid low under a hook, came up behind him, and kicked the back of his knee.

He faltered.

A grunt left his mouth—barely audible, but real.

You didn’t pause.

You spun, forearm tucked in, and drove it up under his ribs. You connected.

His breath hitched.

Your chest rose once—sharp.

You’d drawn breath from the Soldat.

His hand snapped out—metal fingers closing around your throat.

You slammed into the wall with a thud that rattled through your spine.

His grip tightened.

But you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink.

Your stare locked with his—blank to blank.

Two weapons mid-calibration.

He leaned in. Not far. Just enough to study you.

His eyes weren’t flat. Not fully.

Something behind them… ticked.

Then—he spoke.

Low. Controlled.

Almost quiet enough not to register.

“Хватит.” [Enough.]

Your body stilled.

Muscles stopped firing. Breath locked. Every cell in you responded like a command had been entered in your bones.

That word—from him—meant stop.

Session over.

He released you.

You dropped—not from failure, not from injury, but from the vacuum left by adrenaline. Your knees hit the mat. Your hand splayed out to catch balance.

Your chest heaved. Hot. Controlled. Like a furnace behind your ribs.

He watched you.

Still silent. Still unreadable.

But his fists were clenched.

And this time… he didn’t walk away immediately.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Not like an opponent. Not like an assignment.

Like something had clicked. Like a new file was being written in his mind.

Not fear. Not even memory.

Interest.

────────────────────────

After Hydra took back the Soldat, the others gave you a nickname.

Сетка.

[The Web.]

You weren’t the strongest.

You weren’t the fastest.

But you were the only one—aside from the one they called Romanova—to hold your ground against the Soldat.

You weren’t known for brute force.

You were known for calculated strikes.

For how you waited. For how you wrapped your opponents in silence and then struck.

You didn’t earn it through survival.

You earned it through stillness.

Through how, when the Winter Soldat looked at you—he paused.

Румыния, Бухарест, 2016

Romania, Bucharest, 2016

The world was too big.

You hadn’t realized that until you were freed.

Not with fanfare. Not with chains breaking on a concrete floor. Just… the chemicals gone. The fog lifted. Like smoke peeling away after the fire’s already eaten everything it wanted.

You were free.

And you didn’t know what to do with it.

No one gave you instructions. No handler. No target. No voice in your ear.

So you drifted.

Trains. Buses. The back of a truck once, when it didn’t matter where you ended up. Countries blurred. Time warped. Faces forgotten before they were registered.

You didn’t speak.

Not because you couldn’t.

Because your voice didn’t sound like yours yet. It sounded like property. Like training. Like the echo of someone else’s weaponized breath.

When you did speak, it was only in Russian. A comfort. A shield.

If they couldn’t understand you, they couldn’t own you.

Now—

Bucharest.

A city wrapped in damp air and dull concrete. A sky so overcast it looked like someone had smudged out the sun.

You didn’t pick it.

It just happened.

Like most things now.

No mission brought you here. No ghost pulled you.

Just the weight of motion finally running out of road.

You sat at the corner table of a café so small the world didn’t seem to notice it existed. A chipped white mug sat between your hands. Coffee, cooled and untouched. You hadn’t tasted anything in days, but the smell was something. Bitter. Familiar.

Across the street, a man adjusted a bike chain. His hands were black with grease. Someone shouted upstairs in Romanian. A dog barked. The faint crack of an egg hitting a pan cut through the air.

It should have felt normal.

And maybe that’s what made it unbearable.

You weren’t made for peace.

Peace had no rules. No orders.

Peace expected you to feel.

But you didn’t feel human.

You didn’t feel anything at all.

Just a hum in your chest where panic used to live. Just silence where purpose used to be.

Your fingertips curled against the ceramic like you were checking to see if you were still real.

Maybe you were. Maybe not.

You watched the sky for signs of rain.

And thought: Maybe tomorrow, you’ll leave.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

A Few Days Later

It started with the color of his eyes.

You didn’t recognize the rest of him at first—he moved differently now. Civilian clothes. Hair tied back. Slower, softer posture. Almost… human.

But then he turned toward the sun.

And you saw them.

That shade. That steel blue.

Unnatural. Icy.

Dead things wearing a face.

And suddenly, the world tilted sideways.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

Солдат. [Soldat.]

The market noise dulled to a hum in your ears. Just smells and motion. Heat and light. Someone was selling tomatoes. Someone else bartered for lamb. Shoes scuffed pavement.

You didn’t blink.

Your feet were already moving.

He spotted you seconds later. His brows knit in confusion—not fear. Recognition hovered behind his expression, but distant. Faded. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song he only half-heard.

Then—your eyes met.

His mouth opened, confused.

You lunged.

He moved just in time—sidestepped, arm up, deflecting your first strike. You twisted under him, elbow jabbing into his ribs. He caught your wrist.

“Wait—who the hell are—?”

You dropped your weight, flipped him over your hip. He hit the cobblestone with a grunt, rolled, sprang to his feet.

A vendor screamed. Then another.

Crates of fruit crashed around you. Splinters of wood. Apples underfoot.

He tried to disengage—hands up, defensive, careful.

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

You weren’t listening.

Your fist slammed toward his face. He blocked. You kicked at his thigh, drove your knee up toward his gut.

He grunted, staggered. Caught your leg mid-air.

You spun inside the hold, using the capture, and flipped over his shoulders.

Your knees slammed down on his collarbones.

He stumbled.

You slammed your palm into the back of his skull, forcing him toward the ground.

He rolled, bringing you down with him. The two of you crashed through a vendor’s table, shattering it into splinters and cloth.

“Чёрт—who are you?”

[Damn it—]

You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t.

His face twisted—half in frustration, half in dawning memory. But you weren’t a memory. You were now.

He blocked a knife-hand strike. Caught your other wrist. You twisted under, slammed your head toward his jaw.

It connected. His lip split. A child screamed nearby.

He shoved you off—but not to hurt. To breathe.

“I’m not him,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Your heart pounded. Your knees bent. You were ready to kill.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Every second he breathed in your presence felt like failure.

You were fifteen again. You were on the mat. You were under the metal arm.

You struck low—shin to his knee. He buckled slightly, but rebounded quick, grabbing your arm and twisting. You followed it, using the torque to throw yourself up and over him, body flipping above his head. He ducked, but not fast enough.

Your heel scraped his temple.

He staggered.

You hit the ground in a crouch, surged forward, fists flying—open-palm strikes, throat jabs, knife-hand to his kidney. He blocked most. Absorbed some.

But you were faster.

You always had been.

Around you, the market dissolved. Stalls crushed. People scattered. Screams and panic thick in the air. Vendors grabbed their children and ran. Tomatoes exploded underfoot like bloodstains.

He was breathing heavier now.

You could see the calculation behind his eyes—how he wasn’t hitting back.

Because he knew. He knew the precision in your strikes. He knew where you’d learned them.

“Why are you doing this?” he ground out, catching your arm again, ducking under a punch and shoving you backward into a stack of crates. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

You snapped forward, wrapped your legs around his neck, pulled.

He fell—slammed hard on the ground with you on top. You straddled his chest, brought your elbow up, and—

He caught your wrist. Locked it. Twisted just enough to force the momentum off. Rolled.

Now you were beneath him.

His knees pinned your thighs. His hand gripped your wrist above your head. Metal arm pressed against your collarbone—not choking, just holding.

Your breathing came fast. Harsh. Chest rising and falling in panic, fury, fire.

His hair hung loose now. Lip bleeding. Chest heaving.

And his eyes—

They weren’t dead. They weren’t his. They weren’t the Soldat’s.

His voice came low. Guttural.

“I’m not him.” His hand didn’t tighten. He didn’t shake. “I don't want to hurt you.”

You wanted to fight. Your body ached to.

But your eyes locked with his. And something fractured. Because the eyes that looked back at you now—they weren’t hollow. They weren’t blank.

They were human. Still haunted. Still carrying every sin etched into his bones. But there was no order in them. No command. No programming.

Just… regret.

Your body didn’t relax. But it stopped resisting.

Just slightly. Just enough.

Your breath caught in your throat—not because you were scared, but because you didn’t know what to do with stillness.

Your body had stopped moving, but everything inside was still screaming.

His grip didn’t loosen.

He was still above you, pinning you down—not aggressively. Just… securing the chaos.

You stared up at him, and he stared back, his brow furrowed like he was searching for a word he’d forgotten in a language he hadn’t spoken in years.

And then—

sirens.

Not close yet, but coming. Sharp. Rising.

His head snapped to the side. You tensed beneath him again. His eyes flicked back to you. Jaw tight. Conflicted.

Then, in a movement that felt more instinct than decision—he pulled you up.

You didn’t resist. Not out of trust. Out of confusion.

He didn’t let go of your wrist. Didn’t shove you.

He just moved—guiding you fast into a narrow alley between buildings. The noise of the street dimmed behind you. Fabric flapped on a laundry line above. The pavement here was cracked, lined with moss and cigarette butts.

He stopped. Pulled you behind him.

Pressed your back against the wall, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you behind his frame.

You should’ve fought him again. You should’ve broken his arm. But you didn’t.

His other hand came up—not touching you, just hovering slightly, as if to say stay.

You both stayed frozen. You could feel his breath against your temple. Still steady. But his hand—

It was shaking. Not from fear. From memory.

Like his body remembered something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He didn’t look back at you. But he stayed there.

And for now, so did you.

The sirens faded.

The city noise returned in slow motion—honking, voices, the far-off clatter of trams and tires. The chaos in the market had been swallowed again by the buzz of ordinary life, like the fight never happened.

Bucky shifted. Just slightly.

His hand eased away from your stomach, the other dropping to his side. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But you did.

You turned your head—slowly—and shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut through bone.

You shoved his chest with both hands. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to get space between you. Your expression was blank, but your body radiated heat and fury.

He didn’t resist. He let you push him.

And you turned.

No words. No explanation. No retreat. Just your back as you walked away—shoulders squared, movements clipped, hair tangled from the fight. You didn’t run.

You didn’t need to.

“…Hey,” he called after you, stepping out of the alley. “Hey—wait.”

You didn’t pause.

Your boots clapped against the wet pavement, turning down another street without looking back.

“Where are you going?” No answer.

He caught up, boots scuffing beside yours. He wasn’t panting anymore, but he was confused. Disarmed in the way only survivors could disarm each other.

“You just tried to kill me,” he said. “You started that. You could’ve—”

He stopped. Regrouped. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t even glance at him.

Just one subtle shift in your jaw. Tension in your neck.

That was all he got.

He caught up beside you. Tried to get in front of you. You side-stepped him like he was furniture.

“You speak?” he pushed, breath hitching with disbelief. “You got a name? Or just fists?”

Still nothing.

You barely acknowledged his existence now. That alone made his pulse spike.

“Did we know each other?” he demanded, frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—really know each other? Because something about you feels… I don’t know.”

You stopped. Just once. You turned your head slightly.

And said, flatly, with razor-edged indifference, “Он умер.” [He’s dead.]

Then kept walking.

The words froze him. Just for a second.

The Soldat.

Dead.

Killed in your eyes the second he hesitated. The second he showed mercy. The second he didn’t fight back.

He kept following. Not at a sprint. Not with force.

Just… there.

A shadow a few steps behind. Close enough to be felt. Not close enough to touch.

You turned corners like the city owed you space. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. But you knew he was behind you. Every step. Every breath.

And still—you didn’t stop.

You passed shopfronts. Faded yellow walls. Posters curling off the bricks. A cracked tile underfoot. The stink of wet bread and exhaust in the air.

“Why are you running from me?” he asked, not breathless—just bitter. “You came at me. Remember that?”

You didn’t respond.

He didn’t expect you to.

“I don’t remember everything, alright?” he pushed, his voice clipping at the edge. “There are gaps. Big ones. I don’t know who I hurt. Who I—”

You rolled your eyes.

The noise he made in frustration wasn’t a sound of anger.

It was need.

“Just—just tell me your name,” he said. “Please. I don’t care what you were trying to do. Just give me that.”

You stopped again.

Slow.

Turned slightly.

Your face unreadable.

Voice low. “Сетка.”

His brow furrowed.

“Setka?” he repeated. “That’s not a name.”

You tilted your head—just a fraction. And then you looked at him like he was insects. Not worth a fight.

Just an irritation buzzing too close to your ear.

You turned back. Started walking again.

He followed.

“Is that a code name? What is that? Russian? Hydra?” He caught up beside you, walking now shoulder to shoulder. “Did I know you?”

You gave him nothing.

But his eyes stayed on you.

And you?

You just kept walking.

Not because you were done with him.

Because you were done with what he used to be.

────────────────────────

You ducked into the café like it owed you something.

Not the same one from before—this one was smaller, grittier. Glass smudged with fingerprints. Fluorescent light overhead flickering like a dying star. But the pastries in the case were fresh, warm, and dusted with powdered sugar.

That’s all that mattered.

You didn’t look back to check if he was still following.

You knew he was.

You ordered with a short nod, pointed at what you wanted. Paid in crumpled bills. And sat by the window, legs crossed, posture casual—like this was your place and the world was just visiting.

A sweet bun sat in front of you, golden, soft, still steaming.

You tore into it with precision. First bite was deliberate—slow chew, eyes half-lidded in genuine pleasure.

And then—

He walked in.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

You licked a smear of sugar off your thumb, eyes fixed on the glass.

He ordered something. You didn’t care what. Until he slid into the seat across from you.

Boots heavy. Posture coiled. Forearms resting on the edge of the table like he was ready to fight if the cutlery moved.

He stared at you.

That stare. Cold. Sharp. Brow low. Eyes locked in.

The kind of look that made grown men flinch. You took another bite of your pastry.

Chewed. Swallowed. Licked your lips. And looked up slowly.

Your gaze met his.Unblinking. Flat. Not intimidated. Just... annoyed.

He stared harder.

You raised an eyebrow—just one.

Bit into the pastry again with a kind of exaggerated grace. Sugar dusted your bottom lip.

He leaned forward a bit.

You leaned back, leisurely, like the air between you bored you.

The silence was so thick it should’ve collapsed the table.

Still, you said nothing. Because you didn’t need to. You’d already won.

He shifted. You didn’t. His jaw flexed. Then—

He moved.

Slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to do it, Bucky brought his hand up and extended it across the table. Palm open. Fingers slightly curled. That awkward, stilted kind of offer people made when they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch the world yet.

“I’m Bucky,” he said.

The words didn’t come easy. They stuck to the back of his throat. “Bucky.” Like he was still trying the name on. Still figuring out if it fit.

You looked at his hand. Not quickly. Not dramatically.

Just… down. Like you were glancing at a smear on your table.

Then you looked back up at him. Dead stare. Cold.

“Мне всё равно,” you said softly.

[I don’t care.]

The words landed heavier than a bullet. You didn’t spit them. You didn’t hiss them. You just meant them.

His hand hovered for another second—like he thought maybe he’d misheard, misunderstood, anything. Then he slowly pulled it back. Fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist on the table.

You went back to your pastry. He didn’t move again.

────────────────────────

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink when he stared at you across the table. Didn’t soften when he introduced himself. Didn’t care.

He’d held out his hand like it meant something—like the name Bucky still belonged to him—and you looked at it like it was rotting.

“Мне всё равно.” [I don’t care.]

That should’ve been the end of it.

He should’ve let you walk. Let you disappear like every other phantom in his half-formed memory. But—

He couldn’t.

You were like smoke in a room with no fire.

Wrong. Out of place. But present.

Cold. Controlled. Eyes like winter steel and hands trained for death.

You weren't avoiding him like he was dangerous. You acted like he was a fly. An inconvenience.

And still…

He couldn’t stop watching you.

He found out you stayed three blocks away from him, in a run-down building that looked like it had never seen heat. No lights on past midnight. You came and went like habit—not avoidance.

No weapons drawn. Just… presence.

And it started happening before he noticed it: He’d time his walks to cross your path. He’d change course just to track where you ended up. Not to hurt you. Not even to corner you.

Just to exist near you.

Because somehow, somehow—he felt more alive around you than he had in years.

Not safe. Not comfortable. Alive.

Like the weight wasn’t pressing quite as hard against his chest when you were in the room. Even if you never looked at him. Even if you never said a word.

There was something about you.

Not just the way you moved—efficient, brutal, graceful like a damn blade in water. But the way you carried herself.

Like you didn’t owe the world a thing.

You were impenetrable. And it made him feel human.

────────────────────────

Несколько дней спустя

Some Days Later

You were sitting on the edge of a crumbling fountain, half a pastry in one hand, your boot tapping against the stone.

Same coat. Same deadpan stare. Same indifference like it was armor stitched into your skin.

Bucky stood across the square, watching.

Again.

You didn’t look at him, but he knew you saw him.

You always did.

This time, he walked straight over.

No subtlety. No circling. No waiting for a moment that wouldn’t come.

You didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just kept eating, like the man you tried to murder in a marketplace last week wasn’t about to sit beside you.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the fountain—not too close. Close enough.

You still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not following you,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow but said nothing. The flake of pastry lingered on your lip. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I just need to know…” He sighed, hand curling over his knee. “Setka. What that name means. Who are you?”

No response.

A pause.

Then, at last, your voice—quiet, flat, “Ты думаешь, ты хочешь знать.”

[You think you want to know, but you dont]

You met his eyes. Still unreadable. Still so, so tired.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, low.

His voice was raw now—not just tired, but unraveling.

“I just… need to know.”

A pause.

“Did I hurt you?”

Your chewing stopped.

You looked forward, eyes tracking something only you could see. Your fingers flexed once on the crumpled pastry paper. Then, softly, “да.” [Yes.]

A beat.

And then, quieter still—

“Но ты также научил меня не умирать.”

[But you also taught me not to die.*]

The words hit him like a blow to the chest.

His throat worked. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He wanted to ask what you meant—but couldn’t even form the question.

So he looked at you. Not with suspicion.

But with that kind of desperate, quiet plea in his eyes—the kind that asked without sound.

Please. I need more.

You finally sighed. A long, slow exhale through your nose. Tired. Annoyed.

Like explaining this was beneath you, but his stare was loud enough to warrant an answer.

“Красная комната,” you said flatly.

[The Red Room.]

His brows furrowed.

“Гидра отдала тебя им.”

[Hydra gave you to them.]

You finally looked at him.

Your face was unreadable. Not cruel. Not soft. Just matter-of-fact. “Ты… обучал нас.”

[You trained us.]

And there it was. The fracture in his expression. Shock, but not surprise.

Like you'd just said something he already knew, deep in his bones—but didn’t want to hear aloud.

He blinked. Swallowed.

“You were a widow,” he said, mostly to himself.

Your silence was confirmation. And for the first time since he met you, you didn’t look like a ghost.

He sat there, silent. Trying to make sense of what you'd just given him. And still—he needed more.

“How…” he said quietly, carefully, “how did you get out?”

You didn’t look at him.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. That specific kind of sigh. The one that said you’re annoying, but I’ll answer because I want you to stop talking.

Then, cool and clipped, “Наталия Романова. И Елена Белова.”

[Natalia Romanova. And Yelena Belova.]

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t soften. You tossed the empty pastry wrapper into the bin beside the fountain and stood.

Then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Слишком поздно для большинства.”

[Too late for most of us.]

And without a glance back, you turned and walked away. Boots clicking against the stone. Shoulders squared. Back straight.

Leaving him there with a realization that the only person who might know who he was still didn’t care who he is.

You heard his steps before you saw him.

You always did.

He didn’t walk like a civilian. Not even when he tried.

His boots were too heavy. His presence too loud. Even in silence.

You didn’t turn when he entered the courtyard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t mean to be there.

But you knew better.

You were sitting on a low wall, picking at the crust of a tart. Raspberry filling on your thumb. The sun was barely up.

And there he was. Again.

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes. This time, you just… watched. Not with annoyance. Just observation.

He sat a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to press.

He looked tired.

More than usual.

Like he hadn’t slept. Like being in his skin had worn him raw.

And for the first time, you wondered.

Not what he wanted.

But why he kept wanting.

You let the silence hang for a moment longer, then tilted your head just slightly.

Voice soft. Even.

“Что ты хочешь от меня?”

[What do you want from me?]

He blinked.

Then smirked—dry, thin, almost embarrassed.

“Your name,” he said. “For one.”

You gave him a look. Half-bored, half-knowing.

“и…?” you prompted, arching a brow. [And…]

That’s when he faltered.

He shifted on the wall. Looked down at his hands. Flexed the metal one like he didn’t trust it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

Not bitter. Not confused. Just honest.

“I don’t know why I keep looking for you. I just—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense. And you don’t even like me.”

You blinked at him. Then returned your gaze forward. Back to the rising sun. And said nothing.

But for once, you didn’t get up and leave.

You stayed.

────────────────────────

The fountain was silent, just a hollowed-out shell of stone, stained with rust and time. You sat perched on the rim, arms resting against your knees, watching the last light of day catch in the cracks of the broken tiles. The warmth of the sun was soft on your face, but the air was already turning cold.

You felt him arrive before he spoke.

He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but was too heavy with memory not to be felt.

He sat beside you—not too close, but not far. He didn’t speak. Not yet. And you didn’t turn your head to acknowledge him. It wasn’t necessary.

You’d started sharing silence like it belonged to both of you.

Minutes passed.

You listened to the slow creak of birds returning to the rooftops, the faint echo of footsteps on distant concrete. The world had quieted around you, and he hadn’t left.

Eventually, his voice broke through, rough and low.

“I don’t think I'll ever stop waiting.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. The words hung in the air, weightless and unfinished, and part of you wondered if he even expected a reply. Your gaze stayed fixed ahead, tracking the fractured pattern of shadows stretching across the courtyard.

And then, maybe without knowing why—you spoke.

Your name left your mouth quieter than you intended, like it had to sneak past the years of silence it had been buried under.

He turned to you. “What?”

You looked at him.

Met his eyes.

And said it again.

Clear. Certain. Yours.

The way he blinked told you he hadn’t expected it—not tonight, maybe not ever. He repeated it under his breath, carefully, like the syllables might dissolve if he held them too tightly. He said it like he was tasting something real for the first time in years.

Then he gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth twitching into something soft.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, giving him the same look you’d used on a hundred fools who thought they’d earned something for no reason.

His smile grew—not smug, but amused. Quiet. Unforced.

For a moment, you didn’t mind that he was there.

───────────────────────

You always took the same seat—back corner, right by the window, where the sunlight slanted across the table in late morning like gold dust.

Your coffee was always lukewarm by the time you drank it, and your pastries were always sweet. The music in your ears pulsed soft and steady, a low hum only you could hear. You never shared what you were listening to, and you never offered to.

He never asked.

But he noticed.

He noticed that when you chewed slowly, your head tilted slightly to one side—just enough to catch a particular note. He noticed that you tapped your fingers on the table sometimes, in rhythm with whatever beat lived under your skin.

It wasn’t much.

But it was yours.

And you noticed him too.

He always had the same notebook—small, black, worn at the edges, the kind that could be slipped into a coat pocket without a second thought. He never let anyone else see inside. But he wrote in it often, sometimes mid-sentence, like a thought might escape if he didn’t pin it down fast enough.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Until one morning, when he was scribbling again inside it, you leaned slightly forward, voice low, words rolling off your tongue like it belonged there.

“Что ты там всё время пишешь?”

[What do you keep writing in there?]

He glanced up, blinking like he hadn’t realized you were watching him.

“Stuff I remember,” he answered, softly. “Names. Places. Dreams. I forget a lot, so I write it down.”

He didn’t ask what you were listening to.

But his gaze flicked toward the earbud still nestled in your ear, and you knew he was thinking it.

You didn’t offer it.

But you didn’t hide it, either.

Later that morning, you both reached for the last almond tart at the same time.

Your hand got there first.

You raised a brow. He huffed out a laugh through his nose and motioned for you to take it.

You did.

You broke it in half and pushed the other piece across the table.

He didn’t thank you. But he ate it.

That was the day you stopped sitting across from each other.

And started sitting side by side.

────────────────────────

The café was nearly empty, just the soft clink of ceramic and the distant hum of an old radio behind the counter. The pastry case had been picked clean, and the overhead light above your usual table flickered faintly, but neither of you moved to find another seat.

You sat beside him this time—shoulder to shoulder, one knee pulled up onto the booth seat, your arm resting lazily along the back of the bench. The hood of your coat was down, loose pieces of hair falling over your face. You didn’t bother fixing them.

You were listening to something again—earbuds in, eyes half-lidded.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break whatever this was. The fact that you were still here meant something.

You shifted suddenly.

Not much—just a lean, just enough that your shoulder pressed into his arm, your head tipping to the side until it rested against him. Light. Casual. Like it was accidental. Like he wasn’t even there.

His breath hitched slightly—but he didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him.

But you reached up, plucked one of the earbuds from your ear, and—without looking—held it out toward him.

An offering.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just choice.

He hesitated—then took it.

David Bowie’s voice filtered in, old and warm and ghostlike. Something about changes, about time bending and slipping through fingers. The kind of song that made the city feel like it was holding its breath.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t smile.

But your head stayed against his shoulder.

And when the song ended, you didn’t take the earbud back.

You just let it stay.

Несколько месяцев спустя

A Few Months Later

He was on the floor again.

The mattress had been too soft. The air too still. He needed edges. Needed cold.

But even here—against the hard wood, spine pressed into the earth like punishment—it wasn’t enough to keep the dreams out.

They started like they always did.

Flashes of corridors. Screams without mouths. His own hands soaked in red. Russian commands slicing through the dark like razors.

He heard bones snap. He heard a girl scream—

No, not a girl. You.

But the Soldat didn’t stop.

His own voice—flat, mechanized—spoke a language he couldn’t feel, barking orders at children.

And then—

He was drowning in snow. Arms bound. Blood freezing.

He gasped awake like something had clawed through his chest.

His breath came ragged. Sharp. Cold sweat clung to every inch of skin, and the room felt like it was collapsing.

But then—

A hand.

Soft.

Warm against his chest.

Not sudden. Not a jolt. Just there—pressed gently over his heart like it had been holding him for hours.

“Тише…” [Easy now…]

Your voice was the first thing to cut through the fog. Low, steady, threaded with sleep but utterly sure.

His eyes snapped to you.

Darkness wrapped around the room like cloth, but he could see you in the low amber spill from the window. You were curled against him, body bare and familiar, skin pressed to skin. Your thigh hooked over his, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other tracing slow, grounding circles over his chest.

You didn’t flinch at his shaking.

You just held him.

“Это не сейчас,” you whispered again, softer.

[It’s not now.]

And he breathed like he hadn’t in days.

Hands found your back—clutching, clinging, greedy in the way that had nothing to do with sex. Like you were oxygen. Like his fingers didn’t know how to stop searching for the edges of you.

You didn’t pull away. You let him take. You let him need.

His breath stayed ragged for a long time, chest heaving beneath your hand like it couldn’t find its rhythm. His fingers clutched at your back, shifting slightly to your waist, to your shoulder, back again—like he needed to make sure you were real every few seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept your arm over his chest, anchoring him.

Eventually, his head turned slightly against your temple. His mouth brushed your hair when he spoke, the words low, scratchy, like they were being dragged out of his ribs one by one.

“I saw them again.”

You said nothing.

“I was holding one of them down. I don’t even think she was older than fifteen. She looked like you. I think—I think maybe it was you.”

You pressed your lips against his jaw.

Not a kiss. Not an answer.

Just pressure.

“I can’t always tell if it’s memory or something Hydra put here,” he muttered, voice splintering at the edges. “Sometimes I remember things I know I didn’t do. And other times—I know it was me. The worst ones… I know it was me.”

His hand moved to your stomach. Held you there like gravity.

“I hear screaming in Russian, and I can’t tell if it’s my voice or someone else’s. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it. That it’ll fade. But it’s like it’s burned into the back of my eyelids.”

You shifted, just slightly, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, guiding his face closer until your foreheads touched.

He exhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know who I am outside of what they made me,” he said. “But when I’m with you, it’s the first time I don’t feel like a ghost in my own body.”

Your hand slipped behind his neck, fingertips resting just beneath his hairline.

“Ты не призрак.” [You’re not a ghost.]

The words didn’t feel like comfort.

They felt like truth.

And when his breath caught again—quiet, uneven, almost broken—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not fixing him. Not saving him. Just with him.

Because at some point, without meaning to, he had become the only thing in this world that mattered.

The room was still dark, the sky outside only just beginning to tint at the edges. You were still lying there, skin warm against his, your breath a steady rhythm he’d started to match. His body had gone still again—not tense, not panicked. Just quiet. Contained.

But his hand was still at your waist. His fingers drawing soft, slow shapes into your side like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And you let him.

Because it wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry.

It was careful.

His breath brushed the space just behind your ear when he spoke again.

“You’re the only thing I feel like I don’t need to apologize for.”

You shifted slightly—chest to chest now, one leg brushing between his. Your palm moved up to his shoulder, then trailed along the line of his throat, slow and exploratory. Not a seduction.

A recognition.

The intimacy didn’t build like a fire—it simmered, low and inevitable. He leaned into you like someone who had forgotten how to reach for warmth. His hand moved to your back, spreading wide across your spine, holding you there—not hard, not desperate, but present.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast.

Just his mouth against yours, slow and searching. His breath shaky, his fingers tightening just a little in your hair.

You kissed him back. Not because you were trying to fix him. Not because you owed him anything.

But because he felt real beneath your hands, and that was enough.

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, his voice barely more than breath:

“Please…”

You didn’t ask what he was asking for.

Because you already knew.

Bucky's forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm where it spilled between your lips, ragged in the quiet. His eyes were still closed. Like he couldn't bear to look at you yet—like the weight of being seen might break him.

You moved first.

Your hand slid slowly from the nape of his neck down to his shoulder, tracing the edge of his scars with deliberate softness. His skin twitched under your touch, not from fear—from hunger.

His metal arm lay inert beside him, but his other hand came up, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing your cheek like he still wasn’t sure you were real. His thumb ghosted over your bottom lip. His mouth followed.

This kiss was different.

No panic. No desperation.

Just need, thick and quiet and sharp.

You shifted, straddling his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist, your palms splayed flat against his chest. His skin was warm under yours, heartbeat hammering as though his body was still catching up to the permission he'd finally given himself—to want.

His hands found your waist. Traced the line of your spine. One stayed there, grounding himself in the curve of you, while the other slid up your side, fingers memorizing the shape of your ribs like he was trying to draw you blind.

When your hips pressed down against him, his breath caught sharply in his throat. He met your gaze then—fully, finally.

Not as the Soldat.

Not as a ghost.

As himself.

And you saw it—that flicker of reverence buried under the heat. Like even now, even wanting you, he didn’t feel like he deserved to have you.

So you kissed him again.

Not to reassure him.

To claim him.

His mouth opened under yours, hands gripping tighter now, pulling you down, closer, deeper. You rocked together slow, controlled, your rhythm deliberate, the pace of two people not trying to lose themselves—but trying to find themselves in each other.

You whispered between kisses—soft sounds only meant for him. He didn’t understand some of the words, but he held on to the tone, the way you said his name like it didn’t belong to anyone else.

When you sank down onto him, his whole body shuddered under you. His hands gripped your thighs, not guiding—begging. His lips trailed your throat, jaw, shoulder, anything he could reach, like touch was the only language he trusted.

You moved together slowly at first—bodies adjusting, memorizing, matching breath for breath, sound for sound. Every shift brought a deeper connection, every sigh a new thread stitched between skin and soul.

By the time your pace quickened, the air around you had changed. The city had faded. The world narrowed down to this room, this moment, this need.

He moaned your name against your neck like it was a prayer.

You held him like you were anchoring a man about to fall through the floor.

When release came, it wasn’t just pleasure. It was relief. A crashing, dissolving quiet that left you tangled together, chest to chest, sweat-slicked and breathless, your pulse finally syncing to something steady.

You didn't let go.

And neither did he.

Just stayed inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like the world outside your bodies had ceased to exist.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

You had this.

────────────────────────

Следующее утро

The Next Morning

The market was quiet in the way city mornings could be. Early light filtered between rusted awnings, the smell of spices and stone settling into the cracks of the pavement. You walked beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his arm near yours.

He was holding plums.

Inspecting them like they were treasure.

You watched him quietly, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It was absurd—how gentle he looked now, murmuring something about ripeness in Romanian under his breath. You didn't understand every word, but the tone was enough.

Then—

Something shifted.

A sharp prick under your skin.

Like static.

Like danger.

You didn’t know where it came from. A glance. A tension in the air. A silence that cut through background chatter too cleanly.

Your eyes tracked the source—an older man, just across the way, holding a folded newspaper in stiff fingers. He wasn’t watching the stand. He was watching him.

You followed the man’s line of sight, moving slowly, deliberately toward the stand. The vendor was distracted. You picked up a copy of the paper.

Front page.

Explosion at UN Assembly. Dozens dead. Suspect at large.

And beneath the headline—

His face.

Your stomach flipped. You turned sharply, plums forgotten. Walked straight to him.

Bucky looked up just as you shoved the newspaper into his chest.

He blinked. Then froze.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t run. You just leaned in, eyes locked with his.

“Нам нужно уходить. Сейчас.”

[We need to leave. Now.]

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t argue. His fingers clenched the paper.

And together, without another word, you turned and disappeared into the crowd.

────────────────────────

Берлин — Безопасный объект хранения

Berlin — Secure Holding Facility

You hadn't left his side since the arrest.

When the guards cuffed him, you didn’t fight them—not yet. You walked behind him, eyes narrowed, body coiled, your presence like a blade just waiting to be unsheathed.

No one could talk to you.

The blonde one had tried—gentle voice, soft posture, his hands open like that meant anything.

You stared at him like he was furniture.

His friend had watched you carefully, tension in his jaw, waiting for you to snap.

You didn’t.

You just stood closer to Bucky.

Then there was him.

The one in black. The Panther.

The moment he tried to approach, your hand twitched toward your hip. You had no weapon. Didn’t need one. Your body was a weapon. The look in your eyes alone was enough to make one of his guards step between you.

They tried to separate you.

You didn’t let them.

You didn’t speak a word—not in English, not in Russian. You were a storm in the room, silent and immovable. And even Bucky, tired and cuffed and quiet, looked at you with something just shy of awe.

Then the elevator opened.

She stepped out.

Red hair. Calm stride. Cold eyes that knew.

You didn’t need her name.

She didn’t need yours.

Natasha Romanoff approached slowly. Not cautiously. Respectfully.

She spoke in Russian, voice smooth but even.

“Мы никогда не встречались, но я знаю, кто ты.”

[We never met, but I know who you are.]

You said nothing.

She stopped a few feet away.

“Ты Сетка.” [You’re The Web.]

Still, no answer. But your gaze softened—fractionally.

Because you knew her too.

Not from missions. Not from photos.

From whispers in hallways. From training drills where instructors used her name like a warning.

Natalia Romanova. The Black Widow.

The one who escaped.

The one who survived.

“Он этого не делал,” you said finally.

[He didn’t do it.]

Your voice was low. Flat. Carved from certainty.

Natasha studied you. Something passed behind her eyes.

“I believe you,” she answered.

Then, more carefully:

“Но тебе нужно это сказать в суде.”

[But you need to say that in court.]

You stared at her.

Eyes hard.

“You’re his only alibi,” she added. “Without you, they’ll tear him apart.”

The thought made your stomach twist.

You clenched your jaw. Glanced at the camera behind Natasha—at Bucky, sitting in a metal chair, hands cuffed, head bowed.

You gave a slow nod.

And for the first time since his arrest—your eyes left him.

────────────────────────

The lights died without warning.

A loud click. A sharp hum.

Then—darkness.

Shouts echoed down the corridors. Metal scraped. Radios crackled with confusion. Power was down, systems offline, backup still lagging behind.

People froze. You didn’t.

You moved.

No hesitation. No questions.

The moment the lights dropped, your body remembered.

Because this kind of darkness only ever meant one thing.

You sprinted through the corridor like blood in a vein, bypassing the agents stumbling toward emergency protocols, your feet silent, lethal. Every step was muscle memory. Every twist and turn of the hallway a reflex carved into you long before freedom ever tasted real.

The door to the security wing came into view.

Ten guards. No time.

The first went down with a strike to the throat, his flashlight bouncing twice against the wall before silence claimed him.

The second reached for his radio—he didn’t get the chance. You broke his wrist, then slammed his head against the concrete.

They didn’t scream.

You didn’t give them the chance.

Three. Four. Five.

A baton cracked across your ribs—you spun and caught the next one mid-swing, driving his weapon into his own throat. The others hesitated.

That was their mistake.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood sprayed against the wall, glistening in the emergency red light now blinking to life.

Nine and ten dropped nearly at once—one from your heel, the other from your elbow, the weight of him crumbling against the wall with a breathless grunt.

You didn’t stop moving.

Not for breath. Not for pain. Not for blood.

You reached the holding cell just as the red emergency lights revealed him through the glass.

Bucky.

No. Not Bucky.

The Soldat.

His expression was blank. Eyes lifeless. Shoulders squared in that familiar, bone-deep way.

Inside the glass room, a man stood calmly—his voice rhythmic, deliberate.

“…Грузовой автомобиль.. Отчет—м…”

[Freight car... Mission report—m…]

You moved. Fast. You didn’t shout. You didn’t warn.

You slammed into the door controls, cracked them open with a guard’s badge, and dove through just as the man turned.

Your fist collided with his jaw before the last word could leave his mouth. He hit the floor, unconscious, blood blooming from his temple.

And then—

Silence.

Just the sound of the red lights humming.

You turned slowly. And looked at him.

Not Bucky. Not anymore.

Those eyes—the ones you’d let kiss your neck, trace your waist, breathe your name like it was prayer—were gone.

What stared back at you now was him.

The Soldat.

Empty. Programmed. Cold.

Your chest rose and fell with sharp, silent breaths. Not from exhaustion—but from adrenaline. From the ache that started deep behind your ribs and crept outward the moment he turned and looked at you with those eyes.

Cold. Vacant. Not his.

Your fingers curled slightly, tension trembling just beneath your skin.

You took one step forward.

“Бакки,” you said softly. [Bucky]

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

Another step.

“Бакки,” you tried again. [Bucky]

Still nothing.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t let it show.

Then—voice quieter, firmer, the way you’d been taught to never say unless you meant it—

“Солдат.” [Soldat]

His body shifted. Barely.

But his head tilted, just slightly, like the command lodged itself where language became law.

“Готов к выполнению.”

[Ready to comply.]

You closed your eyes for half a second. Just long enough to breathe.

And then you moved toward him. Hands raised.

No fear now. Not anymore. Not after all this time. Not after all the nights he’d held you like you were the only thing in the world that stopped him from drowning.

“Это не ты,” you murmured, approaching slowly. [This isn’t you.]

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

You laid your palms on his chest, feeling the warmth there—his heartbeat still steady, still human. You let your fingers spread, grounding yourself in the body you knew like your own.

“Ты не он.” [You’re not him.]

Your hands slid upward—over his collarbone, along his jaw, up to the sides of his face.

His eyes didn’t change. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

“Посмотри на меня.” [Look at me.]

Your thumbs traced just beneath his eyes. Soft. Intentional.

“Вернись ко мне.” [Come back to me.]

Stillness. And then—

A flicker. Just a breath. The barest crack behind his gaze.

His lips parted slightly, brows knitting, as if a noise were caught in his throat—something unsaid, something struggling to be remembered.

Your voice stayed low. Calm.

“Ты со мной сейчас.” [You’re with me now.]

His breath was just beginning to shift. Something in his face softening, eyes twitching with confusion—recognition pulling like a thread through fog.

Then—

Footsteps.

Boots on tile. Raised voices. Weapons ready.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Steve’s voice broke through first. “Bucky—!”

And in an instant, the tension returned.

Bucky’s body went rigid beneath your hands. His spine snapped straight, jaw locked, breath shallow and clipped. The softness vanished like it had never been there.

You felt the shift. Felt the Soldat rising again.

“Нет,” you whispered, voice firm, thumb still pressed to his cheekbone. “Нет.” [No.]

His hands twitched at his sides. You didn’t flinch.

You pressed closer, chest against his, forehead nearly touching his now. Then—

Movement behind you.

A shuffle of armor. The slight drag of a weapon’s safety clicking off.

You turned your head sharply—just enough to meet them.

Steve. Sam. T’Challa, face hard with fury, muscles taut with the restraint of a man who wanted to strike.

You stepped slightly in front of Bucky, still keeping one hand on his chest like you were holding a live wire.

Your eyes burned into all of them.

Then you pointed down at the unconscious man—Zemo, still bleeding from where you struck him.

“Вот ваш подрывник,” you spat, low and lethal. [There’s your bomber.]

None of them moved. Not yet.

Steve looked between you and Bucky, guilt bleeding into his features. Sam lowered his weapon just slightly. T’Challa’s jaw worked, but his eyes flicked to the man on the floor. Realisation behind his misplaced anger.

You didn’t wait for them to speak. You turned back to Bucky. Hands on his face again.

“Ты здесь,” you whispered, not begging—commanding. [You’re here.]

His breathing slowed. Not calm. But contained.

The emergency power roared back to life.

Lights flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. Cameras reactivated. Screens across the control room sparked awake, broadcasting every inch of the cell.

Security forces tensed.

Steve took a step forward—halted only by the look you shot him.

Deadly. Final. And then.

You turned back. Everyone was watching. But none of it mattered.

You pressed your hand gently to Bucky’s chest again, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you were anchoring him there—in this moment, in this body.

His face twitched. Brows drew together in pain. His jaw clenched. The lines of the Soldat’s posture—so rigid, so familiar—began to shake.

You stepped closer still, voice low, Russian rolling like smoke from your lips. Words meant for him and no one else.

“Ты здесь. Это прошло. Это я. Только я.”

[You’re here. It’s over. It’s me. Only me.]

You said it like a vow. Like something you’d carve into him if you had to.

He blinked once. A flinch. Barely visible. Then his eyes met yours. Not hollow. Not gone.

Still struggling. Still fighting. But there.

His breathing hitched—once, then twice—and then with something like agony, he let out a sound low in his throat.

He bowed his head. And leaned into you.

Forehead against your shoulder, arms rising slowly—tentative at first, then tighter, until he was holding you with a force that felt like drowning. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d disappear.

Your hands slid into his hair, your fingers cradling the back of his skull.

Not protectively. Possessively.

He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He wasn’t a ghost. He was yours.

You didn’t look up. Not at Steve. Not at T’challa. Not at the dozens of cameras now recording this moment in real time, every politician, every soldier, every damned spectator watching the Soldat become Bucky Barnes again in the arms of the only person who knew how to bring him back.

And inside, rage burned in you like wildfire.

Not at him. At them. All of them.

For letting this happen to him. For dragging him back into it. For daring to treat him like a threat when he was barely holding himself together.

You hated them. Every last one of them.

But him?

You buried your face in his neck, whispering words no one else would ever hear.

He was the only thing you loved in this broken world.

The best way i can describe Bucky and Reader : Docile Dog and Feral Cat

[scopyroris]

AT THE SAME DAMN TIME YOUR HONOUR🗣️

[scopyroris]

*Yelena and Y/N dancing in the living room*

Yelena: Pull them panties off! Pull them panties off! Pull them panties off! On the dance floor!

Y/N: I ain’t got no panties on! Ain’t got no panties on! On the dance floor!

The rest of the group: *watching silently from the sidelines*

Alexei: Yes! Look at them go!

Ava: Looks like they’re having fun

Bucky and John: What.. is this song?

Bob: *shuffling in place beside the group*

Bob: Oooo, catchy!

Inspired by this audio

[scopyroris]

Cause you’re hot n you’re cold

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis You’re taken. Bucky? “Single.” Except he flirts with you nonstop like a desperate maniac. The team’s losing it Spoiler: it’s your messy, secret love life and Bucky’s terrible flirting that’s the real mission.

Word Count 5k

Tags + Warnings mild swearing, playful flirting, secret relationship, consensual romantic relationship, bucky (yes he is his own warning), light team drama, jealousy mentions, shirtless scenes (no smut). lots of comedy & chaos, reader discretion advised, small usage of Y/N.

— Cause you’re hot n you’re cold just straight messy and entertainment for you and bucky

There were only two kinds of Thunderbolts team meetings.

1) The kind where someone almost died, or 2) The kind where someone almost killed someone else for saying something stupid.

Today’s meeting was flirting with both.

Yelena had her feet up on the table, chewing sunflower seeds like she was watching an execution. Ava sat next to her, arms crossed, watching you. Bob was looking at the ceiling like he wanted God to beam him out of existence. John was muttering into his coffee. And Alexei was eating raw tuna from a Ziploc bag.

In the middle of it all?

Bucky Barnes.

Slouched. Smirking. Staring at you.

And you, bless your soul, were doing everything you could to pretend he wasn’t slowly driving the team into a collective breakdown.

“So,” you said, trying to get the debrief back on track, “we neutralized the target and recovered the tech. Minimal civilian interference—”

Bucky leaned over and murmured, “You looked good out there.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That left hook? Hot.”

You deadpanned. “I have a boyfriend.”

He leaned back, arm slung across the chair next to him. “Still haven’t seen him.”

John choked on his drink.

Ava looked personally betrayed.

Bob made a sound like a balloon deflating.

Yelena actually spit out her seeds.

You didn’t even flinch. You just turned to face the projector again and muttered under your breath:

“This is why we said no PDA.”

—

FLASHBACK: The PowerPoint

You and Bucky had prepared for this. Or you had.

The moment Val stuck you on the Thunderbolts assignment, you knew things would get complicated. You were good at compartmentalizing. You were smart. Logical.

Bucky was… not those things when it came to you.

So naturally, you made rules.

You’d sat him down with a coffee, a frown, and a tablet that read:

“THE OPSEC PLAN: Keeping Our Relationship Under Wraps (So No One Murders You)”

Slide 1: No hand-holding. Slide 2: No calling you pet names. Slide 3: No post-mission cuddles in visible places. Slide 4: No looking at you like you invented the sun. Slide 5: No making you blush in front of John Walker because he’d die of secondhand embarrassment and Bob would have to resuscitate him.

“Babe,” Bucky had said, arm around your waist, “this is adorable.”

“Stop calling me babe.”

“‘Sweetheart’ better?”

You sighed. “You’re going to get us caught.”

“I’m going to get you flustered,” he said, nuzzling your neck. “The team’s never gonna notice a thing.”

Spoiler alert: the team absolutely noticed.

—

Back in the meeting, you barely got through the mission notes without spontaneous combustion.

As soon as it ended, Yelena stood up, clapped once, and said, “Right. I’m investigating.”

“What?” you asked.

“Whatever’s going on with you and Barnes,” she said. “I’m sick of it.”

“You mean him flirting,” Ava added darkly. “It’s predatory at this point.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “It’s emotional warfare.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “You have a boyfriend.”

You nodded firmly. “Yes. I do.”

“Name?”

You froze.

Your brain pulled up a blank file labeled “Panicked Lies.”

“Uh… Ben.”

“BEN?” Yelena echoed, like you said Voldemort.

“Ben who?” Ava asked suspiciously.

“…Smith?”

Bob looked like he wanted to die.

John stood up and announced, “I’m filing a report.”

“There’s no HR,” you said again, exasperated.

“And yet this still feels wildly illegal,” Bob muttered.

Alexei raised his tuna. “I like this game. Make up more fake boyfriends! ‘Derek Ice-Biceps!’ ‘Chad Thundercheeks!’”

Everyone stared at him.

“I hate it here,” Ava whispered.

There were conspiracy theories, and then there was whatever Yelena was doing in the laundry room with a corkboard, three pushpins jammed into her mouth, and a very concerned Bob watching her from a safe distance like she might throw detergent at him next.

“So he brought her coffee again today,” Yelena muttered, yanking a red string out of her bag.

Bob blinked. “Maybe he just likes… being helpful?”

Yelena turned slowly. “Bob. He called her ‘trouble with a capital hot.’ Out loud.”

“Maybe he has a stroke problem.”

“Why hasn’t her boyfriend punched him in the face yet, then?”

Bob paused. “…Maybe her boyfriend is very understanding.”

Yelena pinned a polaroid of you and Bucky standing a suspicious three inches apart. “Or imaginary.”

Enter: Ava Starr, deadpan, wielding a USB stick like a weapon.

“I’ve uploaded all video footage from the last 72 hours. All instances of ‘Barnes proximity violations.’” She tossed the USB on the dryer. “There are thirty-seven. In public spaces alone.”

Yelena turned and looked Bob directly in the eye.

“She is being stalked.”

Bob immediately began sweating.

Meanwhile…

You were in the weapons room just trying to polish your knives and mind your business.

Bucky Barnes, unfortunately, had made “minding your business” literally impossible.

He leaned against the doorway like a movie poster. “Whatcha doin’?”

You didn’t look up. “Working.”

He walked in. Picked up a blade. Spun it between his fingers like he had a death wish. “Want help?”

You sighed. “I have a boyfriend.”

“And yet,” he said, sidling closer, “you’re always here. Always alone. Always looking like you miss me.”

“James,” you warned.

He placed the knife down.

“You know,” he whispered, lips near your ear, “if you just admitted you wanted me, we could stop pretending.”

You almost stabbed his foot.

Thunderbolts HQ — Conspiracy Room

“Okay,” Bob said nervously. “So—just to confirm—we think she’s in danger… from Bucky?”

“No,” Ava said, dragging a sticky note across the corkboard. “She’s being emotionally manipulated. Gaslit. Possibly ‘slow-burn seduced.’”

“Is that a clinical term?” he asked weakly.

“Sounds hot,” Alexei added from the corner, eating a carrot like a cigar.

Everyone ignored him.

Yelena pulled out a folder labeled “Evidence.” It included:

4 suspicious glances

2 moments where you touched Bucky’s arm (suspiciously long)

A doodle she found in your notebook that she swore was “clearly his jawline”

Bob squinted. “That might just be a… square.”

“Exactly,” Ava muttered. “A squared jaw.”

Bob buried his face in his hands. “You people need a hobby.”

“We have one,” Yelena said. “It’s protecting our teammate from weaponized flirting.”

Mission Debrief, Day 4 of Suspicion

Val entered the room with a tablet and a headache. “Mission went fine. Nobody died. I don’t care what else happened.”

You tried to take notes.

Bucky sat down next to you—too close again—and whispered: “Want to grab dinner after this?”

You didn’t even look at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He smiled. “You love it.”

From across the room, Yelena stared daggers into his skull.

Bob nudged Ava. “Okay. But maybe they are dating.”

“No,” she whispered. “She has a boyfriend.”

“But I heard Bucky call her ‘sunshine incarnate’ while sparring.”

Ava’s expression turned ice-cold. “That’s not flirting. That’s a psychological operation.”

Bob looked like he wanted to fall into a sinkhole.

—

Time Check: Midnight. You and Bucky were curled up in the surveillance room. You were on his lap. His dog tags were hanging loose, and he was telling you a story about 1943 while tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

“We’re going to get caught,” you whispered, half-asleep against him.

“We’ve been almost caught ten times,” he said, cocky. “You think anyone suspects?”

You laughed bitterly. “Yelena has a red-string board. Bob cried the other day. Ava’s three seconds from stabbing you.”

Bucky kissed your cheek. “They’ll get over it.”

“Babe, we’ve been lying for months.”

He just smiled, and pulled you closer.

That Same Night: Laundry Room Conspiracy Intensifies

Bob, Ava, and Yelena met again.

“She smiled at him today,” Bob whispered, haunted.

Yelena slammed down a folder. “She’s in love with him.”

“Or terrified,” Ava added.

“We have to intervene,” Yelena said. “Soon.”

Bob paled. “Shouldn’t we like… verify with her first? Ask gently? In a hallway?”

Ava shook her head. “She’s compromised.”

Yelena stood, dramatic. “I’m giving it three days. If she doesn’t tell us what’s going on, we go in.”

“Like… kick her door down?” Bob squeaked.

“Exactly.”

Alexei passed by, holding a burrito the size of a toddler. “Ooh, are we doing spy stuff again?”

Yelena and Ava shared a look.

“Get your gloves, big guy,” Yelena said.

“I LIVE FOR THIS.”

It all started because John Walker had been watching Ted Lasso.

He paused the episode mid-monologue, sat up straight on the couch, and said aloud to no one:

“We need to talk this out like emotionally mature adults.”

Unfortunately, the people in question were:

You

Bucky “Shameless Menace” Barnes

And a team of emotionally unstable vigilantes who weaponized Google Docs

Still, John had hope.

—

📱 John W. (ThunderDad) created group “Team Check-In 🧠”

John W.:

Hey everyone! Group wellness chat!! :D

Bob :D :

is this about [Y/N] and the “Ben Smith” situation bc i’m already crying

Ava S.:

If we are doing therapy circles I’m bringing a weapon.

Yelena B.:

I made a presentation. It’s called “Faked Love: The Breakdown of Trust.”

Alexei S.:

Is this a meeting where we punch someone? I am bringing gloves.

John W.:

Guys. No. This is about COMMUNICATION.

Bucky B.:

👀

You:

I have literally done nothing wrong ever in my life

Ava:

Tell that to Ben Smith

You:

YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIM

Yelena:

Because HE DOES NOT EXIST

John rented out the mission briefing room. He put out granola bars. There were two chairs facing each other. It looked like a low-budget talk show.

You walked in with arms crossed. Bucky followed, looking smug in a black Henley, sleeves rolled up, because of course.

Ava was already in the corner with a tactical folder labeled “Emotional Evidence.” Bob had brought stress balls. Alexei was asleep in the back with sunglasses on. Yelena was eating pickles and judgmentally staring at you both like a mother owl who just discovered her chicks had lied about their homework.

John stood between you like a referee. “Okay! Let’s open the floor. [Y/N]? Bucky? Want to share anything?”

You smiled sweetly. “I’m dating Ben. Nothing’s going on.”

Bucky smirked. “Yeah. I’m just friendly.”

Ava slammed her fist on the table. “You touched her lower back for five consecutive seconds last Tuesday.”

Bucky shrugged. “Stabilizing her stance.”

Yelena threw a flash drive at him. “I HAVE FOOTAGE.”

Halfway through the meeting, Bob pulled out a homemade scrapbook.

The cover read: “Ben & [Y/N]: A Love Imagined”

He sniffled. “I really thought you two would get married one day. I made fan art.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He turned the page. There was a drawing of you in a wedding dress and a faceless man labeled “Ben.”

Another page had a timeline:

Met in a bookstore

Fell in love over spilled coffee

Adopted a dog named Waffles

“He was the man I wanted to be,” Bob whispered.

You stared at Bucky. “This is your fault.”

Bucky looked weirdly proud.

—

Ava’s Official Report

Ava passed out printed reports titled:

“Case Study: Suspicious Intimacy Levels Between Agent [Y/N] and Sergeant Barnes.”

Page 1 included:

Time-stamped videos of “prolonged eye contact”

A list of quotes including:

Bucky: “You always look good when you lie.”

You: “Stop flirting with me.”

Bucky: “Make me.”

A graph labeled ‘Horniness Over Time’ showing a dramatic upward spike

Page 2 was just a blown-up screenshot of Bucky’s hand on your hip.

Ava folded her arms. “This is a betrayal of trust. And basic decency.”

You: “How is it betrayal if I didn’t do anything?”

Ava: “Because you’re bad at lying.”

Yelena: “And you blush every time he touches you.”

Alexei (waking up): “That’s called hormones! Let the children be!”

John: “Alexei, please—”

Alexei: “NO! In Soviet Russia, you hide relationship until death or suspicious pregnancy! This is normal!”

You and Bucky Being the Worst

After the meeting ended in disaster and a mild emotional breakdown (Bob had to be consoled with a cookie), you and Bucky snuck into the weapons bay.

You: “We need to pull back.”

Bucky: “On what? Us? The fun?”

You: “The flirting. They’re unraveling.”

Bucky leaned in, eyes glinting. “Why don’t you tell them?”

You: “Because it’s funny.”

He grinned. “Exactly. And a little hot, right? The whole forbidden thing?”

You shoved him gently. “You’re such a menace.”

He caught your hand, kissed it softly. “You love it.”

You looked away. “I really do.”

Team Chaos Continues

Yelena started building a slideshow titled “Signs Your Friend Is Being Gaslit by a Man with Great Hair.”

Bob was googling support groups for “Emotional Ben-loss.”

Ava began mapping out a military-grade sting operation she called “Operation Truthbomb.”

John, meanwhile, tried to email Val for help and ended up sending her Bob’s fan art by accident.

Val replied with:

“Are you guys okay. Should I send a therapist or a sniper.”

There were few things more terrifying than Yelena Belova in a calm mood.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t slam doors. She simply said:

“Would you like to get pasta with me?”

And when you—foolish, unsuspecting, guilty—said “sure,” she smiled.

Smiled.

That was the trap.

—

You arrived at the Thunderbolts mess hall to find:

A suspiciously clean table

Exactly two chairs

A massive bowl of penne alla vodka

Yelena, already seated, fork in hand, eyes glinting like she was about to read your soul

“Sit,” she said pleasantly.

You sat.

She pushed a bowl toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “This is nice…”

“Mhm,” she said, stabbing pasta like it owed her money. “So. Tell me about Ben.”

You choked on a penne.

“Middle name?” Yelena asked.

“…Christopher.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Interstellar.”

She stared. “Wrong. That’s your favorite movie.”

“It’s both our favorites?”

“Convenient.”

She leaned in, elbows on the table.

“Where did you meet?”

You swallowed. “A book fair.”

“Genre?”

“True crime.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Name three books Ben has read.”

Your soul flatlined.

“Uhhh…” you stalled.

Meanwhile—

Bob, whispering into a headset:

“She’s cornered. She’s gonna fold.”

Ava, on the second channel:

“If she says ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ I swear to god—”

Alexei (not mic’d in, yelling):

“You cannot break her! She is strong! Like Soviet raccoon!”

John (eating a protein bar):

“Are we sure this is legal?”

Bob:

“Ben deserves justice.”

Back to Lunch: You Try Desperately to Lie

You: “Ben… really likes the classics.”

Yelena: “Name one.”

You: “The—uh—Art of War.”

Yelena: “That’s not a novel.”

You: “He… also enjoys poetry?”

Yelena leaned back. Crossed her arms. “You’re lying.”

You sighed. “You’re being dramatic.”

She pointed her fork at you. “You are flirting in front of us every day. You blushed when he held your stapler. You whispered something in his ear and GIGGLED.”

You: “He was making fun of John’s buzzcut.”

Yelena: “So was I, and I didn’t get all swoony about it!”

Just as Yelena opened her mouth to deliver what was definitely the emotional killing blow—

The door burst open.

“Hey,” Bucky panted, shirt slightly untucked, eyes wide. “Emergency. Huge emergency.”

Yelena turned sharply. “What kind of emergency?”

He held up… a small brown ferret. Who was currently chewing on his sleeve.

You blinked. “What the hell—?”

“She got into the armory. She pooped in John’s boot.”

“…What?”

“She’s yours,” Bucky lied smoothly. “She escaped your bag. Remember?”

Yelena looked back and forth. “You own a ferret?”

You nodded, trying not to scream-laugh. “Uh-huh. Rescue ferret. Her name’s… Meryl.”

“Meryl the menace,” Bucky added solemnly. “We need to go. Now.”

You stood up like your life depended on it. “Sorry, Yelena. Gotta—uh—clean up ferret crimes.”

Yelena stared, unblinking, as you fled with Bucky and the mystery creature.

She whispered into her hidden mic: “Abort mission. Target evacuated.”

You both collapsed inside, laughing hysterically.

“Where the hell did you get a ferret?” you gasped.

Bucky grinned, placing Meryl down gently. “Borrowed her from Val’s nephew. She owes me now.”

You were breathless. “We are SO bad at this.”

“We’re incredible at this,” he corrected, flopping onto the couch. “We just survived an international-level interrogation with pasta and a rodent.”

You climbed onto him. “We’re going to get exposed.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Worth it.”

—

Team Breakdown Debrief

Ava, Yelena, Bob, and John all gathered post-failure.

Bob was feeding Meryl tiny cookie crumbs.

“She has a pet ferret,” he whispered. “What kind of woman has a secret boyfriend and a secret rodent?”

Yelena slammed her head on the table. “I was so close.”

Ava glared at the pasta remains. “They’re cocky now. We need a bigger plan.”

John: “Or maybe—hear me out—we just let them date.”

Everyone turned and stared.

John: “What?”

Bob: “She has a BOYFRIEND, JOHN.”

John: “Who we’ve never seen. Or heard. Or… anything. At all.”

Ava: “I’m starting to think Ben Smith is like… Santa. Real in spirit. But fake in logistics.”

Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds  had officially hit rock bottom.

It was 2:03 a.m., and he was lying awake in bed with a blanket over his head, softly whispering to himself:

“Ben Smith is real. He has to be.”

And when the world offers no answers… Bob becomes the answer.

—

At 2:11 a.m., Bob created a Gmail account: ben.smith.1988@gmail.com

He stared at the blinking cursor, then typed:

“Hi. I’m Ben. I exist. And I am very real.”

Then he cracked his knuckles. And wrote the most emotionally charged, grammatically questionable email of his life.

Bucky was just vibing in the weapons room, sharpening a combat knife while humming Fleetwood Mac, when his Starkpad pinged.

Subject: A Word of Warning From: ben.smith.1988@gmail.com

Hello,

This is Ben.

I know what you’re doing with [Y/N].

Please stop making eyes at my girlfriend. She’s not interested in you. Even though you are muscly and brooding.

Signed,

Ben Smith (her boyfriend)

Bucky blinked.

Then burst out laughing so loud, Meryl the ferret startled and fell off a crate.

You appeared five minutes later.

“What’s so funny?”

He handed you the Starkpad.

You read it. Blinked. Then doubled over, wheezing.

“No. No. He didn’t—”

“He did,” Bucky said, wiping a tear.

You wheezed harder. “He said muscly and brooding.”

Bob, feeling the high of digital justice, forwarded the email to Ava.

Except he forgot to delete the signature at the bottom that said:

Sent from the desk of Bob :D , Assistant Intelligence Analyst

Ava read the email. Then the signature.

Then she stood up so hard her chair hit the wall.

Ava (texting Yelena):

You need to come here NOW Bob has officially lost his entire mind

Yelena:

I’ve been waiting for this day.

Team Emergency Meeting #3 was held in the storage closet because Val kicked them out of the conference room for “excessive dramatics.”

Ava: “Bob. You catfished Bucky. As Ben.”

Bob: “I didn’t catfish! I defended [Y/N]’s honor!”

John: “You used your real name in the email.”

Bob: “I panicked!”

Yelena: “You’re spiraling.”

Alexei: “You are like my cousin Dimitri. He pretended to be own wife to win Facebook argument. Now he is married to himself in three countries.”

Bob: “I JUST WANTED PROOF HE’S REAL.”

Ava: “So you became him?!”

Bob: softly “It felt right.”

Yelena, determined to end this mess, pulled out her phone.

“Fine. If Ben is real, FaceTime him.”

You blinked. “He’s in Canada. No signal.”

“He emailed Bucky from Gmail, he has signal.”

You floundered. “He… doesn’t like video chats?”

“He’s a grown man, not Bigfoot!”

You made a wild grab for your phone to stall, but it was too late.

Yelena hit “FaceTime.”

The screen rang once.

Twice.

Then—someone picked up.

A man appeared.

Early 30s. Flannel shirt. Confused as hell.

“…Hello?”

Yelena blinked. “Is this Ben?”

The man squinted. “Uh. Yeah?”

BOB HAD HIRED A GUY FROM THE PET STORE.

He mouthed frantically behind the screen: “Please help, I’ll Venmo you $20.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “What’s [Y/N]’s favorite snack?”

The man panicked. “…Granola bars?”

You gasped. “OH MY GOD HE’S GOOD.”

Yelena nearly screamed.

—

Later that night, Bucky made you reenact the email in a dramatic reading.

You: “She’s not interested in you.”

Bucky, hands on his heart: “Devastating.”

You: “Even though you are muscly and brooding.”

Bucky: “That’s… my Tinder bio now.”

You: “I can’t believe he dragged the pet store guy into this.”

Bucky smirked. “Should we send ‘Ben’ a thank-you basket?”

You kissed his cheek. “We should send Bob therapy.”

—

Bob was sitting alone in his room. Lights off. Hoodie up.

He opened his email again. Drafted another:

“Dear Bucky,

I have reconsidered. You are very handsome.

Please treat her right.

Sincerely,

Ben Smith. Who is now at peace.”

He hit send. Then whispered: “Goodbye, my love.”

Behind him, Meryl crawled onto his lap and squeaked.

There were three certainties in life:

Death

Taxes

Ava Starr’s hyperfixation once she opened Google Slides

It started with a simple title:

"This Is Why [Y/N] Is Lying: A Multimedia Breakdown" By: Ava Starr, Ph.D. (Not really, but emotionally)

Slide 1:

A graph titled “Flirtation Trajectory” It showed a 600% increase in eyebrow raises between Bucky and you since Month 1

Slide 2:

A quote: “No, Bucky, I have a boyfriend.” Followed by Bucky’s reply: “Well, I don’t see him.” Caption: GUILTLESS MENACE BEHAVIOR

Slide 3:

Security cam footage of Bucky tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear With slow-motion and emotional violin music overlayed

Slide 4:

A side-by-side photo comparison of Bob’s fan art of Ben Smith vs. the fake pet store guy Caption: THE LIES RUN DEEP

Fueled by the presentation and six espresso shots, Yelena initiated her next plan:

“Operation: Ransack Room (For Justice)”

John: “Maybe we should ask for consent—”

Yelena: “NO TIME.”

She broke into your room with a lock pick, flashlight, and an unhealthy amount of emotional vengeance.

Bob followed, muttering: “He probably smells like cedar and betrayal.”

Inside, they found:

A toothbrush (unlabeled)

A hoodie that was very much not yours (gray, smells like pine soap and sin)

Two mugs. One said “Bucky.” The other said “Still not Ben.”

Yelena held up the hoodie. “This is proof.”

Bob sniffed it. Immediately burst into tears.

Back at the gym, you and Bucky were in full gremlin mode.

You: “Okay, today I’ll dramatically drop my phone and Bucky will catch it midair and call me sweetheart.”

Bucky: “And I’ll give you my water bottle after a workout like it’s a rom-com.”

You: “They’ll combust.”

Bucky: “They deserve it.”

You pulled him into a corner, giggling. “God, we’re awful.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “Awfully good at this.”

Bob, emotionally hanging on by one last ferret thread, received a voicemail while hiding behind a ficus.

Voicemail from Unknown Number:

“Hey. This is Ben. Just wanted to say… I know you’ve been looking out for her. That’s cool. But I’ve got it from here. You can let go now, buddy.”

Bob stared at his phone.

Yelena: “Are you okay?”

Bob: whispers “He sounds perfect.”

Ava, from behind a laptop: “This is psychological warfare.”

John: “Honestly, I’m kind of rooting for them now?”

Ava: “TRAITOR.”

Yelena finally snapped when Bucky handed you a protein bar mid-mission and you said:

“Aww. Just how I like it—nutty and a little intense.”

Ava SCREAMED into a pillow.

Bob started writing Ben fanfiction to cope.

Yelena stood up, eyes wild. “NO. I am DONE. We’re confronting her. NOW.”

John: “Should we call Val—”

Yelena: “NO TIME FOR RULES.”

There are many ways to go down in history. Some people discover cures. Some climb Everest. Some invent time travel.

Yelena Belova kicks down doors at 6:02 p.m. on a Wednesday.

And that… is how legends are born.

Yelena didn’t knock.

Ava didn’t hesitate.

John didn’t breathe.

Bob was holding a foam baseball bat labeled “Justice.”

They were ready.

This was it.

This was the confrontation.

Yelena: “[Y/N]! We need to—”

But she stopped.

Because…

Your hands were in Bucky’s hair. Your legs were around his waist. His shirt was somewhere on the floor. He was kissing you like the world was ending.

And you were definitely kissing him back.

Ava: Absolutely SCREECHES like a crow discovering Wi-Fi. Throws her arms up and yells, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT!” Points at Bucky like she just caught her boyfriend cheating on Jeopardy.

Yelena: Full Russian betrayal. Hands on hips. Squinting like you personally stabbed her. Shouts, “YOU HOME-WRECKING ENIGMA.”

Bob: GASPS. Clutches chest. Drops his foam bat. Falls to his knees. Meryl the ferret dramatically leaps out of his pocket like it, too, has been emotionally compromised.

John Walker: Mouth wide open. Whispers, “Bro… seriously?” like he just watched his buddy kiss his ex on live TV.

Alexei (from hallway with popcorn): “GET ‘EM, BUCKY! YOU DOG!” Everyone screams at him to SHUT UP.

You and Bucky pull apart mid-kiss, lips swollen, hair mussed.

You: “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

Bob: “YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND!”

You: “I—”

Ava: “BEN SMITH DESERVES BETTER.”

You: “There IS NO BEN—”

Yelena: “LIAR. I MET HIM ON FACETIME.”

You: “THAT WAS A PET STORE EMPLOYEE BOB PAID $20—”

John: “Wait, what?”

Bob: “He had kind eyes…”

Bucky (still shirtless, smug): “She’s my girlfriend. Has been. For like, months.”

Dead silence.

You: “I told you I had a boyfriend—”

Yelena: “You didn’t say it was HIM!”

You: “I didn’t think I needed to clarify!”

Ava: “But—he flirts with you like he has NO morals!”

Bucky: “I do it to mess with you.”

Alexei (from the couch): “Ahahaha! He’s trolling you! Like the meme goblin!”

Bob (devastated): “...So Ben Smith… was never real?”

You gently shake your head.

Bob curls up on the floor.

Meryl sits on his chest like a mourning widow.

Ava sits on your floor with her head in her hands. “You let us think you were cheating on Ben Smith.”

You sit next to her. “You made up Ben Smith.”

She pauses. “Okay, yes. But still.”

Yelena paces the room. “You mean to tell me we went through eight levels of emotional breakdowns—PowerPoints, voicemails, hoodie sniffing—for nothing?!”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Wait. Hoodie sniffing?”

John deadpans, “Bob did it. Not me.”

Bob mumbles from the floor, “I just needed a sense of closure.”

You: “We didn’t mean to hide it to hurt you guys. We just liked having something for ourselves. A secret. In this chaos.”

Bucky: “And it was fun watching you all spiral.”

Yelena: “I feel… so stupid.”

You: “You made a literal CIA board in the kitchen. With red string.”

Ava: “…We still have it up. It’s titled ‘Operation Homewrecker.’”

Bob: “I wrote poems.”

John: “I didn’t do anything. Can I have a cookie?”

Alexei walks in and hands him one. No one questions it.

Yelena drinks an entire bottle of sparkling water angrily.

Ava mutters “homewrecker” under her breath like it’s a religious chant.

Bob makes a new mug that says “Justice For Ben.”

John eats four more cookies and watches everyone lose it like he’s at a zoo.

Alexei wants to re-enact the moment as a play. Nobody allows this.

You and Bucky just sit on the couch, holding hands, smugly.

—

BONUS LITTLE ADDITION !!

It begins with a single whisper. From the depths of the mission van, Bob mutters:

“I think… I think they broke up.”

You and Bucky had been too quiet lately. No stolen kisses. No obnoxious flirting. No shared water bottles or smirking hand-holds.

Instead? Cold. Distant. Professional.

Yelena immediately noticed.

Ava made a new slide deck titled “The Decline of Love: A Relationship Post-Mortem”

John called Val to ask if he should “send a card or something.”

Bob cried.

Meryl wore a black ribbon.

Mission: Accomplished.

Bucky played it up like a telenovela.

He sat in the corner of the Quinjet with a far-off stare, dramatically whispering things like:

“Love is a battlefield… and I lost.”

“She’s happier without me. I must let her fly.”

“I saw her smile at the microwave this morning. She’s moved on.”

You?

You sighed wistfully at your phone. Typed random things like:

“Sometimes people grow apart.” “Maybe we were too intense.” “He never liked oatmeal anyway.”

You even teared up ON PURPOSE when Alexei asked if you wanted his extra soup dumpling.

Bob passed you a tissue. “Ben would’ve never let this happen.”

You didn’t correct him.

Eventually, the team couldn’t take it.

Yelena cornered you in the kitchen, eyes blazing. “YOU CAN’T LET LOVE DIE LIKE THIS.”

Ava stood behind her holding a literal pamphlet titled: “Getting Back Your Ex: A Thunderbolts Guide to Love and Vengeance”

Bob was already mid-sob, curled in Meryl’s tiny ferret hammock.

John showed up with a Spotify playlist called “Sad But Hot.”

You tried not to laugh. Bucky was upstairs texting you:

"Bob just slipped me a note that says 'you deserve happiness.'"

You:

"Ava just offered me her VPN so I can stalk your socials without judgment."

Bucky:

"I miss us 😔💔"

You:

"Meet me in 5. Closet. Let’s kiss dramatically again."

—

Yelena and Ava followed you.

John and Bob snuck behind them. (John held Meryl like a tiny emotional support therapist.)

They rounded the corner…

...and caught you.

AGAIN.

Bucky had you pinned to the closet wall, hands on your hips, your mouth on his, laughing mid-kiss.

You both froze like two kids caught sneaking cookies.

Yelena: “ARE YOU—AGAIN!?!?”

Ava: “SO THE BREAKUP—”

You: “FAKE.”

Bucky: “Flawless.”

Bob: aggressively gasps “YOU PLAYED US?!”

John: (quietly, with awe) “They’re menaces.”

The team, fully betrayed a second time in less than a week, sat in the kitchen like war veterans.

Yelena chugged an energy drink with tears in her eyes.

Ava deleted the breakup slide deck and replaced it with one titled: “Love Is Dead: AND SO IS MY TRUST.”

Bob threw the “Welcome Back Ben” balloon out the window.

Meryl chewed through the ribbon on it first.

John updated the team Spotify to include “Lovers Lying (Acoustic Version).”

You and Bucky? Cackling in your shared room, wrapped in blankets and each other.

Bucky: “We’re terrible people.”

You: “Terrible, hot, deeply in love people.”

He kisses your nose. “We should fake break up again next week.”

You laugh. “I’ll cry in front of Bob this time. Really sell it.”

Outside the door, Bob drops a mug that says “Teamwork Makes the Dream Hurt.”

He runs.

Meryl follows.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Should we stop?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

(You've got mail!) AAAAAAAAAAA.

Tags @bbsbrina

[scopyroris]

last train home.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. thunderbolts + tfatws flashbacks synopsis. hours after the void swallows half of new york city, bucky barnes finds himself breaking his #1 rule: don't show up at your door. warnings. no use of y/n, ex!reader, exes to ???, angst, suggestive, hurt with comfort that is proceeded by more hurt, pining, bucky is lowkey down bad and pathetic, descriptions of bruises, injuries, and choking (not the sexy kind, unfortunately), bucky is also kinda serving stalker realness (but its okay bc he's hot and in love), flashbacks via bucky's time in the void. thunderbolts spoilers!!! word count. 4k. hyde’s input. thunderbolts reawakened something dormant in me and threw me back into trenches i thought i'd clawed my way out of. idk if this can even be considered a serious fic because i wrote this like it was the ramblings of a madwoman, i can't even lie. no editing, we die like real (dumb) men. in true me fashion, i already have two more parts planned for this couple, including eventual sloppy sad smut bc why write about a man if i don't get to whore him out? read on ao3.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t be here.

Knows that his will not be a welcome face.

Knows that he’s around two years and a sincere apology too late.

The hour is late, the dials of his wristwatch already encroaching on midnight. The city’s starless sky is a darkness that pales in comparison to the heavy shadow he’d watched infect Manhattan earlier. A void of pain too many had vanished beneath, before he and his ragtag team of false heroes had no choice but to dive into it, one last ditched effort at bringing back the light. The madness truly began when the darkness spat them back out onto the chaos of the streets.

The relief of seeing the sun. The shamble of a press conference. The new Avengers. 

And all he could think about was making it to this street. This door. You.

Bucky wishes he could say that the last time he saw you was last week, struggling beneath the weight of grocery bags. But that’s no longer true, because the last time he saw you was merely a few hours ago, trapped inside a time loop of his own making, his own memories, his own pain.

The room was colder than he remembered as he stepped in through a balcony door, sheer curtains billowing around him as a storm gathered outside.

At first, he wasn’t sure what memory this was, what new room he’d stepped into. All Bucky knew was he had made his way through the hell of Hydra’s experimentations, picked himself up from those traintracks, let himself soak in the scene of fighting Steve. Whatever haunted him in this bedroom of silence and sin, he was sure he could move through it and make his way to the door on the opposite side. Until a figure stirred beneath the sheets and he found himself frozen at the end of the bed.

Because there you were, eyes closed and head buried in the warmth of his own chest, blissfully unaware of the waking nightmare that awaited you.

He’s not used to crossing this street.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, his place is somewhere just across from you, two steps behind and a head hung low in hopes that you don’t notice him. Because he knows that it’s wrong, and he knows there are boundaries that have been drawn, but he just can’t seem to fall asleep at night if he doesn’t hop off that train a few stops early just to watch you come home safe.

He hadn’t meant to make it a habit. At first, it was just routine, muscle memory. He spent months making his way home to you, he needed more than a few weeks to get used to his new commute. But then he got in his own head, found himself sat in a train cart, knee bouncing out his stress as his mind tortured him with all the what ifs and nonexistent threats you could encounter on your way home alone. Who else could he trust but his own eyes to watch over you? So he let himself indulge, wander out from the subway below just in time to watch you turn a corner. Told himself it was okay, so long as he kept his distance. So long as he only observed, even when it killed him. The days it would rain and he’d fight the urge to shelter you beneath his umbrella. The times he’d notice a smiling stranger getting too close for comfort and remind himself it was no longer his place to ward them off with an arm around your waist. The way he’d catch the polished shine of a necklace resting at the base of your neck and suddenly remember why he could no longer call you his.

He should have noticed sooner. How the room smelt of your delicate perfume. How remnants of your clothes lay strewn across carpeted floors. How the scene before him was plucked perfectly from that trip.

A getaway of his own doing, heart swollen with a little more pride than he’d care to admit over simply figuring out how to book a vacation online. There was no real rhyme or reason for it, no birthday to celebrate or anniversary to commemorate. Bucky had simply felt happy. Blissfully, wholly, perfectly happy, for the first time in too long. In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.

But those razor sharp senses of his seemed to go blunt with the brightness of your smile, the tenderness of your kiss, the warmth of your voice. He believed you made him good. Made him right. Made him whole. He’d never stopped to wonder what he made you.

Until he made you hurt.

He’s standing outside your door.

Time seems irrelevant when everything is the same as he remembers it.

The lopsided apartment number. The faded welcome mat outside the door. The chipping paint you insist you don’t mind, all in the hopes of stopping Bucky from chewing out your landlord about another thing that needs fixing. Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the weight of your key in his pocket, waiting for him to fish it out and welcome himself home to the smell of burning incense and the taste of your skin.

His heart’s beating a little faster now. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should start learning to leave well enough alone. Maybe he should be trying to move on. But how can he move on with a life you made him want to live?

He’s fought battles, drawn blood, turned to dust and come back again. Yet this is a bridge he cannot seem to cross: knocking on your door.

All Bucky had registered back then was the soul-crushing weight of waking up to find what he’d done. Standing at the edge of the bed, a voyeur to his own harm, The Void granted him a full perspective of the events.

It began with muttering, foreign words falling from his sleeping lips. Then his head tossed, his leg twitched, his voice raised. You, eyes blinking away sleep and limbs untangling from his, woken up suddenly to his heart racing beneath you. He watched you watch the other him, a few seconds of his nightmarish sleeping, before finally you did what you thought was best, what any caring person would do if their partner was being haunted in their sleep.

You whispered his name, soothed a palm over his cheek, coaxed him out of whatever hell he was trapped in. But when his eyelids snapped open, there was no summer sky or calming river living in the iris but a steely blue, winter cold.

Metal clutched at your throat.

“James?”

Echoes of a past life sing in his ears as he feels himself freeze. His gaze meets the ground, where he spots an open door and a familiar pair of fluffy slippers, looking a little worse for wear than he remembers them being on that Christmas morning, sitting across from you with a stiff jaw and nervous eyes, watching you pull apart layers of wrapping paper. Now time has left its mark on them and Bucky can’t help but wonder how much longer until you replace them with something newer, something softer, something that’ll bring more comfort to your aching feet as you slip into them after a long day at the firm.

The firm. Your workplace. Two blocks down from the building that once stood as a symbol for everything Steve and the rest of the Avengers — the real Avengers — had achieved, a home still haunted by its previous owners whose footsteps Valentina expected him to tread over. 

Bucky had stopped believing in God somewhere between the torture and the war against genocidal aliens but as that cloud of darkness rolled over the Manhattan skyline, vanishing people into shadows, he caught himself praying to someone, something, anything that you were okay. That you’d caught a stomach bug or the flu and had called in sick. That you’d been called out of state, sent to work elsewhere on a client’s case. That you’d been anywhere but trapped beneath the weight of The Void’s darkness; lonely, and scared, and reliving the cruelest memories your mind could conjure. 

But as he finally looks at you, your face says it all. The troubled eyes, the weary smile, the trembling hands. The Void may have spat you back out alongside the rest of the city — he may have been able to save you from the looping pain, at least — but it left its mark all over you, whispers of fear still clinging to your skin.

Like a wave meets the shore, he crashes over you.

At first, Bucky couldn’t watch.

Eyes squeezed shut, back turned on the scene taking place upon the bed, he tried to block it all out. But then a door slammed, his eyes reopened, and the memory had started all over again. Your head on his chest, his tossing and turning. You waking him up, his hand around your neck. With an ache in his bones, he forced himself to bear witness.

To the way he looked right at you like you were a stranger, a threat, a mission. To the way the metal twisted and screamed as he tightened his grip. To the way your hand found his face. Not to scratch, not to push, not to fight back. But to mollify, the warmth of your palm resting on his icy cheek, tender in your touch even as he robbed you of breath.

And then he snapped out of it. Came to his senses. Ripped himself away from you and stumbled out the bed, hands — metal and flesh — scrambling for the scattered pieces of the same clothes he’d let you peel off of him only hours before, your eyes alive with the buzz of too much wine and his cheeks burning from too much sun and you. Undressing like every layer was an offense, just one more obstacle getting in the way as you both tumbled back into the hotel bed.

You are hesitant.

Arms glued to your side, you stand frozen in the unexpected embrace. He can’t find it in himself to blame you, not when he thinks of how scared you must feel with a weapon wound around your body once more, holding you close to him. The action is not only protective but possessive, too. An antidote to an unwarranted need that took root in his chest the moment he returned to the mania of Manhattan, freshly haunted by a visceral unpresent presence, desperate to confirm with more than just a glance from across a street that you were home. That you were safe. That you were here, even if he shouldn’t be. 

Bucky just needs you to give him a moment. A second. To feel the slow rise of your chest against his, and to take in the fading scent of your perfume, and to caress his right hand over the back of your head. To hold you like he still has any right to your heart. Then he can go. Pull away, set you free, stagger back to his apartment. Collapse onto the familiar comforts of creaking floorboards, muster up the guts to return Sam’s fourteen missed calls and sink into a different layer of guilt to distract himself from the fact you’re not sleeping beside him, breathing beside him. That you haven’t been his for two years, no matter how much he’s still yours.

He pulls in a deep breath, tightens his arms around your frame, prepares himself for the inevitability of him pulling away and feeling the much deserved sting of your hand slapping his cheek and your voice spewing venomous words.

Any minute now, he’ll let go.

“Bucky…” it’s barely a whisper, but he hears it — feels it, as the ice in your bones thaws away and you melt into his embrace.

How could he possibly let go?

Bucky remembered struggling to breathe.

Ignoring your weak calls of his name, he dressed himself with so much haste half the buttons on his shirt remained undone. On the bed, you choked on heavy breaths of air, tears welling like the threat of an incoming downpour that was sure to drown him further beneath waves of guilt, shame, hatred. The vibranium virus attached to his left side seemed to mock him as he struggled to pull on his shoes, too blinded by panic to notice your approaching figure.

Bucky grabbed for the door and you grabbed for him, fingers almost curling around the wrist of his metal arm. He flinched out of your reach, head spinning round to take in the sight of you now at his side, shielded beneath bedsheets from the exposing light of the moon. His gaze flickered to your neck, replaying memories of where his mouth had laid claim over your skin and painted you in shades of his love. How many hours would it take for them to fade beneath the mold of his fingers, for the things Bucky hated most about himself to viscerally terrorise him as a bruise upon his most darling delicate?

You tried to reach for him, again. All he could manage was a quiet, “don’t.”

He never meant to slam the door as he left.

“Are you okay?”

He’s no stranger to late night fantasies, the inconsequential thoughts of an idealised life he’s free to play out when sleep eludes him, buds of anxious worry beginning to bloom within his chest. Before, all his what ifs and if onlys projected him back in time, where no draft came knocking at his door or any serum distorted his DNA. Then he met you and, gradually, his pining for the past morphed into dreaming of a future. All the possible firsts of your relationship: first date, first kiss, first holiday, first anniversary. He could relearn the world, reintroduce himself to the possibility of normality. He pondered moving, trading the city for a quieter life, where weekends would be reserved for exchanging body heat beneath the blankets of a bed he’d build for you, and Sunday gatherings with Sam and the rest of the Wilson’s.

Then, the dreams faded to grey, along with the rest of his world.

The past no longer enticed him, and a future seemed pointless without you. All that was left for him was to agonise, stare at his living room ceiling and watch the atrocities he’d committed play on repeat. The Starks’ car, Yori’s son, your neck. With therapy came amends, a booklet of names his conscience needed him to confront with an apology. Yours never made the cut. Because it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that had hurt you, it was him. No amount of therapised language intended to distance him from the harm would be a good enough excuse to lay at your feet, so he stayed away, kept his distance.

Not once had he fantasised he would be breaking no-contact like this.

“A little confused and contemplating why I’m still living in this city after years of it being a breeding ground for supernatural and extraterrestrial attacks, but I’m fine,” you reply at last, trailing off with a laugh that catches on your throat and breaks into a hiccup.

There’s a shake in your voice that nearly has him pulling back but your arms stop him, hold him closer. You shuffle your feet between his own and burrow your face away, out of sight, in the crook of his neck. A layer of ash still stains him, powder remnants of the rubble that had fallen during The Void's attack, but you don’t seem to care.

“I saw you on the news, Buck. Are you okay?”

The relationship was over in a matter of days.

You slept through the train ride home, leaving him with nothing but passing fields and troubled thoughts. Once back in the city, he carried your bags in his left hand while the fingers of his right one threaded with yours. You did most of the talking, comments of where you two could holiday next, if he’d spoken to Sam recently, and how your mother had mentioned in passing that you should bring Bucky with you next time you visit. The silence arrived as you both reached your front door, one glance at the bruise around your neck enough to let him know this was the end of the line.

An inbox of missed calls and unread texts later, he dropped your apartment key through the letterbox.

He blinked and suddenly the scene had reset, your lonesome frame crawling back onto the bed once more, fading away into two figures curled around one another beneath the sheets. Bucky watched it all unravel. And, when the door slammed and your tears fell, he watched it start again. Over and over, he watched himself poison the safe haven you made for him, pushing you away and rebuilding that wall around himself. Over and over, he watched you reach for him, a silent plea in your eyes begging him to stay.

He never did.

It was only when he joined you on the bed — after the other him had slammed the door — and pulled you into his longing embrace, mouth kissing apologies against your forehead as you drifted off to sleep, that the cycle came to a stop. One moment, he was holding some version of you for the first time in years, and, in the next, The Void sent him falling through the ceiling of an old Hydra lab.

He landed in the leather chair with a thud and, as a familiar device closed in around his head, he wished he was back in that hotel room, watching your heart break before his eyes, if only to see you a little longer.

With reluctance, he pulls back.

Not because he no longer needs to hold you, feel you breathing safely against him. But he needs to see you. Properly, as something more than a distant shape across the street. Inches apart now, the hole in his chest seems to scream it’s not close enough. When your eyes meet his and a tear slides down your face, not even Sentry could stop him from reaching up to catch it.

Comfort fills his soul as he feels your hand lay itself atop his own, holding it in place against your cheek. Your eyes slip shut and a sigh slips past your lips. Bucky can’t help but lean in, eyes shutting out the world around you. His forehead finds rest against yours, a gentle pressure against skin that feels more intimate than any kiss he could ever give. “Tell me you’re okay, Bucky,” a delicate whisper that possesses no threat to the quiet that surrounds you both.

For a moment, there is peace. Hope. Time has passed, his life has changed, and, while he’s no symbol of sanity, he saved people today — strangers. Bucky Barnes is officially a hero. An Avenger. So maybe things can be different. And maybe he can ask to take up space in your life again, to be part of your mornings and your evenings, your everyday. He can make amends and make you his.

Something meows and tears him out of his daydream.

A blur of white fur moves cautiously inside your apartment, weaving through a few house plants atop a shoe rack. But that isn’t what leaves him feeling foolish, feeling sick, feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the chest. It’s the pair of shoes carelessly discarded on the floor, shrugged off by someone too impatient to put them away if it means spending another moment away from you — Bucky would know, he used to do the same.

A pair of men’s shoes. “I should-” go, he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t wanna miss the train.”

“James,” his name is a plea on your tongue, a question he’s forgotten how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” for hurting you, for not moving on, for showing up at your door. “I just needed to see you.”

The first step is still the hardest.

As the thought passes through him, a sense of deja vu comes over him. This hallway, your doorway. Turning his back on you, telling himself that it’s better this way. No matter how much it kills him, he can live with the pain of knowing you’ll be safer with someone else. Someone who was born at the right time, and has done all the right things in life that lead them to being rewarded with you. It’s best he goes, before that someone comes looking for you.

He can’t stomach the thought of seeing you with somebody else.

“For someone so good at the fight, you sure do love to choose flight,” your voice is soft yet he hears a bite of anger, a sprinkle of resentment. “Or is walking away a special trick you only use when it comes to me?”

“Don’t do that,” he turns back around to face you, and regrets it the moment he notices more tears threatening to spill. His hand itches to wipe them all away. “Don’t make it seem like leaving you was something I chose to do.”

“But you did!”

“Only because I had to!” Bucky never means to raise his voice, not at you. Things clearly haven’t changed enough for him to stop hurting you when he swears he won’t.  “You know what I did to you.”

With a challenge on your face, your arms cross over your chest and you pop your hip out, leaning your body against the doorframe. “What exactly did you do, James?”

“I…” torture of the tongue, he needs to compose himself before he can say it. “I hurt you. With the same hand they gave me when they made me a weapon.”

“Except you didn’t. The Wakandans gave you that arm when they needed another hero on the battlefield.”

A pause, where anything but silence passes between you. “And I hurt you with it all the same.”

“You leaving me like I meant nothing hurt far more than whatever happened in that hotel room.”

“Meant nothing? Me leaving was because I lov-”

“I’ve just taken on a big case, they’ll be expecting me early in the office,” you’ve already got the door in your hand, half closed as your body retreats back into the safety of your apartment, away from the danger of Bucky’s confession. “You should go, James. Catch that train.”

Unlike him, you don’t slam doors.

He doesn’t bother returning to the subway, the time on his phone tells him all he needs to know. He’s missed that last train, and he’s not in the mood to figure out which line will get him closest to his apartment. He’ll just walk, and listen to the voicemail his phone claims Alexei has left in his inbox.

“Winter Soldier! Bucky! We all are drinking, to celebrate team’s first big win. You must join, we can talk more about being co-captains of The Thunderbolts-” “That is not our name, Alexei,” Yelena cuts him off faintly in the background.

Bucky shouldn’t have come home.

Back in the apartment, a sob is forced down.

The tears just keep coming, all you can do is surrender yourself to them, head leaned back against the door, some part of you hoping he’ll come back.

His hair is longer, new bruises mark his skin, yet the way he looks at you — like you are a sin he must atone for — is still the same.

“Was that Bucky I just heard? If yes, let me give him a piece of my mind and save ourselves a whole load of paperwork- Hey, you good?”

You pull in a breath and wipe both hands over your face before forcing a smile towards your guest.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you almost trip over his shoes in your haste to walk back into the living room. “Now come on, we have a lot of work to do if you’re serious about suing the Avengers.”

+ extra hyde !

· finished this instead of working on one of my final essays... priorities!

· idk if it anyone wants it but i'm working on a part 2, and trust i intend to not uphold the sambucky divorce from the post-credit scene

· if you're reading this and thinking "this doesn't look like the aemond fic update hyde's supposed to be posting" i'm sorry, i swear i'll be doing my best to post the next part soon! don't hate me!

[scopyroris]

Nothing’s gonna stop us - Thunderbolts* x Reader!

Word count: 4k.

Requested by @doctoriletyougotogalaxy : Soooo what about a karaoke night at the towerrrr the reader can sing "nothing's gonna stop us now" by starship! and lottsss of family dynamic and interaction with bob and yelena and bucky and ava and alexei and john omg i can't choosee.

Description: An attempt at homemade cookies, ridiculous requests to Valentina and a karaoke night will have you finding out you have a hidden singer in your team.

Note: Avengers tower fics are so back. I hope I made your request justice, this is pure fluff and many interactions between our beloved thunderbolts. Loved writing this, hope you enjoy! I recommend listening to the song for full immersion lol.

Masterlist

Laidback nights at the Watchtower didn't happen very often. Nights when no one was off on some random mission in the middle of nowhere, no last minute invitations to stupid events, not one single call from Valentina.

It was perfect.

These nights were simple in the way that mattered, space to breathe, to laugh, to learn the little things about each other that didn't come out in broad daylight. And, even if you hadn't picked it in the first place, this had become what you called home.

Not that you would ever say it out loud, or anyone in the team really, but it meant everything to you.

You'd just pulled the last cookie tray out of the oven, the kitchen felt warm as the air filled with the sweet smell of melted chocolate chips. Bob stood beside you, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie, clearly proud but, as always, kept his thoughts to himself. He had spent the entire week casually hinting at wanting to bake, dropping recipe tiktoks in the group chat, mumbling things like "If anyone wants, we could maybe ... try these?" When passing around the group.

You knew he would never get the motivation to get up and actually do it on his own, and if he ever did, he would drop it halfway through. Maybe that's why he hinted it the whole week. When it came to Bob, who never ever wanted to bother anyone with his needs, you gladly took that as progress.

Now, you didn't know shit about baking. Neither did Bob, really. But if it meant getting him out of his room and doing something other than quietly fading into the background, you were all in.

So, as tonight the whole team would be home to enjoy some homemade cookies, you cornered him in the kitchen and made it happen.

The open kitchen, completely visible from the living room, was a mess. The counters dusted in flour and so many dirty bowls and spoons laying around. Your teammates had been throwing curious glances at you the whole afternoon, and it was funny how John, the one who insists to act like he's the most disinterested person in the building (he goes neck to neck with Bucky on that one) had been lifting his head ever so slightly from the couch to look over the counter way too many times to count.

There had also been complaints about you 'taking too long' but, 6 hours wasn't bad at all for amateurs, right?

All that time for the cookies to end up looking lopsided, but at least the smell was heavenly, and judging by Bob's quiet excitement, they were a masterpiece.

"Cookies are ready, everyone!" you called out, lining up the cookie trays on the counter that faced the living room.

Bob smiled nervously as he scratched the back of his head "Um... take as many as you'd like".

Big mistake, when you had three supersoldiers waiting like hawks.

He didn't even finish his sentence before John took three long strides to reach the counter, leaning over the trays to examine the cookies with his arms crossed.

You rolled your eyes. "You need a magnifying glass or something?" You huffed, and the fucker only fake smiled at you as he used his finger to flip a couple of cookies that looked darker than the others.

"Didn't even burn 'em" he muttered with approval, nodding at both of you before popping two into his mouth without hesitation, despite the fact they were still steaming.

"You angels!" Alexei exclaimed right behind him, grabbing a handful. "You will make strong wives one day" His thick accent muffled by a mouthful of cookies he was trying to chomp down at super soldier speed.

"Wow ... okay" Bob clears his throat as he turned red from the weird compliment.

John snorted at the ridiculous comment, as he kept grabbing one cookie after another like they were infinite. Bucky dragged his feet reluctantly to the counter, offering you a small side smile at you as he approached the tray, muttering a quiet thank you when he grabbed his batch of cookies before turning back to the couch.

"Jeez, leave some for the girls" Ava complained, making everyone jump as she fazed through the kitchen cabinets.

She hid her smirk like she didn't notice, but she loved doing that.

She raised an eyebrow at the almost empty trays, with her signature judging look. She grabs one with casual confidence, took an uninterested bite and froze mid chew. Her face shifted into reluctant surprise.

"I'll be damned" she muttered, grabbing another. "These aren't bad at all"

Bob was beaming.

And if he was beaming, all of you were, too.

You scanned the room, eyes darting toward the hallway before they almost finished the stash.

"Where's Yelena?" You suddenly remember, Bob's eyes go wide.

Right on cue, she makes appearance strutting through the hallway.

"Gather 'round losers, it's karaoke time" Yelena announces as she walks past the group, collective grunts immediately followed.

She stopped dead in her tracks, mid stride, her cute nose wrinkling as she caught the sweet scent coming from the almost empty trays.

"Wait, the cookies were ready and you didn't call me?"

"We literally took them out of the oven five seconds ago" you said, hands up in mock defense. Bob nodded profusely beside you.

"YEH"  "it's true" "sure", the super soldiers tried to back you up, but the crumbs on their shirts made them guilty as charged.

Yelena narrowed her eyes at them, then made her move. "Let's see these–hands off, Walker!"

She smacked John's hand just as he reached for the last two cookies. He groaned, but decided it was better to go back to the couch instead of fighting with the blonde girl for a goddamn cookie.

Yelena took her first bite, eyes widening as she chewed. "Mmm ... oh my god, Bob. These are amazing" 

Another praise that made him visibly shrink a little. "Y/N helped me" he said quickly, deflecting the compliment.

You gave him a sideways glare. He caught it and fumbled a bit.

"Uh ... I mean, thank you, Yelena"

Her mouth was still full, but her smile was unmistakable.

She gave him a little nod, eyes soft as they always were with him. Then, without missing a beat, she turned toward the living room again where Bucky and John were sulking into the couches.

"Alright! Now that you've been fed, it's showtime"

That girl couldn't half ass anything in her life, so if she said it was showtime, it was freaking showtime. And you always backed her up with the same energy you'd bring to a bar fight.

You walked over to the TV and powered on the freshly installed karaoke system, with a whole disco ball included. Val had, very reluctantly, been forced to install it. It had been your demand of the month.

Since Valentina Allegra de Fontaine technically worked for you now, courtesy of the mountain of dirty, dangerous secrets you had on her, you made sure to remind her of the power dynamic whenever possible. Monthly demands had become a tradition.

She hated it of course, which only made it more fun. The team’s demands just kept getting ridiculous at this point.

"Val, I want a fireplace in my room"

"You are on the 29th floor"

"Exactly, gets cold"

"Val we need a private jet"

"You have access to five military grade aircrafts"

"Yeah, but I mean like ... a superstar jet. With champagne and mood lighting"

"Val, I hate the tile in my bathroom"

"It's marble"

"Ugly marble"

"Val, I want to meet Harry Styles”

"...What?"

So yes, in the grand scheme of things, a tiny disco ball and a karaoke machine wasn't the worst of your requests.

The very first karaoke night had been just you and Yelena. No fancy setup, just too many vodka shots that had you standing on the coffee table, using the TV remote as a microphone while screaming lyrics off YouTube.

Bucky had come back from a long mission that night. Exhausted, annoyed, and probably still bleeding somewhere, when he walked straight through the living room just as you both hit a particularly off key chorus of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

"You know" he muttered, barely sparing a glance "all you're missing is a disco ball"

He said it like a joke. But when you told Bob about it, he loved the idea, even if he never participated in the singing.

So, a disco ball was next on Valentina's, or actually Mel's, shopping list.

Karaoke nights were still ... just Yelena and you singing. Mostly. Alexei being the only one willingly joining without you even asking. But at least now, everyone gathered around to watch your performances, and singing or no singing, you were just glad they were there.

Now here you were again, reunited in the living room. The glittery ball spun slowly overhead as the lights dimmed and the first hum of mic feedback buzzed through the speakers.

You always opened karaoke night.

Standing in front of the team gathered on the couches, you took a moment to analyze your audience for the evening.

Bucky sat like a sulky cat on the left corner of the main couch, head supported by his metal arm, elbow resting on the armrest. And, clearly, regretting his life choices once again.

John sat stiff on the opposite end, acting nonchalant, like whatever he was watching on his phone was more important than your song choice tonight.

Alexei, who had disappeared for a few minutes to put on his ridiculous 'New Avengerz' onesie, was now seated in the middle, radianting excitement. Nothing filled his heart more than seeing his daughter happy, enjoying moments like this with her little weird crew. But it was fine, he thought, daughter is also weird.

Bob took the beanbag next to John, the eager smile on his face making your heart pinch a little. He looked like he'd been waiting his whole life to be invited to something like this.

Ava chose to stand, lazily leaning on the wall near John's seat, with her arms crossed. Yelena, as always, sat closest to you, perched on the edge of an armchair.

"God ... if Alexei tries to harmonize again I'm tasing him" Bucky squeezes his eyes shit, his hand already rubbing his temple.

"Hey ... the people love my voice"

"The people called the police last time, Alexei" Ava rolled her eyes, her accent sarcasm sound dead serious.

"What will they do? Arrest the New Avengerz?" He protested, making sure he emphasized the 'z'.

"Dad, please" Yelena sighed, already embarrassed by his outfit.

"I guess we'll find out if Val's soundproofing system works now" John muttered, eyes still glued to the phone.

"Alright alright, don't get too excited" You joked, holding your hands up to calm down the 'crowd'. "For tonight's performance, I have decided to grace your ears with my very own rendition of 'Nothing's gonna stop us', our new signature song" You announced enthusiastically.

Bob was the only one who clapped, sinking deeper into his beanbag when only Alexei's heavy claps followed.

"Since when is it our signature song?" Ava questioned, her head tilting to the side.

"Since Bucky was humming it in the jet last mission..." Yelena teased, shooting you an amused look.

Bucky exhaled sharply. You'd been pestering him about that song ever since you heard him hum it. And of course, you'd dragged Yelena into it too, you two were basically a single chaotic unit at this point.

"You have to be kidding me"

You ignored him completely as Yelena pressed play. The lights shifted to a soft pink hue, bouncing across the room thanks to the disco ball.

The beat of drums kicked in, followed by the soft melody. You started swaying from side to side, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob doing the same. John unconsciously began tapping his foot to the rhythm, as he scrolled through muted reels. Bucky sat completely still, fighting with his inner demons not to join in.

"Looking in your eyes, I see a paradise

This world that I found is too good to be true..."

It didn't take longer than the first verses for yelena to ditch the chair and join you, taking another microphone as the pre chorus played.

"Let them say we're crazy, I don't care about that

Put your hand in my hand, baby don't ever look back..."

The others looked mildly amused as you and Yelena swayed in perfect sync.

"Look at them" Ava chuckled, whispering to John. "Deadliest couple in at least three time zones, and they perform like their lives depend on it"

"They're cute. In a 'definitely killed people' kind of way" Bob added softly, barely audible over the music. But Yelena caught it.

"See, Bob has taste" Yelena interrupted her singing to flip Ava off. She just rolled her eyes.

By the time the chorus hit, Yelena and you were giving it your all.

"And we can build this dream together, standing strong forever, nothing's gonna stop us now..."

"Come on Ava, let us hear you!" You called to her, fully expecting to be ignored.

You hadn't managed to convince Ava into karaoke yet. She was definitely one of the girls, someone you could always count on for advice, or you know, a quick murder. But you weren't at 'let's perform like lunatics in front of the group' level just yet.

Or so you thought.

Maybe it was the sugar rush from the cookies she had earlier, cause she didn't protest. She just shrugged like she had absolutely nothing better to do and walked over to the TV, picking up another mic.

You blinked as she tapped it to check it was on. Everyone leaned in, waiting.

"I'm so glad I found you, I'm not gonna lose you

Whatever it takes, I will stay here with you"

To everyone's horror and awe, her voice was perfect. Like, radio perfect. Smooth, clear, and effortless.

John finally looked up from his phone, his jaw threatening to drop to the floor. Even Bucky raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued.

"Beautiful ... like funeral" Alexei thought out loud, earning a sigh from Bucky, it was his fault for being interested in the first place.

"What the fuck, Ava" John cursed as she wrapped up her solo, his eyebrows furrowed trying to understand how that angelic voice came out the most insufferable woman he'd even met.

"I spent years alone in a lab" Ava replied casually. "Singing passed the time" she shrugged like it didn't matter in the least to her, and returned to her usual spot by the wall.

"You were like ... singing singing" You emphasized, as the instrumental continued alone in the background. "And here I thought I was the talent"

"You are" Yelena said, patting your shoulder. "Just not vocally" You blinked at how that was supposed to be a compliment.

"You guys are missing the song" Bob pointed out, gesturing to the screen where the lyrics kept scrolling by.

You extended the mic to Bucky, but he didn't take it. He stared at it, then at you, then back again at the mic. "Come on Bucky, it's your song" You whined.

"Sing, sing, sing!" Bob chanted enthusiastically, until Bucky shot him a death glare and it died down mid cheer.

With a long suffering grunt, Bucky stood up. He wasn't about to let this drag out any longer, it was better to get it over with so you'd all leave him alone.

Bucky took the mic like it offended him. Like he might throw it across the room, but he'd already committed, no way was he backing out now.

"Okay, but I'm only doing one verse" he said, like this was some negotiation.

You and Yelena just nodded excited in unison.

Alexei leaned towards John and whispered, "What if he sings like sexy ghost?"

"What does that even mean?" John muttered, his face scrunched up.

And as the bridge kicked in, Bucky sang.

"Oooh, all that I need is you

All that I ever need"

His voice cracked a little at first, like it hadn't been used like this in years. But then it was rough, smoky, deep. It suited him.

"And all I want to do is hold you forever

Forever and ever"

By the time he sang the last line of the bridge, you saw the shift in his posture, his eyes half closed, his shoulders loosening, the furrow in his brow easing.

Yelena gasped dramatically and tapped his shoulder with both hands.

"James Buchanan Barnes" she said, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. "Was that emotion I just witnessed?"

"Shut up" he muttered, handing the mic back and slumping into his seat .

Bob, not scared this time, clapped gently, as if trying not to startle him. "That was really, really good"

Even Walker had the decency to nod, raising his eyebrows. "Okay. Didn't expect that".

Bucky didn't reply, but at least he didn't look miserable anymore.

You smirked, eyes scanning the room until they landed on your next victim. You extended the microphone towards Walker, your other hand making a grabbing motion in the air.

"You're up, soldier" you said.

You could see it in his eyes, he wanted to. He'd never admit it, but he'd been waiting for someone to invite him.

"I don't sing"

You rolled your eyes. My god, why did this man try so hard to act like he doesn't care. You knew he did. You glared at him, and it surprisingly it seemed to work the first time.

Huh. Looks like sugar really was the solution all along.

He recluctanly, not really at all, took your hand and jumped in front of the group, as the chorus hit one more time.

"And we can build this world together..."

His rendition was... decent. Maybe a little too much air punching, but honestly? He was selling it. You and Yelena danced behind him for support.

Alexei didn't take long to get up to dance beside you and yelena, not without offering his hand to Ava to bring her along as well. You did the same to Bucky, dragging him towards the dance floor as he shook his head amused.

You all moved to the beat of the guitar while John finished his verse and joined the dancing, mic still in hand. Bucky finally started loosening up, throwing in a few of his old 40's moves. God, he really had been a dancer back then.

You giggled when he grabbed your hand, twirling both you and Yelena at once. Across from you, John twirled Ava. And Alexei? He twirled... himself.

"Can I ... C-Can I try?" A quiet request from the beanbag in the corner made you all freeze in place.

Somehow the music suddenly paused, and the disco ball stopped spinning.

Bob. It had to be Bob. Everyone turned to look.

And there he was, slowly rising from the beanbag, hands wringing nervously, covered by his hoodie sleeves that were way too long.

Yelena blinked. "You've never ever joined us before"

"I know" Bob said quietly. "But... you all looked like you were having fun"

John smiled gently and handed him the mic. "Take it away, Bobby"

The music kicked in again, courtesy of Bob, and the final chorus began. He brought the mic to his lips.

And it wasn't just a timid little try.

No, Bob sang like a miracle. Your very own Bob, who got startled if someone opened a soda can too fast.

You'd expected soft and shy, and maybe a little out of tune. But instead, you got his entire soul poured into every word. He gave Sam Smith. He gave Adele. His voice was deep, haunting, like all his pain had been laced into every note.

"Nothing's gonna stop us now..."

Bob finished the chorus with his eyes closed, holding onto the mic for dear life with both hands as the song died down.

You could've heard a pin drop. Or Yelena's jaw hitting the floor.

"I'm never singing again" you whispered.

"You're our lead singer now!" Yelena yelled, launched into a side hug.

"Seriously" Bucky said, pointing. "That was something special, Bob" He admitted, patting his shoulder.

Bob blinked up at everyone, wide eyed. "I just... wanted to be part of it”

"Part of it? Bob you are it!" you said, grinning. "Next time, you're opening the night, if you'd like to of course"

"We've been listening to these two lunatics for so long" Ava shook her head, gesturing between you and Yelena "and all this time we had you just sitting there"

John clapped a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Well Bobby, looks like you're officially promoted"

"To what?" Bob asked innocently, face flushed from all the attention.

"Karaoke King”

Bob just smiled, quietly thanking everyone as they patted his shoulder. He looked like a kid on the playground who'd just been told he was cool for the first time in his life.

As the adrenaline wore off, the group began to scatter. John and Ava went straight to the kitchen in search of water. Bob followed behind, as Yelena and Alexei congratulated him again for the cookies.

You collapsed onto the couch next to Bucky, head draped over the back cushion as you caught your breath.

Your fingers found their way into his long, wavy hair, absentmindedly playing with a few strands. Bucky didn't even flinch, he was used to random hands in his hair ever since Valentina's infamous "makeover".

His eyes stayed glued to his phone, thumb scrolling through what looked like an eternal flood of congressional updates. Completely zoned out, his foot tapped against the floor as he began quietly humming to himself.

"Huungry eyes..."

Your hand froze mid-stroke. His voice did too.

He closed his eyes, and slowly turned his head towards you. The horror on his face said it all.

You were already on your feet, rising like a cartoon, microphone in hand and a wicked smile blooming on your face.

"Let's go, Barnes" you said, extending the mic like a challenge. "The stage is all yours"

[scopyroris]

Memory Lane: One

-gif not mine. credit to owners-

Pairings: Widowed! Single Dad! Bucky Barnes x Female Neighbor!Reader

Content Warnings: language, fluff, angst, mentions of death, and smut for 18 years or older. MDNI.

Summary: Your car being stolen, your apartment being broken into, and you being fired from your job were at the top of the list of things going wrong with your life. Needing a fresh start somewhere new, you ask for a sign on what to do. You then find an open magazine on the floor showcasing a house for sale a few hours away in a quiet neighborhood called Memory Lane. So, you pack up your entire life ready to start over and focus on yourself, not expecting to fall for your new next door neighbor.

Bucky's wife died eight months ago, leaving him behind with their four year old daughter, Olive. Life as not only a widow but a single dad was hard, something he was trying to figure out on his own, but he would do it for his daughter. He made a promise to his wife that he would never fall in love again because she was his soulmate. But when someone moves in next door, Bucky finds it harder to keep that promise.

Authors Note: okay so I'm not entirely sure how long this series will be, I'm kind of just going with the flow for it. It AU so Bucky is not a superhero and doesn't have his winter soldier past. Although, he does have his vibranium arm and I will be working in the missing memories into the story. Tags for this are open, just send me a message or comment if you're interested!

Tags: @muchwita @greatenthusiasttidalwave @bookofriverr @that-blonde-girl @starfly-nicole @sebastians-love @multiversefanfics @dugiioh @rumoured-whispers @avengersfan25 @globetrotter28 @starstruckfirecat @ozwriterchick

READER

“Wait, what do you mean I can’t return the truck until tomorrow morning? I’m done with it and don’t need it anymore. I can return it now so I don’t get charged another day,” I said into the phone while cradling it between my ear and shoulder, trying to carry the last heavy box inside. 

“No can do, we close in about five minutes. Bring the truck tomorrow by nine a.m.” 

Before I could retort, the line went dead and I let my phone fall onto the couch as I let out an annoyed groan. I was exhausted, starving, and desperately needed a shower. But more than anything, I wanted to return the moving truck so it was one less thing I needed to do tomorrow which was already filled with unpacking. Yet like everything else that had gone wrong in my life the last couple of months, let's add spending another fifty bucks to the list. 

Placing the box labeled plates onto the kitchen counter, I brushed my dusty hands across the back of my jeans and looked around the mess of my new house. It was a cute little cape cod style home in a quiet neighborhood with two bedrooms and two full bathrooms. Since it was only me living here, I had plans to turn one bedroom into a reading room. Before I moved in, I hired painters for both inside and outside which wasn’t light on my wallet, however I was in dire need of a life change so I was willing to pay whatever. 

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have dipped so much into my savings especially since I was recently fired and my car was stolen but again, I needed a change. Thankfully I was able to get my car back unscathed but finding a new job was still at the top of my list, after settling into the new house. I still had a good amount in my savings that I could take at least another month off but would need to start working no later than that. 

Running a hand over my exhausted face, I decided to step out onto my front patio for a breath of fresh air. The sun was beginning to set, bringing along with it a golden and purple ray of warmness, it casting over my body, and I let a content smile pull on my lips. Memory Lane was a quiet neighborhood, besides the sounds of birds chirping and kids playing down the block, but it was a comforting noise. When I was in my lowest moments back in my old home, I asked the stars above for a sign on what to do. Moments later, there was a noise of something falling off of my bookshelf in the living room and when I saw a magazine open one a page showcasing a neighborhood a few hours away, I took that as the sign I asked for. 

Memory Lane, a neighborhood made for people who are looking for a chance at finding their missing piece. 

Since it was a few hours away from my old place, I couldn’t tour it in person, leaving me for a virtual tour, but from what I saw I fell in love with it. The backyard was a decent size for me to have a garden and I planned on adding a hammock chair with a fire pit so I could read outside on warm nights. It wasn’t fenced which was fine with me, it wasn’t something I needed. Maybe one day when I adopted a dog I would. The front path leading up to the stairs was lined with lilies of a variety of colors and the grass had been cut before I moved it so I made a mental note to find a company to come do yard work since it wasn’t one of my strong suits. 

“You’re pretty.” 

Nearly jumping out of my skin, I glanced down to my left as a young girl was standing at the end of my porch steps. Either I was so far gone in my thoughts or she was a mini spy because I didn’t hear her come up. Her amber eyes glanced up at me and her brown curls were pulled back into a ponytail. She was holding a stuffed white cat close to her chest and I tried so hard not to take a step back. 

I wasn’t exactly a kid person, never had that motherly instincts, and always told myself I would be the fun aunt to my siblings kids if I had siblings. I grew up an only child and my mother wasn’t really around so maybe that’s why I didn’t have those instincts. 

“Uh, hi. Thank you,” I shifted on my feet before looking around the quiet neighborhood wondering where she came from. “Do you live around here?”

She pointed a finger to the house right next door. “There.”

I nodded. “Do your parents know you’re outside alone?” 

“My mom’s dead,” she said bluntly.

Well, shit. 

If I wasn’t uncomfortable before, I definitely was now. 

“Do you have a dad?” I asked slowly. 

“Duh,” she nodded wildly. 

“Where is he?”

“Over there,” she pointed to the house again. 

I raised a brow. “Does he know you’re over here at a stranger's house?”

“Nope.” 

This little girl was giving me as little information as she possibly could. 

“I’m Olive,” she said. 

“Y/N,” I nodded again with my hands on my hips. “We should probably get you-.” 

“OLIVE!” 

My head snapped over to the left intime to see a man sprinting out of the house next door with a wild and worried look in his eyes which seemed to ease the moment he saw Olive. 

Ah, her dad. 

They had the same color hair and eyes. 

“Bye Y/N!” Olive waved before skipping over to her dad who immediately scooped her up into his arms. 

“You can’t run off like that, Olive. You scared me,” he kissed her forehead. 

When she cuddled into her dad’s embrace, he looked over at me with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry if she bothered you. She’s never run off like this before so I promise you it won’t be a recurring thing.” 

I waved him off with a genuine smile. “Don’t even worry about it.” 

Even from this distance, I could tell he was very attractive in his brown jacket and messy hair. His face was covered with stubble which seemed to accentuate his full lips. 

You’re staring. 

Pushing away those thoughts, I gave them a small wave goodnight. “I’ll see you around Olive.” 

“Bye Y/N!” She called over her dad’s shoulder as he carried her back inside their house. 

BUCKY 

“Are you comfy?” I asked Olive as I placed another blanket on her. 

She’s recently found herself in a phase where she needs at least two blankets on her when I tucked her into bed only for them to be kicked off in the middle of the night. 

“Yep,” she smiled. “Where’s Alpine?” 

Just as she spoke the name, our fluffy white cat jumped into Olive’s bed to snuggle up on the pillow next to her. On the other side of her, she had her stuffed white cat who was also named Alpine. 

Creative, I know. 

“Alright, you have your cats, your two blankets, your ice cold water, and I read you three bedtime stories. Is there anything else you need?” 

Olive tapped her cheek with a bright blue painted finger nail and I playfully sighed before giving her three kisses in a row. 

Not one. It always needs to be three. 

“Daddy! Your face tickles!” 

Her sweet giggles echoed in her bedroom and straight in my heart. There had been a darkness looming deep within there for the last eight months but Olive was the light that continued to break through. 

“Hey we need to talk about what happened earlier,” I said after her giggles quieted. 

My four year old's eyes dulled a bit, fearing she would get in trouble for her escape earlier. I’d been on the phone with Sam as we caught up, mostly him checking in on me. Olive snuck out while I was on the phone and when I realized she was gone, fear filled my veins. I searched the entire house and when I finally found her outside, the relief I felt nearly made me cry. She was talking to someone I hadn’t seen before but I did see the moving truck parked in the driveway for two days, indicating she’d just moved in. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Olive frowned. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw Y/N and wanted to say hi.” 

It was my turn to frown so I tucked her in deeper in the bed. “It’s alright, Oli. But you need to remember if you want to go outside, you have to ask.” 

Her face brightened with my nickname for her and she gave me an enthusiastic nod. “Okay, daddy!” 

After one more bedtime story and making sure her galaxy lights, unicorn light, and her bathroom light was on with the door cracked just a smidge, I went to leave her room when her tiny voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Can Y/N be my new mommy?” 

Blowing out a shaky breath and doing my damndest not to cry in front of her, I slowly turned around to kneel in front of her bed. 

“Sweetie,” I brushed away some hair from her face with my right hand. “We’ve talked about this. I know you miss your mommy, I miss her too. So much. But you can’t forget she’s always with you. In here.” 

I tapped her heart twice, opting to leave my hand there to feel her heartbeat underneath my vibranium hand. 

“I just want a new mommy! Why did my mommy leave me? Did she not love me?!” Olive cried, reaching out for me. 

Tears fell from my eyes upon hearing how broken my daughter sounded so immediately I crawled into her bed too small for me and cuddled her close to my chest. In the eight months since my wife’s death, it had been extremely hard for both of us to overcome it. It was hard to explain to a four year old that her mother was sick and wouldn’t be alive for long. I felt like I couldn’t mourn my wife the first few months since I had to be strong for Olive. Now, I mourn my wife in private when I would climb into our bed alone or while in the shower with the cold water. 

I spent the next while comforting Olive, hushing her cries, until she finally fell asleep. When her snores filled the room, I climbed out of bed and told Alpine to stay with her and then dragged my exhausted feet down the stairs. It was only quarter to eight and as much as the idea of going to bed sounded wonderful, I forced myself to sit outside for a while, like I did every night. On my way out the back patio door, I slipped on my brown jacket and let the cool night hair blow through my hair. 

Like every night, I sat down on the patio seat and glanced up to the night sky, ready for our nightly conversation but something different happened tonight. I was about to tell my wife how my day went but movement out of the corner of my eye made me snap my mouth shut. My new neighbor, Y/N, was sitting on her back porch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she was holding a steaming mug. Something came over me, an unknown force, as I called over to her. 

“I’m sorry again for Olive bothering you.” 

Y/N looked over at me from over her mug and very briefly I saw a smile pull on her lips making something shift inside of me. 

“Oh, please don’t worry about it,” she said. “She seems very sweet.” 

Our houses were close enough that we didn’t need to yell to hear each other. 

“She is,” I nodded in agreement. “I made her promise that she won’t come over without asking.” 

Y/N gave me her own nod before silence fell between us, the noises of the filling the empty space, until once more that unknown force made me rise to my feet to give her a genuine smile. I had my hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets because I didn’t want her to see my vibranium hand. Any time someone saw it for the first time, they would ask a bunch of questions. 

Typically I wouldn’t give a shit to make small talk with people, especially anyone who didn’t know me or my past. But something seemed different with Y/N. Something told me to open up to her, to let her in. 

“Welcome to Memory Lane. My name is Bucky.” 

Her eyes seemed to sparkle as they lingered over my tall form, letting them linger for a few moments before she returned a smile of her own. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Y/N.” 

I motioned to my house “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I hope you find yourself happy here. It’s really a great place.” 

She hummed. “I’m starting to realize that.” 

After that, I headed back inside my house and for the first time in eight months, I hadn’t talked to the night sky

[scopyroris]

if u got depression u know the amount of effort it took for him to do those dishes

[scopyroris]

Still trying to figure out how to draw this pretty girl (he's a 108 year old grown ass man)

[scopyroris]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 4082

The next morning, when you (slowly) made your way down to the kitchen for breakfast, it was completely empty. The other Avengers had one last meeting this morning, then the rest of the day off before they left for their mission in the evening.

You crutched over to the coffee pot, realizing it was completely full. Along with the freshly brewed pot was a mug and a note stuck halfway underneath it. You pulled it out to read it.

Y/n, the mug is clean, thought I’d grab it from the top shelf so you didn’t have to try to -Bucky

You smiled as you took the pot of coffee and poured yourself a cup. You just knew he got obliterated by the others for that. Or maybe he made sure he was the last one in the kitchen so he could do that in peace.

Either way, it made your heart flutter.

You took a sip before setting it down on the island. Then, you leaned your crutches against the counter and hopped around the kitchen, making yourself a bowl of yogurt with strawberries and granola. You finally sat down in a barstool, out of breath from all the effort.

When you finished your breakfast, you hopped around the island to wash your dishes, but you lost your balance as you went around the corner. You reached out to steady yourself with the hand your bowl was in, and the bowl fell out of your hand when you grabbed the counter. As soon as it hit the ground, it shattered into a million pieces.

You just sighed and stared at it for a few minutes, wishing for once that the others were there so you wouldn’t have to clean it up. But you finally hobbled over to the supply closet to grab the broom, then swept all the glass up into a pile.

You weren’t about to try to sweep the glass into a dustpan while balancing on one leg, so you just grabbed a plastic bag and sat down on the ground to pick up the pieces.

When you were about halfway done, Bucky walked into the kitchen, but you didn’t notice him at first.

“Y/n!” he yelled, causing you to jump.

He was next to you in an instant, crouching down next to you with a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened?”

He was so focused on you that he didn’t even notice the plastic bag you were holding. “I just dropped my bowl, I’m cleaning up the pieces,” you said, holding up the plastic bag.

He finally looked down, but didn’t seem to even care about the half-full bag of glass. “Did you fall?”

You held back a laugh, finding it funny how concerned he was. “No, just reached out for the counter and dropped the bowl.”

“Why weren’t you using your crutches? Were you walking on it? You need to let it heal.”

Your laugh finally escaped, and Bucky was still looking at you with concern all over his face. “What?” he asked.

“You worried about me, Sergeant Softie?” you said, raising an eyebrow.

He blinked. “Sergeant – what?”

You grinned. “You heard me. I think you’re going soft. First coffee, now medical-level hovering? You feeling okay?”

He gave you a deadpan look, but his ears were turning red. “I’m not soft. I’m–”

“Don’t worry,” you cut in. “I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation’s safe with me.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath that definitely sounded like “menace,” but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Move over,” he said, reaching for the bag in your hand.

“I can finish–” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“You’re literally sitting on the kitchen floor picking up shards of glass like it’s a relaxing Sunday activity,” he said, plucking the bag from your hand. “Let me help before you end up needing stitches.”

You held up your hands in surrender, scooting back with a smirk. “Yes, sir.”

Bucky crouched, gathering the last of the sharp pieces with practiced care. He even used a wet paper towel to sweep up the tiny slivers, like it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. When he was done, he tied off the bag and tossed it in the trash, dusting off his hands.

“There,” he said, satisfied.

You were about to thank him, maybe make another quip – but before you could move, he turned around and scooped you up off the ground like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Bucky!” you yelped, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I could’ve just stood up!”

“You were gonna hop,” he said, already walking you back to your chair. “With glass still on the floor. And you’re barefoot. Absolutely not.”

“You’ve got to stop carrying me like this,” you said, exasperated but mostly amused.

He shrugged, not even slightly out of breath. “You keep giving me excuses to.”

“You know there’s a difference between being helpful and dramatic, right?”

He smirked. “I’m versatile.”

You snorted, arms still looped loosely around his neck. “Well, at least you admit it.”

Bucky set you gently down in the chair again, scooting the chair in like this was all part of his daily routine.

“Comfortable?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a look. “You gonna bring me a blanket next?”

He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter, smirking. “Don’t tempt me.”

You shook your head, trying to hide the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

His tone softened slightly, just enough to make your chest flutter. “You really okay?”

The teasing faded for a moment, and you nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for swooping in like a dramatic Disney prince.”

He grinned. “Anytime, princess.”

You just shook your head. “Don’t you have a meeting you need to be in?”

“We took a quick break, thought I’d come see if you were up. Obviously you can’t function without me,” he said, smirking at you.

You grabbed a napkin from the counter and flicked it at him, laughing. “Go away before I call you Sergeant Softie again.”

He took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, leaning back in the chair. “If the shoe fits…”

He was still smirking as he walked away, muttering, “Not soft,” under his breath.

And you just smiled to yourself, sipping your coffee.

--

After Bucky had left, you'd migrated to the common room, propping your crutches against the coffee table and settling on the couch with your ankle elevated, an ice pack resting on top and a blanket thrown lazily over your legs. You grabbed a random book off the coffee table – not sure whose it was – and started flipping through it, mostly rereading the same page over and over, distracted by the lingering warmth in your chest from earlier.

The compound had stayed quiet all morning, but the second the meeting ended, you knew it, because the elevator dinged and voices immediately filled the kitchen.

“Finally,” Sam groaned. “Why do those meetings always feel like they’re six hours long?”

“Because they are,” Clint replied. “Steve gives one PowerPoint and suddenly thinks we’re in a TED Talk.”

“You’re just mad because you had to sit still,” Nat said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

Tony’s voice cut through the conversation next. “Alright, children. I’m ordering lunch. We vote like adults or I pick something obnoxious and expensive out of spite.”

“You do that even when we do vote,” Sam muttered.

As the group started gathering around the kitchen island to argue over lunch, Bucky walked right past them without saying a word and made a beeline for the common room.

He didn’t even hesitate – just walked straight to the couch and dropped down beside you, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.

You raised an eyebrow at him, nudging his leg lightly with your knee. “Meeting that bad?”

His eyes closed as he leaned his head back. “Worse.”

“That’s impressive,” you said, flipping your book shut. “Steve usually keeps it to only medium torture levels.”

“Medium?” he scoffed, cracking one eye open to look at you. “He made us go over the same intel report three times.”

You grinned, amused. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away – but the way he relaxed further into the couch beside you was answer enough.

Before either of you could say anything else, voices drifted in from the kitchen.

“Hey–” Sam’s voice cut off, then came back louder. “Where’d Barnes go?”

“Don’t need a tracker to figure it out,” Nat said dryly. “He’s probably on the couch.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Tony’s voice, already smug: “Yup. He’s in the common room. Sitting next to Sleeping Beauty herself.”

You groaned, tipping your head back with a dramatic sigh. “It begins.”

“Barnes, you skipping the food vote?” Sam called out, poking his head around the corner. “Or are you just following your stomach straight to her again?”

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “You make it sound like I’m whipped.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You left the kitchen mid-conversation and went straight to her.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t true,” Bucky said with a shrug, not looking even slightly guilty.

Tony leaned into view next, phone in hand. “Okay, so lunch order: one pizza, two sandwiches, and a large side of codependency for Barnes.”

You threw a pillow in their general direction.

Bucky smirked. “Careful. She’s armed.”

Nat leaned against the doorway, sipping from her water bottle. “Honestly, I’m impressed. We were mid-argument about tacos vs. Thai food, and you didn’t even blink before disappearing.”

“I already know what I want,” Bucky said with a shrug.

“Oh?” Sam said, crossing his arms. “And what’s that?”

Bucky finally glanced back toward the kitchen, completely deadpan. “Peace and quiet.”

The others groaned collectively.

“Wow,” Clint said. “Didn’t know the Winter Soldier ran on Hallmark movie logic now.”

“You’ve changed, Barnes,” Tony said, mock disappointed. “Next thing you know, you’ll be writing poetry and rubbing her feet.”

You raised your eyebrows at Bucky. “You write poetry?”

“No,” he said quickly.

“He totally does,” Sam muttered.

Bucky ignored them, turning back to you. “You hungry?”

“Kind of,” you said, adjusting your blanket. “I was thinking of hobbling over in a minute.”

“No need,” he said. “I’ll put your vote in. What do you want?”

“Hmmm…tacos sound good.”

Bucky turned and looked to the kitchen. “Two votes for tacos,” he yelled.

“Okay, tacos it is,” Tony said, disappearing from the doorway.

“Man, you can’t even vote for yourself,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You really are whipped.”

You just laughed and nudged Bucky with your elbow as he leaned his head back again and grinned.

--

After the tacos were devoured and the group slowly started drifting off to their rooms to prep for their evening departure, you and Bucky found your way back to the couch.

You shifted and nudged his shoulder. “I’m bored.”

He glanced at you. “You’re injured.”

“I’m bored and injured. That’s, like, double the reason to entertain me.”

He snorted. “What, you want me to sing and dance?”

You gave him a faux innocent smile. “Only if you also juggle.”

That earned you a laugh – and then, as his gaze flicked around the room, it landed on the closet in the corner, full of countless random things, including board games.

You followed his gaze, then pointed. “Monopoly?”

Bucky raised a brow. “That game ruins friendships.”

You grinned. “Good thing we’re not friends.”

He gave you a look. “Wow.”

“Kidding,” you sing-songed. “Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”

“Oh, it’s on,” he said, already standing and pulling the game out of the closet.

--

About an hour later, you were both sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by a war zone of fake money, scattered cards, and plastic hotels. You were leaning on the couch while Bucky sat across from you.

“You can’t do that!” you cried.

“I can do that,” Bucky said, smugly sliding one of your properties toward himself. “You didn’t pay the hotel fee.”

“I offered you a Get Out of Jail Free card and two railroads!”

“I don’t need charity.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp and threw a wad of Monopoly cash at his face.

He retaliated instantly, lunging forward and trying to block the money with one hand while using the other to snatch the card pile from you.

You shrieked with laughter, trying to twist away, but he caught your wrist with his metal hand while you pushed at his shoulder to keep him back.

“Let go! That’s my Chance card!” you giggled.

“You cheated!”

“I negotiated creatively!”

That’s when a familiar voice called out from the hallway.

“Do I even want to know what’s going on in here?” Sam asked, followed immediately by footsteps.

The chaos came to a screeching halt as you and Bucky froze mid-wrestle – your hand clutching a card over your head, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist, the two of you way too close and clearly in a state of Monopoly-induced madness.

“Oh my god,” Sam said, walking fully into the room. “What am I even looking at?”

Wanda peeked around him and immediately burst into laughter. “Is this…flirty Monopoly wrestling?”

Tony arrived last, taking in the scene and slowly raising his phone to take a picture. “You know, I had a bet with Nat that the next time I walked in on you two, someone would be on top of the other. Technically, I win.”

“Not helping!” you yelled, yanking your hand away from Bucky’s and scrambling backward over the Monopoly board.

Bucky sat back, rubbing the back of his neck but clearly biting back a smile. “She started it.”

Sam just stared. “This is hands down the weirdest rom-com arc I’ve ever seen.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please leave. I’m going to die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Nope,” Sam said, smirking. “I’m staying until someone throws a hotel piece.”

Wanda crossed her arms, still grinning. “You two are ridiculous.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and stood, offering you a hand. “C’mon, princess. Let’s call a truce before they start live-tweeting.”

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet – and immediately winced as your ankle reminded you why you weren’t hopping around.

He steadied you, one arm slipping around your waist like it was automatic, and you didn’t miss the way everyone noticed.

Tony whistled. “That’s it. I’m changing the group chat name to ‘Pass Go, Collect Feelings.’”

You flipped him off as you leaned into Bucky’s side.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky said dryly, clearly done with the peanut gallery.

“Don’t fall asleep on him again!” Sam called.

You just rolled your eyes and let Bucky help you back to the couch.

--

Ten minutes later, the Monopoly war was packed up, the blanket was back over your legs, and a movie was playing on the screen in front of you.

Bucky sat next to you, stretched out comfortably, one arm resting on the back of the couch behind your shoulders. You’d shifted closer again, too tired to care anymore about appearances.

It was warm. Quiet. Easy.

You didn’t even make it past the thirty-minute mark.

Your head gently dropped against Bucky’s chest, your breathing slow and even. He didn’t say anything and didn’t dare move.

When the rest of the team came back through the common room, gear in hand and ready to head out for the mission, they saw you instantly.

You, fast asleep on Bucky’s chest.

And Bucky, completely unfazed.

Nat held a hand to her heart. “Okay, this is starting to get dangerously cute.”

“Three for three,” Sam said. “She’s officially turned the Winter Soldier into a weighted blanket.”

Tony snapped a picture.

Wanda gently pulled the others away. “Let them be. This is...weirdly wholesome.”

When the room cleared out again, Bucky finally looked down at you, peaceful and tucked into his side.

He shook his head with a soft smile, adjusting the blanket just a little higher over your shoulder.

And he didn’t move for a long time.

--

You woke up slowly, not entirely sure what time it was or how long you’d been asleep.

The room was dimmer now. The movie had long since ended, and the blanket still covered you, tucked in just a little neater than you remembered.

But Bucky was gone.

You blinked, sitting up slowly and rubbing at your eyes, your ankle aching beneath you. As you looked toward the kitchen, you saw several duffel bags now lined up near the front door. The low hum of muffled voices echoed down the hallway.

You pushed yourself off the couch, grabbing your crutches, and made your way down the hallway to the elevator, then down the hall, stopping at Bucky’s room.

The door was wide open, and there he was inside, crouched beside his bed, slipping something into the side of his bag.

He looked up the second you appeared. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You scoffed, crutching your way inside. “How long was I out?”

“Couple hours,” he said, glancing up again as you crossed the room. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

You shrugged. “The couch is surprisingly comfortable once I stop feeling like my ankle’s gonna fall off.”

He zipped a compartment shut and set the bag down beside him. “Figured you could use the rest.”

You smiled a little as you reached the edge of his bed and dramatically flopped down onto it, dropping your crutches to the floor beside you. “And this is even comfier.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight it. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“I am,” you said, stretching your arms above your head with a grin. “This is your punishment for leaving me mid-nap.”

Bucky was halfway through folding one last shirt when a knock hit the open doorframe.

“Hey, Buck” Steve stopped mid-step.

His eyebrows lifted in amused surprise as he glanced from Bucky, packing like it was business as usual, to you, sprawled out across his bed like it was yours.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, one brow clearly raised for dramatic effect.

Bucky didn’t even look fazed. “Nope. She broke in.”

You propped your head up on one hand. “Untrue. The door was open. I just wandered in like a stray cat.”

Steve chuckled. “This what you do on your days off? Nap in each other’s beds?”

“Technically, she was already napping in the common room,” Bucky offered.

“And now I’ve upgraded,” you added cheerfully, kicking your good leg over the side of the bed.

Before Steve could reply, another voice called down the hallway.

“Did someone say nap buddies?” Sam appeared behind him a second later, spotting you instantly. “Oh my god.”

You groaned, flopping your head back onto the pillows. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”

Wanda and Clint followed close behind, clearly drawn by the scent of juicy gossip.

“Wow,” Clint said, peeking over Steve’s shoulder. “This is escalating fast.”

“She’s literally just laying down,” Bucky deadpanned.

“In your bed,” Wanda said, hands on her hips and a knowing look on her face. “That’s a big step.”

Tony was next, of course, practically materializing out of thin air with his phone out. “This is rich. The team’s not even wheels up and Barnes is already shacking up.”

“Nothing’s happening!” you said, face half-buried in one of Bucky’s pillows.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed smugly. “Nothing’s happening yet.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Bucky muttered, sliding his last knife into a holster and shutting his bag.

You just grinned and patted the spot next to you. “You brought this on yourself, Sergeant Softie.”

Another chorus of oohs echoed from the hallway.

Tony actually applauded. “And there it is.”

Steve clapped Bucky on the back. “Wrap it up, Sergeant Softie. Jet leaves in ten.”

The group finally drifted away, still snickering, while Bucky walked over to the bed and looked down at you.

“You’re the worst,” he said, but his smile gave him away.

“I’m adorable,” you countered.

He grabbed your crutches and set them upright next to the bed. “So, you gonna help me with my bags or what?”

You just scoffed, then smiled up at him. “I’m gonna have to go with or what,” you said, pulling yourself up off the bed.

He just grinned at you, holding out your crutches, then reaching out to steady you as you stood up. He walked over and grabbed his bags as you crutched your way to the door.

You made it to the kitchen where everyone else was milling around, checking all their bags to make sure they had everything and grabbing some last-minute necessities.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said the moment he spotted you guys walking in. “Would you look at that. Barnes is finally here. Did you two say your goodbyes yet, or are we waiting for a tearful airport-style sendoff?”

“We’re not leaving until he lets go of her hand,” Clint added, appearing behind Sam with a water bottle in one hand and a smirk on his face.

“We’re not even holding hands,” Bucky said flatly.

“Uh-huh,” Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying goodbye for twenty minutes. You sure you're finally ready to leave, Barnes? Or should we give you another hour?”

“Do we need to play you a sad montage?” Sam asked. “We can all hum some dramatic music while you walk to the jet.”

“I hate all of you,” Bucky muttered, grabbing the strap of his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” Tony chimed in from the doorway, coffee in hand, “how are the two of you gonna survive without each other for a whole week? Tragic.”

“Oh please,” Wanda said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “Sleeping Beauty’s not gonna be able to fall asleep without her emotional support Soldier.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I hate all of you more.”

“They’re right though,” Sam said, shaking his head dramatically. “This man’s gonna be staring at his comms the whole flight. ‘Did she text?’ ‘Is she okay?’ ‘Do you think she had coffee this morning?’”

“Okay, time to leave,” Steve called, clearly trying not to laugh as he herded the group toward the door.

Tony saluted you dramatically. “Don’t burn the place down, sweetheart.”

As they finally started to head out, Bucky looked down at you, his expression softening just a little.

“You sure you’ll be alright?”

You nodded, giving him a crooked smile. “Yeah, I’ll survive.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer. Then, he took a step toward you and wrapped you up in a hug, resting his chin on your head.

You let out a little laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Are you gonna be alright?” you asked, face buried in his chest.

Then, you felt the faintest press of his lips on the top of your head. So quick, you weren’t even sure if it actually happened.

He took a step back, arms still on your shoulders, and smiled down at you. “Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving yours. “I’ve got something to look forward to when I get back.”

Before you could say anything else, a voice rang out from the hallway.

“Barnes!” Sam called, exasperated. “We’re leaving, not planning a wedding!”

The sound of boots and duffel bags shuffled behind him, and a few more heads peeked back into the room.

Nat leaned against the doorway with a knowing smirk. “You about ready?”

“She’s not gonna disappear while we’re gone,” Clint added. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t take his hands off your shoulders just yet. He looked at you for one more second – just long enough to make your heart skip.

Then he gave your arms a final squeeze, let go, and turned to grab his bag from the floor.

As he started walking away, you stared after him, still unsure if that kiss had really happened or if you’d just imagined the warm brush of his lips on your hair.

He reached the doorway, nearly disappearing with the rest of the team – but just before stepping out, he paused.

He turned, caught your eyes across the room, and smiled – small, soft, just for you.

“Bye,” he said.

Then he was gone.

--

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Masterlist

So excited to write the next part for you guys!! (and btw, I'm sure you all knew, but Bucky definitely kissed her😉🤭)

Tag list: @ordelixx @read-just-cant-stop @erinallene @crazycleo @magnoliamermaid @thewriters64 @nelachu2423 @kjah97 @awesompawsum @winchestert101 @buckyb-stan @crazyunsexycool @buckysmetalgoddamnarm @buckybarnesfic @ozwriterchick @multiversefanfics @blavikennbutcher @mysoggywaffle @nameless-ken @starfly-nicole @440mxs-wife @vicmc624

[scopyroris]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 4

Pairing: Winter Soldier! x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: In a moment of quiet kindness, you cut The Winter Soldiers Hair.

Warnings: Captivity, angst, needles, and fear. Fake and very uneducated medicine :)

Authors Note: Please Comment and be kind!

There was a revolting type of guilt that sank inside of you every time you pressed a needle through a rat's skin. You were condemning them, torturing them. But it was better than testing them on the one person you were tasked with keeping alive.

“I used to want to be a vet,” you blurted, pulling the needle out of the white rodent. “I’ve always loved animals. They’re so much more peaceful than humans.” You tossed the syringe and began scribbling in a notebook. “I have two cats, you know? Love them to death.”

You didn’t bother looking back to check if the Soldier was listening. You knew he was. Though he was much less likely to give you a reaction while they were under the watchful eye of Hydra. Four guards, in each corner of the room, stood silently.

“It’s a good thing I have a roommate. They’d have starved on their own, with me here.” You muttered to yourself as you pulled a chair up to the man. “Anyways…”

“I’ve started testing the effects of the serum I’ve been working on. I’ve been injecting the rats with a variety of degenerative muscular viruses- ones I think will closest match yours.” You spoke, still scribbling on your notebook. “I gave them a few days for it to take effect, so now I’m testing the effects of the antidote. Truthfully, there's a few antidotes- I’d like to see which one delays the side effects the longest.”

You’d taken to the habit of explaining your steps to him. You felt he deserved to know what you were doing to his body- or rather, what you would be doing to it. You had gathered that he had been so long deprived of basic autonomy, you wanted to allow him as much dignity as you could.

You glanced up at him. “I think I’m getting close.” You said quietly. “At least I hope I am…” 

★

“Your hair is getting long.” You observed, sitting at his feet as you used a small metal tool to clean beneath his bloody fingernails. Over the days, your duties of caring for him had grown. “I could cut it, you know.” you glanced up at him.

He stared down at you. “I’m trying to give you an opportunity to choose,” you said gently. His brows furrowed at you.

“You talk about choices a lot.”

You tried not to shiver at the sound of his voice. It was the second time hearing it to date. It was rough and throaty, like he rarely used it- evidently. He was quiet, like a mutter. “I gathered you don’t often get to make those.” You scraped under his ring fingernail.

He swallowed, his gaze growing distant. 

“I don’t have to cut it,” you whispered, setting his hand back down in his lap. “I just thought you might like it. I cut my own- used to. I used to cut my own. So I’m no stranger with a pair of scissors.”

A long bout of silence stretched between you, and you quickly started to regret ever suggesting the idea.

“Okay.”

You straightened. “Yeah?”

He nodded. 

You combed through the tangled strands with your fingers, pulling it back over his shoulders. You stood behind him, doing your best to not yank his hair out. “How long do you want it?”

You gave him the time to respond. It was almost awkward for him to admit something he wanted. “Short.”

“That’s not very detailed.” You held your hand out for the scissors. He slipped them in your hand. “When I first got here, they told me you’ve been around for a while. I gather that you’re kind of old,” you suppressed an ill timed smile. “I could try to go for something older fashioned.”

He stiffened, his palms curling up in his lap.

“Just below my ears is fine.”

You felt immediate regret, watching him close back up in real time. “Okay.”

You pinched locks of dark hair between your fingers and clipped them shorter. His hair was much longer than it had been when you first met him. It made you begin to question time. But then again, you surmised that his rapid hair growth could have been caused by his regenerative cells.

It was quiet for a long time. Not the usual quiet, the kind that stretched and ached and burned. But more like a solitude. Silence that exposed raw nerves. Silence that was shared and observed and respected.

“I used to keep my hair really short. I thought it was much easier to deal with, especially in the lab.” You snipped. “But I started growing it out after I graduated. It was freeing. I like to get pretty, dress up and do my makeup. Having more hair made that a lot more fun.”

Your chest ached for a brief moment as you recalled the current state of your hair. It was knotted and tied back into a braid, frizzy strands sticking out at all angles. You hadn’t seen much of yourself except for in passing windows and in the reflection of your monitor. You had showered a few times since they had taken you, but it was in a small closet built to fill mops. 

It felt more like hosing yourself down.

“Do they let you shower?” You blurted. 

You expected silence, but earned a short huff of breath. What a shocker. 

“Sometimes.”

You wouldn’t say he smelled bad. He just smelled like a man. Every time you saw him, it seemed to be after some big event. He was always a little dirty, maybe with a dash or two of blood. You could smell his sweat whenever you got too close, but it wasn’t foul. 

“Is it wrong to say I’m shocked?”

“It’s accurate. Not wrong.”

You snipped, combed with your fingers, then continued cutting. “Do they give you bubble baths?”

He turned to look over his shoulder at you, causing you to cut a lock of hair much too short. You cringed when your eyes met. “You can’t see the back of your head, so you don’t need to know what I just did.”

He huffed again, something you were starting to assume was a laugh. “What’s a bubble bath?”

“You’re kidding right?”

Silence.

“It’s really self explanatory. There's certain types of soap that make huge piles of bubbles, so it feels like you're bathing in a cloud. It’s usually something only kids or women use.”

“I was joking.”

You stared at the back of his head in shock. “Joking?” 

Silence. 

“We need to work on your sarcasm.”

★

You crawled around the base of his chair mechanism, sweeping stray shavings of hair into your palm. When you glanced up, the Soldier was pinching the ends of his hair, staring into the distance. “It’s not my best work, but you look nice.”

You shook the hair off into the bin.

“Thank you.” 

Your spine straightened. The shock quickly faded, followed by deep guilt. You felt like you had only added to the damage. You may have done something he wanted, but you had offered it to him, like a child. You had played into the game of taking from him, then acting like a hero when you gave something back.

“Don’t thank me, please.” You muttered.

You could feel the weight of his stare against your back. You could hear the creak of his metal arm as he lowered it to rest in his lap. You took a second to clean your hands, took a breath, then faced him.

“Do you-do you ever get phantom pain?” You blurted. “In your arm.”

He glanced at the metal. “Sometimes.”

“Is it bad? I’ve heard that it’s bad. I once had a classmate that lost her foot and she said it ached the worst in winter. I was such a prick in school because I used to ask to see the stump all the time. I’ve heard that's also a pretty intimate thing for amputees.” You rambled, organizing the tray of barber supplies. “Does it ever get weird when you take it off? I mean- you must be so used to seeing it- having an arm there, and then it can just be gone in a second.”

“I don’t take it off.”

“Really? Never? I mean- it doesn’t rust from the shower?”

“They care for it while I’m asleep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever seen your stump?”

He nodded. “Not in a long time.” He paused. “And it’s not a stump.”

“It’s not?”

He drew his fingers across the shoulder of the false arm. “It starts up here. There's metal worked into my body to hold the arm in place.”

You didn’t mean to gape, but you did. He lifted a brow at you. “Have you-” you blinked. “Ever thought about what it would look like if  you lost some of your muscle mass? I mean, if you lost weight, you’d have one really buff arm and one skinny one. That would be pretty awkward.”

He blinked at you, like you had just said something so outlandish he couldn’t process it. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s really something I need to worry about.”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, holding back a smile. “Right,” you didn’t want to laugh. “Right, yeah.”

There was something about the sound of his voice that made you feel just a little less alone. It made you want to keep rambling and prying and finding ways to make him respond. It made you feel just a little less insane.

A/N: Another kind of short one, but this is one of my favorite chapters.

@jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff

[scopyroris]

Thanks @georgiapeach30513 for listening to my ramblings about the edited pictures lol

Guys, I've started editing the story so it will still be a few days but I'm hoping to drop the first part this week.

Want To Be Loved By You

Summary: He's in need of a wife, and you are in need of your own household. As you're an orphan your cousin Steven is in charge of you and arranges the marriage. Fortunately your new husband is kind and appealing. At first things are going marvelous, but when Bucky suddenly becomes distant, things take a turn. Your happiness might not be a given anymore.

[scopyroris]

Hold You Tight: Part 18

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 17 | Series Masterlist | Part 19

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.8k

Chapter Summary: You open up to Bucky before he meets your friends.

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, dubcon elements, heavy petting, tension, kissing, inner turmoil, backstory, reference to unsupportive parents, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight! Thank you for sticking with me! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Waking up in Bucky’s arms felt different than it had the night before. This morning felt a bit easier and, dare you think, it was natural. A hand moved up and down your back, but it was more of a soothing motion than trying to turn you on. It was so comfortable that it almost put you back to sleep.

“Morning,” he whispered against your forehead.

“Morning,” you whispered back, waiting for him to inevitably start groping you. He didn’t. “Wait, you’re not dry humping me today?”

He let out a sleepy chuckle. “Not unless you want me to,” he teased, leaning back to gaze at you.

You looked at him, too. It was the most relaxed and well rested you had seen him look since you met. And the happiest. You being in the penthouse really made a difference in the dangerous man.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, brushing a finger along your cheek.

“Yeah,” you answered. You hadn't meant to fall asleep in the living room, but he didn't seem to mind. “Did you?”

“I did.” He sat up after a moment and stretched. “I’m actually kind of glad we didn't sleep in our bed.”

“Why is that?” you asked.

“Because we haven't made love yet,” he answered in a low voice.

You ignored the heat flowing from your core. “I’m kind of surprised you're holding out,” you said. With the way he always had to touch you and the filthy things that spewed from his mouth, he had to be a ticking time bomb.

Your reaction to him surprised you, too. It was just days ago when you wretched from just the stress of him blowing up your life and everything. Yet last night, you got yourself on his thigh with his encouragement and you willingly slept in his arms. Did that say more about you or him?

He sighed. “Once I have you I won't be able to stop. That’s how much I want you and will keep wanting you,” he admitted, separating himself from you more. “But I want your trust and forcing you into bed won't build it. We’ll be back at square one.”

You blinked slowly. Bucky pushed your boundaries one second and backed off the next. He tore through your walls and rebuilt them just as quickly. The man was a puzzle you feared you’d never figure out.

“It isn't just my trust that you want from me,” you said. That wouldn’t be enough for him. “You want me to love you.”

His eyes bore into yours and it felt like he was letting a wall down for you. “Yes, I do want you to love me,” he said, his voice thick. “I want a life with you and whatever exists beyond that.”

You swallowed. The air was too thick in the room, the emotions raw. He wanted you to love him even after you were gone from this world. “Your Pisces is showing again,” you whispered like it was a secret.

“Well, you did say I was intense, passionate, and I want to be close to the person I fall for,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your lips and helping you slowly stand. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.”

“I guess not,” you agreed, looking around. You hadn’t checked your phone at all since you went to his place. “What time is it?”

“Still early. Why don’t we have breakfast and then you can get ready for your day out?” he suggested.

That brought a smile to your face. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

His smile wasn’t as bright as yours as he led you to the kitchen and helped you take a seat at the island. “Eager to spend the day away from me?”

He sounded so sad you almost went to him to hug him. “I’m eager to spend the day with my friends,” you corrected him, watching him move around the kitchen with ease. “They’re kind of like sisters to me.”

“Sisters.” He paused and looked at you with a careful eye. “Do you realize you’ve never talked about your family with me? Not once.”

You kept a neutral expression, but you wrung your hands together in your lap. You were surprised it took him this long to point that out. “There isn’t much to say.”

He set two mugs on the coffee maker. “I think there is,” he said, facing you again. “You always mention your friends, your coworkers, Mrs. Crandle, and there’s always affection and love there, but never your parents. Why not?”

If he dug into your life the way he said he had, surely, he knew in some capacity. And it was too early to discuss them, but he would ask again later if you brushed it off. “Because they’re not exactly proud to have me as a daughter,” you sighed, trying not to reflect too deeply on that.

His mouth was set in a grim line. “Why not?” he all but snarled.

You shrugged and avoided his gaze. “I was just never good enough, you know? Whether it was my grades or sports or anything I tried, I was never… exceptional or special. Even when I did well at something it wasn't enough. It was always a toss-up between disappointment and indifference,” you explained. Your accomplishments weren't anything of importance in their eyes. “And when I said I wanted to be a florist I was pretty much told that my life was…” you paused. You weren’t going to cry. “A waste.”

“A waste?” The murderous expression on his face oddly brought you more comfort. “But you are exceptional. You lead with kindness and a good heart when it’s easier to be cruel or jaded. Your kindness saved my mom, and she knew you were special,” he said, shaking his head as he rounded the island. “It’s no wonder you never talk about them. It also explains more of why compliments make you feel uncertain.”

“It’s okay, Bucky,” you whispered.

Your parents weren’t bad people. They never raised a hand to you, and they gave you what you needed to survive in life, but not much else beyond that. No encouragement or affirmations of love. If you disappeared tomorrow, they wouldn’t know. You were invisible.

It was fine. You accepted a long time ago that you weren’t special in their eyes. The life you made in the city with your other loved ones was enough to give you a sense of family and it didn’t take away from the fact that you still loved your parents, but you refused to be like them. You’d still find ways to put kindness out into the world. You’d make others smile if you could. It wasn’t always much, but maybe it would make a difference in some way to someone.

And, well, who you were and what you did made a difference if you asked Bucky.

“It’s not okay,” he argued, framing your face. The intensity didn’t frighten you this time when you looked into his eyes. “And I’m so sorry I brought it up.”

“It really is okay,” you softly said, wondering how he got you to open up again. You would’ve had to talk about it sooner or later and there were people who grew up with much worse. “But you really think I’m exceptional? I’m just-”

He put his fingers to your lips, the thunderous look back on his face. “Don’t you dare say you’re just a florist or I’ll put you over my knee.”

Your eyes widened. He was serious. “I’m just… really hungry for breakfast?” you tried.

He exhaled deeply. “I’ll make sure you’re well fed,” he promised, going back to the task at hand. His shoulders were still stiff as he moved around. “When I compliment you, I mean it. And when I say you’re special or exceptional or anything else, I mean it. I won't let anyone make you feel less than what I know you are.”

Your chest tightened. “I know,” you whispered. The subtle threat to the cook for insulting your taste, beating up John for disrespecting you, he wasn't going to sit by and let people make you feel bad. Maybe one of the reasons he wanted to show you off to his loved ones was so you wouldn't feel invisible.

“Thank you for telling me, Kotyonok. I know that wasn't easy,” he praised.

“Thank you for asking,” you replied, allowing the warmth to settle in your chest.

“But I’m not asking your parent’s permission to marry you,” he blurted out, your eyes rounding. “They lost that privilege when they treated you the way they did.”

“They wouldn’t believe I was marrying you anyway,” you tried to joke. They would recognize immediately how out of your league he was.

“And they don’t need to come to the wedding either,” he snarled, carefully setting your coffee down in front of you when he looked close to throwing something. “It’ll be a small ceremony anyway. Just close friends and loved ones who matter.”

Your heart did a funny flutter. A small ceremony was exactly what you wanted. “Well, if my dad isn’t there, who will give me away?”

“Thor,” he answered without skipping a beat.

You burst out laughing, surprising both of you. The blonde would probably strut down the aisle. “I barely know Thor, but I feel like he'd probably shout something like ‘All rise for the soon-to-queen of the 107th’,” you mocked in what was a terrible impression of Thor.

Bucky laughed, too. “Not the best impression, Kotyonok, but you tried, and he’d probably say something exactly like that.”

“Well, whatever he says, I won’t walk down the aisle in some over the top dress. I want something beautiful, but simple. Same with the ceremony and reception,” you smiled. Something that was you. “And I get the final say in the flowers for obvious reasons.”

His eyes were full of love. Was he picturing you in a wedding gown? “As long as you get to be my wife, our wedding can be whatever you want it to be.”

Your smile slipped. His wife… You hadn’t shut down that you were going to marry him or pointed out how he was once again moving too fast. You even joked about your big day with him. “Um… breakfast?” Anything to distract you.

He had an easy smile on his face as he whipped up something quickly. Minus a quick thank you once he served it, you didn’t say anything else as you ate, and he didn’t push the conversation. Opening up a bit about your family and talking about marriage… Being in the penthouse destroyed your mental and emotional fail-safes.

“I should get ready,” you said, setting your finished plate in the sink and rinsing it.

“Me, too.” You felt him watching you. “If the weather’s nice tomorrow, we can have breakfast on the balcony. Maybe we can make it our routine on nice days.”

“Tomorrow?” you asked.

“If you want to spend the night again,” he casually replied, but you heard the want there. “Especially since we’ll be apart for most of the day.”

“Maybe,” you said. You had planned to just go back to your place once you got back from your day out. “We’ll play it by ear, okay?”

Disappointment showed for just a moment. “You said you’d spend time with me when you got back. That you’d let me know when you got back to the apartment so I could see you.”

“I did say that,” you agreed, remembering your promise when he tried to convince you not to go out today. “But maybe you can stop by the apartment. It could be fun.”

“I guess we’ll play it by ear,” he smiled.

You didn’t wait for him to follow as you went to get ready, but you did pause when you stood in the master bathroom. The left sink clearly belonged to Bucky. His toothbrush, cologne, everything was on that side. The right sink was yours. A toothbrush for you, a new bottle of perfume, deodorant, everything. It was like you were already living there.

You jumped when you felt a pair of lips on the side of your neck, your eyes meeting Bucky’s in the mirror. You hadn’t heard him come in, too distracted by your reality continuing to sink in. “I’ll miss you today,” he whispered, holding your hips.

“I’m not gone yet,” you whispered. You were there with him, in his grip. His touch would linger after he let go.

“I really hate having to share you,” he murmured, dragging his lips to your ear as your heart raced. “But I thankfully don’t have to share all of you.”

You gripped the sink when he snaked a hand between your legs. “Bucky,” you gasped.

“I know it’s selfish to ask when you’re spending time with your friends, but think of me,” he said, rubbing you through your pajamas and pressing his hips firmly against yours. Did being this close to you always make him hard? “Think of how much I want you.”

Your back arched when the metal hand moved to your breast and gently squeezed. You wanted to look away, but his reflection pulled your gaze to it. Trapping you, the way he had you trapped between him and the sink.

“Think of how much I need you,” he whispered, nipping your earlobe when you whimpered. The more he rubbed your pussy through the clothes the wetter the fabric got, the heavier your breathing became, and the more your head spun. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered. It didn’t matter where you went or who you were with, he’d find a way to seep into your thoughts.

He moaned, his nose moving along your neck before he stopped rubbing you. “That’s my girl.”

You didn’t let go of the sink when he stepped away, your body slightly shaking as you came down from the high he built within. “And you’ll think of me?”

“I’m always thinking of you, Kotyonok,” he said, running a comb through his hair like he didn’t have a raging hard-on. “Always.”

You believed him. “Are you… going to take care of that?” you asked.

He glanced at his crotch with a smirk. “I probably should.” He leaned over and kissed your temple. “I’ll put some music on so you won’t have to hear me this time.”

“How considerate.”

“I’m a considerate guy,” he winked, leaving you alone in the bathroom.

“How do guys walk like that?” you muttered.

You waited until you heard the music start before you went through your routine. He’d likely moan your name at some point while he jerked off. At least he let you be so you could get ready and change into your dress. He said he wanted your trust, but he still found ways to touch you and wind you up. The tension was going to snap at some point and you wondered just how soon.

Looking at yourself in the mirror once you were ready, you tried to smile. You looked admittedly beautiful and felt confident for a fun day out. Did any of that have to do with Bucky?

You emerged after hiding in the bathroom long enough and stared as you saw Bucky in the bedroom. You half expected him to be in bed jerking off or doing something else, but he was dressed for the day. Head to toe in black with his hair slicked back, he looked impeccable as always. The expensive watch and pinky ring fit him well. Did he ever dress down? Why did he have to look so handsome?

“Wow,” he said when he caught you staring. “You look… so beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks warm as he crossed the room toward you.

Your eyelids fluttered when he placed a gentle kiss on your lips and put something in your hand. When did he grab your phone? “Ray’s going to follow you from Addison’s place.”

It was nice that Ray would be the one to go today and not someone else. “Oh, okay,” you said, checking real quick to make sure you didn’t have any missed calls or messages. “You really know where Addison lives then?”

The subtle smirk made your throat go dry. “Let’s go.”

As he led you out, you wondered if Zemo also knew where any of your friends lived. He got to Mrs. Crandle, but didn’t harm her. Would he do anything else? Glancing at Bucky, the men almost seemed to be two sides of the same coin. The difference was that Bucky thought he loved you and he knew how much your friends meant to you.

A text from Addison came through and broke you from your thoughts. “We’ll be waiting outside!”

“On my way!” you sent back. “They’ll be waiting outside,” you told Bucky.

“The plus side of dropping you off is I get to meet your friends before Addison’s wedding,” Bucky smiled. “Do you think she’ll be the maid of honor for our wedding? I already know Steve will be the best man.”

Back to talking about your wedding day. “Most likely. And Dana and Gina as bridesmaids,” you said. They’d be so happy and would never know how everything came about.

“You know what would be fun? Cupcakes. All sorts of flavors so everyone has something they want, but we’ll have a small cake for the two of us,” he smiled more, reaching over to take your hand. “And we should have a two week honeymoon. Minimum.”

You almost choked on your breath. The man did say he wouldn’t be able to stop having you once he started. Was this the kind of love you deserved? Obsession? “That’s a long honeymoon.”

“It’s just a start,” he sighed happily. “Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him. “Sounds perfect,” you whispered.

He brushed his thumb over your ring finger. “I just need to get the perfect ring on your finger,” he whispered.

You bit your lip and looked out the window. You could’ve brought him back to reality or pulled away, but you didn’t. You did, however, tense up the closer you got to Addison’s place. This was meant to be your fun day out, but it was going to be about Bucky because your friends would see him. They’d ask questions. They’d be excited and happy for you, too.

Once again there’d be no going back.

Bucky tensed up, too, when he parked. The girls were waiting on the sidewalk and you couldn't help but smile. It was good to see them. “Here we are,” he muttered, squeezing your hand. “And now that we’re here I don’t want you to get out.”

You took a breath. He couldn’t back out now. “I’ll think of you just like you said. How much you want and need me,” you promised him, giving his hand a squeeze this time. “And before you know it you’ll see me tonight.”

He took a breath, too. “I’ll count the minutes,” he said, getting out. You let out a sigh of relief when he went around and helped you out. He had your cardigan in hand, too. “And I have a surprise for you and your friends.”

“A surprise?” you asked.

“Hey!” you heard Addison call out. She waved happily when you made eye contact. “You’re here!”

“Hey,” you smiled, leaning into Bucky when he slipped his arm around you. “I’m here.”

Addison’s face lit up as you walked toward her with Bucky by your side. “Oh, my God. Is this him?!” she asked.

“Him?! Who is him?!” Dana questioned, sweeping an appreciative look over Bucky. She was in a happily committed relationship but appreciated a good-looking man when she saw one. “Who are you?”

“Yeah, who are you?” Gina added with a raised brow. Showing up with a guy wasn’t like you.

“Hi, I’m Bucky,” he smiled charmingly before he gazed at you. “Her boyfriend.”

Your face felt so hot you thought it would catch on fire. He spoke it into existence and made it happen. He weaved the threads of your lives to bring you to this point, to every point.

Addison did an excited little hop. “Yes! Yay! You’re her boyfriend!”

“Yeah, I’m her boyfriend. And you’re Addison, Dana, and Gina,” Bucky smiled, shaking each of their hands. Your blood froze. You never pointed out to him who was who, yet it was another reminder of just how much he knew. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“AHH!” Addison’s excited shriek made you wince. “She mentioned you were coming to the wedding.”

“I am,” Bucky nodded.

Dana’s jaw dropped. “Hold on. A wedding date?! BOYFRIEND?! Holy fucking shit!”

“Why are we just now finding out you have a boyfriend?!” Gina chimed in.

Bucky held his head high. He was loving this, wasn't he? “Um, surprise?” you lamely spoke, taking in the sight of their shocked and thrilled expressions. They were so happy for you and it nearly made you cry.

Bucky chuckled again and held you tighter. “It’s kind of my fault she hasn’t said much about me. It’s still new and I’ve been selfishly monopolizing her time,” he said. They had no idea how true that statement was. “To be honest, I even begged her to hang out with me today because I love spending time with her, but she was really looking forward to hanging out with you ladies.”

The chorus of “aww’s” would’ve been sweet in any other setting, but he was putting them under his spell. “Okay, but seriously, why are you here with us and not hanging out with your new man?” Dana asked, looking over Bucky again. “I’m on your side, Bucky. She could totally ditch us and we’d get it. Really.”

“I promised him I’d see him tonight,” you said quickly, resting a hand on Bucky’s chest. You didn’t want him to take the bait your friend was unknowingly giving him.

“Yes, you did. And I know you’ll have a blast today,” he said, kissing your temple. “Wait, you ladies weren’t planning on driving or taking a cab, were you?”

“We were going to get an uber or something once my cousin got here,” Addison said.

“Oh, no, no. You can’t take an uber to the winery. That’s your ride,” Bucky said, nodding across the street when a limo pulled up. “My treat.”

You gasped. So did your friends. “Oh, my god. Bucky?” When did he arrange that?

“Surprise,” he smiled, sneaking in a kiss. “And you don’t have to worry about paying for drinks or your meals today either. I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

“Holy shit. Are you loaded or something?” Dana blurted out.

“Dana!” Gina hissed. You almost laughed. Dana had no filter, but she meant well. “What she meant was ‘thank you’.”

“It’s fine. Believe it or not, I actually own The 107th, but I don’t really like to brag about it.” Bucky casually shrugged. You stared at him before sneaking another glance at your friends. They were intrigued and completely buying what a ‘sweet’ guy he was. “There is one small catch though, if you don’t mind.”

Addison raised an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

“Kotyonok, can you hand her your phone so she can get a photo of us?” he asked, pulling you closer against him and curling his lips in a small smile. “That’s the catch.”

“Oh, my god. He has a sexy nickname for her and everything,” Dana loudly whispered as you handed your phone over.

“A free limo ride with paid food and drinks if we take a photo of you two together? That’s not a catch at all. That’s so sweet!” Addison held the phone up as you tried to put on your best smile. Like it was a normal love story. “One, two, three!”

You stood still for a few seconds before you stole a glance at Bucky. He was looking at you, too, and leaned in for a tender kiss. It was a loving gesture, but you knew it to be possessive, too. Your friends weren’t a threat to your relationship, but Bucky would have all of your attention if he had his way.

“He’s totally enamored,” Dana whispered again.

“I think they can hear you,” Gina whispered back.

“Okay, you two are so photogenic,” Addison swore, handing your phone back. Your breath caught as you swiped through the photos. You two looked like you were in love. How did the camera not catch any of your fear or uncertainty?

Your friends didn’t see it either. All they saw was a happy new couple. Maybe it was better that way.

“I’m not the photogenic one. She is,” Bucky smiled, giving you one more kiss. “Do you mind sending me those, please? Maybe I can frame one of them.”

You bit the inside of your cheek at the additional chorus of “aww’s”. “Sure.” You sent them immediately so he wouldn’t hound you for them later.

Bucky checked his phone when it went off. “Perfect,” he whispered. You thought your friends were going to swoon. “You’ll have to let me know how the winery is. I may have to do an event there in the future.”

Addison smiled and looked between the two of you. “Well, you could check the place out yourself if you want.”

Your heart plummeted and your best friend missed the pleading look in your eyes. “I don’t think-”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s your day out and me being there makes it feel like I’m crashing the party or keeping tabs on my girl,” Bucky said, rubbing your side.

Your mouth fell open. Were you in the twilight zone? All he ever did was keep tabs on you.

Glancing at the limo, you spotted Ray’s vehicle parked behind it. He couldn’t exactly get out and introduce himself without drawing suspicion because what excuse would he have to be there that your friends would buy? But he did say he could avoid being seen, and you had a feeling he’d still manage to keep a close eye on you today.

“Well, you know we’re going to spend the whole limo ride over hounding her about this new chapter of her love life,” Gina teased.

“I have no doubt,” Bucky winked. “I just hope I’ve made a good impression because she means the world to me and I know she values your opinions.”

“As long as you treat her well. Otherwise, we’ll have to get rid of you.” Addison gave him a hard stare before she smiled. “But I think it’s safe to say you’ve passed the first impression test with flying colors.”

You deflated a bit. That was what you were afraid of. It was better that way. It meant they were safe from Bucky’s wrath.

“I’ll treat her like a queen,” Bucky promised. Whether you wanted it or not. “My girl deserves nothing less than that.”

“You two really are a good looking couple,” Dana noted, wiggling her eyebrows. “I’ll bet the photographer snags some photos of you two at the wedding because how could they not?”

Bucky put a hand on his chest. “I’d love more photos of the two of us, but the focus should be on Addison and Brady since it’s their day.”

He knew all the right things to say.

“You’re too kind.” Addison smiled before her phone went off. Looking at the screen, she groaned. “Of course. My cousin’s just going to meet us there, so I guess we can go?”

“I’ll walk you over,” Bucky offered.

He dug his fingers in enough for you to feel it and you noted the stiffness in his stance as he walked you across the street. Sending you off with your friends was a lot for him, but he had to deal with it. With Ray close by he wouldn’t have to worry about your safety either.

“Thanks again for the limo, Bucky. That was really nice of you,” Addison said.

“No thanks necessary. Just have fun today and drink plenty of water if you do lots of sampling,” he said, pulling you against him before you could get into the limo with your friends. He looked so lost for a split second and immediately leaned into your touch when your hand rested on his cheek. “I love you, Kotyonok. Think of me,” he whispered.

You initiated a gentle kiss which he quickly deepened. It didn’t last long since he had to let you go, but it lingered for both of you. “I will, Bucky.”

You’d think of him after he helped you into the limo. He’d occupy your mind on the drive over. And you’d once again miss the other pair of eyes watching you as you tried to enjoy your day.

Let's hope the day is a fun one. Who is watching? What's Bucky going to do while you're gone? How excited will Thor be when he hears the big news? 😂 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[scopyroris]

Backseat Driver pt. 1

Summary: Bucky Barnes is reluctantly running for Congress with the financial and political backing of Pepper Potts. Everything is under control until she assigns him a driver. A very chatty, overly enthusiastic, playlist-addicted driver who seems determined to worm her way past his hundred-yard emotional perimeter. He hates the arrangement. Until he really doesn’t.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 5,800 (might've gotten so carried away I actually broke Tumblr and couldn't post the whole fic in one post.... so I feel like that deserves some kind of award 🤭, part 2 will post tomorrow)

Warnings/Tags/Info: No use of y/n, l/n, reader is described as female. I have literally no idea whatsoever the process involved in running for Congress or being a Congressperson. Expect grumpy!Bucky, sunshine!Reader, fluff, Sam being the most glorious human ever, Pepper Potts continuing to be a badass.... Ummm... I can't think of anything else to warn you of? Enjoy! 🩷

“I don't need a driver.”

“You're not driving yourself anymore.”

“The hell I'm not, this might have been your stupid idea, but it doesn't make me your little pet.”

“James,” Pepper Potts said smoothly (that’s when he knew he’d pissed her off), “you'd know if you were my pet. Now shoo. The car is downstairs along with your driver. Do not keep them waiting.”

Conversation over, apparently. He waited, just a little longer. Just long enough for her to sigh and pointedly not look at him. Just long enough to let her know that he owed her nothing. 

If anything, he was the one doing her a favour. And a big one, at that. 

“Congressman Barnes -”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm gone.” 

He didn't close the door behind him. 

Another small act of defiance.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. He stepped out into the heavily guarded parking level, the security guard nodded in his direction, and pointed to a sleek, top spec Range Rover with blacked out windows.

She leaned over the bonnet, scribbling into a notepad. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned abruptly.

“Congressman, hi -” she began, holding out her hand. 

He didn’t take it. “You’re my driver?”

“I am,” she said cautiously, waiting for him to interrupt again. “Ready to go?”

He didn’t respond. 

Vibranium clinked dully against the metal of the car door.

“Uhh, that’s my seat?” She said, her lips pinched to hide her smile. 

He left the driver door wide open and moved to the rear door instead, sliding into the car without a word. 

“Thanks!” She chirped, hopping up behind the wheel.

The seat automatically adjusted to her height. He watched the mirrors shift too, suiting her position. 

She threw her notepad and phone onto the seat beside her. In the centre console, she’d wedged a water bottle and a half empty iced coffee.

“Can you even reach the pedals?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Good one, haven’t heard that before. Little ol’ me, great big hunk of a car… course I can reach. I have this poking stick, see - helps me push the pedals ‘cos my tiny legs just can’t do it -” she laughed.

“Right, I get it. You can reach.”

“Sure you’re done? Would you like to see my licence? Proof that I can drive stick? How about you jump out and make sure I can see over the steering wheel?”

He stared out of the window instead.

With a self-satisfied smirk, she watched him through the rear view mirror. 

“Seatbelt on?” She asked. 

“Are you always like this?”

“Yep. Now, any music requests?” 

His frown deepened. 

“Good, I don't want to hear them. Driver privileges. Hope you like 90s dance.” She waited until he'd caught her eye in the mirror, the horror crossing his face. 

And then she winked. 

The car roared to life. The V8 engine growled, low and powerful, but the smooth leather seats and plush interior barely shuddered. The tyres squeaked on the ramp and as the sounds of Faithless filled the vehicle, she pulled out into the steady stream of traffic.

The thumping beat reverberated through the speakers and the driver hummed along to the music, sneaking glances at the grumpy figure in the backseat. 

Bucky's misery was obvious. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze fixed out the window, his jaw clenched.

The sound of the music was only broken by the occasional sound of him sighing deeply.

The humming grew louder until the track reached the chorus and the driver began singing along, full, off-key commitment.

Bucky couldn't help but grimace at her wildly out of tune efforts. She had to be doing this on purpose.

"Do you have to do that?" He asked shortly. 

"Do what?" She called over the thumping bass. 

"Can you turn it down?"

"Huh?"

"Turn. It. Down."

She reached for the volume dial. "What are you saying?"

"God, finally," he muttered. "Do you have to do that?" he asked. 

"Do I have to do what?"

"Sing along? It's awful."

"Oh. Well... I just like to," she shrugged. 

“But you can't sing. You're way off," he said bluntly, his tone flat.

She shrugged. “Isn't that part of the fun?”

“Says who?” 

“Oh I love this one!” She said gleefully, ignoring his question and turning the volume dial up again, higher than previously. “Love life and laughter is all I believe…”

Ahead of them, the traffic slowed and Bucky watched with increasing alarm, his brows pinched together, as the driver bounced and shimmied in her seat to the beat of the music, her hands either waving enthusiastically or clutching her heart like the song had cracked her open. 

“I feel your hands, your lips, the heat of your body

Whisper your love to me say that you love me

Please just love me down and never leave me,

I'm a dreamer-uh-uh-uhhhhh!”

“Kill me now,” he growled, yanking his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts and raised the phone to his ear. 

"Yo man, I was just about to call you,” came Sam’s voice, already full of smug amusement. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard you got yourself a new ride?" Bucky rolled his eyes at the barely contained laughter in Sam’s tone.

"News travels fast," he grumbled, watching her continue to bop in her seat. Sam chuckled on the other end of the line, clearly amused by the situation.

"How's that going for you?"

“How’d you think?” Bucky hissed, “How’d you find out anyway?”

"Let's just say, my sources are always reliable," Sam replied cryptically. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide a small smirk. “Pepper just told you, right?”

“Bingo.”

“That figures," he said.  

"Yeah, some of us have gotta be the grown ups around here,” Sam laughed. "So… you having fun?"

"I don't need a driver."

"A little louder, I don't think she heard you." Sam deadpanned.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don't need a driver," he repeated louder, making sure she heard this time.

“Pepper’s right, you’re a public figure now, man. You can’t just be tearing your motorcycle around like a feral cat.”

As Sam negotiated, the driver in question lifted her hand and flipped Bucky the middle finger.

Too busy flipping him off, she didn’t notice the traffic ahead slowing - and slammed the brakes hard.

Bucky lurched forward in the back seat, instinctively reaching out to brace himself, gripping the back of her seat.

"Oof, shit, sorry." She grimaced, easing to a more gentle stop behind the car in front.

He slumped back, indentations left in her headrest from the tight grip of his vibranium fingers. 

He tried to play it cool, acting like he hadn't been caught off guard.

"Watch where you're going," he muttered, his voice gruff.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes still on the road ahead. "These idiots don't know how to drive. I'm pretty sure they're texting."  

"You sure it's not your reckless driving that's the issue here?" Bucky retorted.

He went back to his call before she could respond. 

"I gotta go, I'm on my way to a meeting,” he told Sam, barely holding back a growl. “Y’know, if my damn driver can get me there in one piece. I should probably read the notes before I go in." 

"Enjoy the drive buddy, see you later," Sam cackled as Bucky ended the call with a sharp tap.

He leaned back in his seat, glowering out the window as the city whizzed by outside.

"You don't have to look so miserable," the driver said, her voice cutting through their uncomfortable silence.  

Bucky didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the city outside.  

She rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. 

“Honestly, it's not the end of the world, having someone drive you around. You get more work done, you get to listen to my excellent music -”

"We're not talking about this," he muttered, opening the files he'd put on the seat next to him. “I'm sorting this out with Potts, your assignment will be over by the end of the day.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

They lapsed into a kind of truce, the radio mercifully turned down and the driver still singing along at a more acceptable volume. 

Her singing was the only nagging reminder that she was there. He tried to ignore her and focus on the files in front of him, but his concentration kept getting derailed by her off-key humming. 

"Can you stop that?" he snapped suddenly, surprising even himself.

"Youuu got it," she said quietly, falling silent at last.

Her smile faltered for the first time, just long enough for Bucky to notice.

A quiet sense of relief washed over him, but then, after a few moments an uneasy feeling settled over him. 

The quiet was too stifling. 

Without the white noise he found himself hyper-aware of her presence. 

He could now hear the rhythm of her breathing, the squeak of the leather steering wheel beneath her grip. He could hear the steady drum of her heart, a few beats quicker than a resting rhythm.

His focus sharpened on the sound of her pulse. 

He wondered what could be causing her heart rate to increase. Was she nervous? Excited? 

He snuck a glance at her, taking in the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled, the quick exhale.

Before he could ask, she brought the car to a smooth stop outside a towering building. 

"Here we go, first stop. I'll be here whenever you're ready to move on." She said softly.

Bucky collected his notes from the seat and shoved them into the leather messenger back that rested on his lap.

He exited the car without a word, taking a moment to take in the impressive building before him. Behind him, he heard her window glide down, the tinny motor sound imperceptible to most ears.

“Thank you,” she prompted him with a grin.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged without turning around. “Thanks.”

He didn’t turn back until he got to the revolving doors of the building, by which point he could see her huddled over her notepad once again. 

As if feeling his stare, she turned to the doors and smiled brightly, waving in his direction.

He ignored her.

~~~~

His meeting dragged on for over two hours. Irritation and fatigue picked at his brain and made his eyes itch. He felt dehydrated, hungry, and by the time he finally stepped out into the sunlight, his stomach rumbled in time with the traffic.

Out front, the Range Rover sat proudly - exactly where he’d left it.

Or rather, where he’d been left.

He could see her, either talking on the phone or - more likely - singing along to the radio.

He wondered if she’d even moved for the last two hours.

Seeing him on the sidewalk, she jumped out of the car and opened the rear door for him. Further along the seat, the drinks holder had been pulled down and inside sat a large bottle of water and a tightly wrapped foil… something.

 “What’s that?”

“Figured you’d be hungry. And thirsty.” She shrugged, closing the door behind him before he could respond. She slipped into her own seat and turned the ignition.

He could feel her snatching glances at him in the rearview mirror while he carefully peeled back the foil on what turned out to be a still warm burrito. 

“What?” He asked warily through a mouthful of food. 

“Don't talk with your mouth full. It's not becoming of a Congressman.” She teased. 

“Not a Congressman yet, doll.” He sneered. 

She pulled out into the stream of traffic into a gap he'd only have taken on his motorcycle. The car behind flashed its lights in annoyance but she just flicked her hazards on and off in thanks. Over the sound of her music, the GPS announced a delay ahead. 

“We're gonna be late,” he complained. 

“Have a little faith, please.” She grinned and took the next left, ignoring the directions on her phone. Twenty minutes later, her passenger fed and watered, and the traffic defeated, she pulled up at their next stop. 

Early. 

“Shall I say I told you so now, or save it for later in case any more rack up?”

“How about you don't say anything?” 

“Not going to happen. Enjoy your meeting, I'll be right here.”

He hesitated before getting out of the car. “You know, you didn’t have to…” he started quietly. 

“I wanted to.”

And that was it.  

Every day when he stepped out of his house, the car was parked up and waiting for him. And every day, the music was too loud, she talked too fast, too much and drove the Range Rover like she'd stolen it. 

Every day he threatened to fire her. And every day Pepper Potts told him to get his head out of his ass.

A week into his enforced new staff member’s tenure, he text her. 

Corner of Grattan and Bogart. Don’t be late.

Sam was in Washington heading north and had suggested meeting him part way. He picked up two coffees and waited for her, his baseball cap pulled low. 

He wasn’t scrolling his phone. 

He wasn’t really doing anything.

Just sitting. 

Waiting.

When he heard the low purr of the Range Rover pulling up, he stood. One coffee in each hand. She rolled down the window.

“You know it's Saturday?”

“What, no dramatic music this time?” he asked.

“It's soul Saturday, I thought I'd wait for you.” she grinned. “You want in or are you just here to judge my taste again?”

He climbed in and handed her the drink without saying anything.

She looked at it. Then at him.

“…You got my order right,” she said, half-suspicious. “How?”

“You’ve ordered it three times already this week,” he shrugged, like it was no big deal. “I have ears.”

She looked down at the cup. Her name was scribbled across the side. In his handwriting.

She smiled softly. 

Bucky stared straight ahead, pretending to study the road. She pulled away from the curb without saying another word, but the silence between them this time wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

“So, where to?”

“Jersey, gonna collect my bike from the shop and meet Sam.”

“So this is a one way trip? And you couldn't just… jump on the train?”

“Potts said no.”

“Oh, and you always do as you're told,” she scoffed. 

“Occasionally, when it suits.”

She yawned into her coffee and fell silent again. “I mean, I probably wouldn't cross Pepper either.” She admitted after a while, before treating him to her singing once more. 

~~~~

Days later, with the sun dipped low enough to cast a golden wash across the buildings, traffic was thick, and for once she wasn’t weaving like a maniac. 

The music was low, piano versions of recognisable songs. Bucky had his eyes closed, head tilted slightly back against the seat. He wasn’t asleep.

He never really let himself sleep while he was on the move.

“Rough day?” She asked softly. 

He didn't answer right away. 

“It’s always a rough day.”

“You still showed up. That counts for something.”

He opened his eyes and glanced at her in the mirror.  

“I’m bored,” she said suddenly. 

He arched an eyebrow. 

“Then maybe pay attention to the road,” he muttered.

“I am paying attention. I’m also multitasking.”

He exhaled through his nose. A smirk, barely there.

“You want to pick the next song?” she asked casually.

He frowned. “What?”

“Music. You know? You can be DJ.”

“I don’t… I don’t really know what I like.”

She blinked. “You don’t like music?”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked out the window again. “I just haven’t had a lot of… say. In what I hear.”

There was something in his voice, flat, but not dismissive. It suggested years of noise he hadn’t chosen. 

Propaganda. Orders. Guns. Screams. Silence.

She swallowed, nodding slowly.

“Well,” she said after a second. “Let’s fix that.”

She handed him her phone, unlocked and open to her music app. “Pick anything. Go on.”

He held it like it might bite him.

“Not gonna lie to you,” he said dryly. “This feels like a trap.”

She laughed, not mocking, just easy and warm. “Worst case scenario, you pick something awful and I throw us into oncoming traffic.”

“Fair. What classes as awful?”

“Let's find out, shall we?” She wiggled her eyebrows. 

He scrolled hesitantly, his thumb moving slowly, like he was trying not to break anything.

Finally, he tapped something.

A slow, smoky jazz guitar slid through the speakers. She looked at him in surprise. “You just… picked that out of nowhere?”

“I didn’t just pick it.” He didn’t look at her. “I have been trying to adjust for the last few years. Sam's thrown a few suggestions my way.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a while. 

“…Not bad,” she murmured eventually.

His mouth quirked, just barely. “Yeah.”

She stopped the car outside his house.

“Get some rest, Congressman. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, so I look like shit?”

She laughed sharply. “Yeah, right. As if. Look, it may not feel like it, but you’re making a difference.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so.” 

He nodded tiredly and stepped out of the car. 

At the top of the steps, he turned, noting that she always waited for him to go inside before she left. 

It didn't stop him from checking that she was still there. 

~~~~

The events, meetings, townhalls, meet and greets were beginning to blur.

He stepped out of the building, tie loosened, shoulders tight. The black Range Rover was already parked across the street, perfectly aligned in a no-standing zone, hazard lights blinking innocently.

She leaned casually against the side of the car, sunglasses perched on her head, sipping an iced coffee with more espresso shots than he dared think about. 

“You’re early,” he grunted as he slid into the backseat.

“I’m always early,” she said brightly, climbing into the driver’s seat. “What, you just think I appear like magic?”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the faint twitch of his mouth in the mirror. 

Close enough to a smile.

As she pulled into traffic, he noticed they weren’t heading in the usual direction. “You missed the turn.”

“Not going home yet. I’ve got one more stop and then I have instructions to take you to Pepper.”

His jaw tightened. “You have another pickup?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” he said, trying and failing to sound unaffected. “Didn’t realise you chauffeured other people.”

“Although you're technically my only client, and the most dramatic, I'm doing her a favour,” she said, clearly amused. 

He didn’t answer. 

Just sat there, seething quietly at the idea of her smiling and chatting with someone else the way she did with him. 

Someone younger. Cooler. 

Probably not traumatised and 100 years out of place.

The Range Rover coasted to a stop in front of a sleek private school entrance. She unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted to glance at him. 

“Back in five. Try not to melt in the leather.”

He grunted, but watched her go.

It wasn’t a man. Not even another client, not in the way he thought.

A moment later, she returned with a kid practically bouncing alongside her. The girl looked up at her with absolute adoration, and she responded with a warmth Bucky hadn’t seen before.

She walked the girl, Morgan, (it clicked a second later) back to the car and opened the rear door.

“You remember the Congressman,” she said by way of introduction.

Morgan clambered in without hesitation, sliding across the backseat until she plopped down beside him like they were old carpool buddies.

“Hi,” she said, pulling her seatbelt across. “You look less mad than last time I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Uhh… hi.”

She looked up at him, curious. “You still mad about her?”

He glanced toward the front, where the driver was watching them in the mirror with raised brows.

“...No,” he muttered. “She’s fine.”

“I know,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. “She makes the best lunchbox snacks. Sometimes she lets me drive in the driveway if Mom’s not home.”

“Don’t say that in front of people,” the driver said quickly, tossing her a warning glance.

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, Mom said you were mad that she made you get a driver, and I said -”

The driver was hiding a smile now, fiddling with the GPS. “Alright, kiddo, seatbelt on?” She interrupted, “Get on with your homework, stop bothering Congressman Grumpypants.”

As they pulled away from the school, Bucky sat back. The heat of his earlier jealousy had died off, leaving him embarrassed. 

He'd been jealous of a kid. 

Not just any kid, Morgan Stark.

Morgan rolled her eyes and pulled a tablet out of her backpack, popping in earbuds and disappearing into whatever assignments awaited her.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening between him and the woman in the front seat. But it was starting to get harder to pretend he didn’t care.

At the office, Pepper Potts was exactly where he expected her to be, half-glancing at a screen floating in midair, tapping on her phone, eyes flicking up to meet his with a sharp, calm kind of clarity that always unnerved him.

“You’re early,” she said, without looking at the time. “That’s rare.”

“I wasn’t driving,” Bucky replied dryly.

That got him the faintest smirk. She waved a hand and the screen blinked away.

“She’s good,” he said, casually. Too casually.

Pepper tilted her head. “Morgan?”

“…Your driver.”

“Ah.”

He scratched his jaw, suddenly feeling defensive for even bringing it up.

“I didn’t know you were hiring clowns,” he added, trying to sound annoyed, but the words lacked his usual bite. “She talks a lot. More than Sam, and that's… a lot.”

“She does,” Pepper agreed smoothly. 

“Where’d you find her?”

“Hmm?”

“The driver.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” He tried to sound disinterested. Neutral. 

He failed miserably.

Pepper gave him a slow, knowing look. 

“You never ask about people, Bucky. Ever.”

“She’s… unusual,” he muttered.

“Unusual how?”

“Drives like she’s in a Fast and Furious movie. Listens to the worst music I’ve ever heard. Talks too much.”

“But you’re still in one piece.”

“Barely.”

Pepper smiled. “You could’ve just said you liked her.”

His eyes flicked up. Sharp. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He scowled. “This isn’t… I  just wanted to know where you found her.”

“She interned with us a few years ago. Logistics. She's smart. Too mouthy for upper management though. Too good for it, in all honesty. She freelanced security logistics for a while, specialising in VIP movement, crisis response. Tony would’ve liked her.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait, she’s trained?”

“Extensively. Don’t let the coffee cups and dancing fool you.”

He blinked again. 

It clicked. How she always had them out of tight traffic. How she knew exactly when to pull up, when to back off. How she always parked near exits without seeming to think about it.

He felt a little stupid, honestly.

Pepper watched him closely. “She knows what she’s doing. And before you ask, no, I didn’t pick her to annoy you. That's just an added bonus.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She grinned again. 

He shifted his weight. “She ever drive for someone else?”

“Not like this. You’re the first.”

That meant more than it should’ve.

Pepper leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Why don’t you just ask her these things yourself?”

He looked away. Jaw tight. “Not my business.”

She smiled gently. “You’re wrong, Bucky. It is your business. She’s in your life now, whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t answer.

Pepper didn’t push.

“Go home,” she said finally, turning her attention back to her screen. “And don’t fire her. You’d regret it.”

He looked incredulous, then it dawned on him. 

“She tells me you threaten to fire her every day.” Pepper arched an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t really going to -” he started, then stopped. “…Whatever.”

He left without saying goodnight.

~~~~

The event had gone better than he’d expected.

A few speeches. Awkward handshakes. 

But people had listened. Some had nodded. A few had smiled. He could handle that.

It was easier when they wanted to be there to listen to him. He found it much harder convincing people who'd already made up their minds to dislike him. 

What he couldn’t handle was the crowd waiting outside.

Photographers. Reporters. Bright flashes already popping the second the door opened.

His chest tightened immediately. He knew this feeling, It started in his hands - both of them. 

Tight, twitchy, like even the coils and springs in his metal arm were tightening.

Then his jaw, clenching so hard his teeth ached. He froze in the doorway, half in shadow, half in the spotlight.

Too many faces. Too many voices, all shouting his name.

Winter Soldier!

Congressman Barnes!

Are the rumors true? Are you stepping down?

Smile for us, sweetheart!

That was a new one - they didn't usually call him sweetheart. He realised why. 

That last one wasn’t even aimed at him, it was aimed at her. Parting the boisterous group like the red sea. Appearing before him, still and quiet. 

And somehow, that broke the spell.

Before the tension could boil over, before he could even think about turning around and bolting, she stepped forward. Like it was nothing.

She slid into the space beside him, hand lightly brushing his arm, not grabbing, not controlling. Just grounding.

“You ok?” she murmured, almost under her breath. 

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch either.

“Sorry folks,” she called sweetly. “Congressman Barnes is late for a call with Captain America himself. No time for pictures.”

Someone tried to shout over her. She cut them off without raising her voice.

“And no further questions,” she glared. 

He didn’t say a word until they were both back inside the car, the Range Rover felt like a little island of peace in the chaos.

She didn’t turn the music on. Didn’t start the car. Just looked at him.

“Better?”

He nodded stiffly, trying to force his pulse back under control.

“…Thanks,” he muttered eventually.

“Any time. I'm calling Pepper, you need real security. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It's fine, I'm fine.” He insisted. 

“No.” she said forcefully through gritted teeth once they were on the road. She sounded angrier than he'd ever heard her. “No. You don’t have to be bulletproof all the time.”  

He didn't say anything, but he felt the comment land, however off-the-cuff she made it sound. 

“And you actually do need to call Sam back,” she sighed. “That wasn't a lie. Any objections if I get us a little sugar rush?” 

She was in the drive-thru for doughnuts before he could reach for his phone. 

~~~~

She was unusually quiet when she picked him up the following day.

No radio. No singing. No bouncing in the seat. 

Just a distracted hum of energy, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

He climbed into the back as usual and settled in. 

She fumbled slightly with the steering wheel, then sat still for a moment too long before starting the engine.

She didn’t even check the rearview to throw a quip his way. Something was off.

She drove in silence for about ten blocks before he spoke.

“...You good?”

She blinked. Glanced at him in the mirror. “Me? Yeah. Why?”

“You haven’t said a single annoying thing today.”

That made her snort, but there wasn’t much force behind it. “Wow. That worried you?”

He shrugged, looking back down at the folder in his lap. “Not really. Just weird when things are quiet.”

She didn’t answer. They drove another block. Then he cleared his throat.

“I, uhh, got something,” he said awkwardly, reaching into his jacket. “For the… silence.”

He handed her a small, beat-up flash drive.

She frowned. “What’s this?”

“I made you a playlist.”

She blinked, stopped the car at the red light and fully turned to look at him. “You… what?”

“Songs you’ve played. Stuff I caught. Things you like. That dance crap. Some other stuff too.”

“…You made me a mix?”

He shifted, looking suddenly very interested in the pattern of stitching on the car door. “Don’t make it weird.”

She stared at the flash drive like it might spontaneously combust. 

The car behind them honked, making her jump. She eased the car into gear and set back off, then carefully, slotted the drive into the dash and started skipping through the tracks.

The car filled with familiar sounds. Her favourites, blended with a few odd choices that had to be his. 

Jazz. Old-school rock. One or two that made her laugh. The Supremes, show tunes, K-Pop…

“I can’t believe you did this,” she murmured.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s definitely a thing,” she whispered, half-dazed.

And for a few miles, she forgot to drive like a maniac. Forgot whatever had been bothering her. 

He kept seeing her in the mirror, like she was waiting for him to say something disdainful.

But he didn't. He didn’t look smug. He looked quietly proud. Like it had been worth the effort, just to see her stunned into silence for once.

By the time they reached his next appointment, she was singing along again. 

~~~~

The evening events were the worst. The events where spouses attended and made him look painfully single. 

His driver had delivered him home, shoved a Prada suit bag into his hand and told him she'd wait outside. 

“You could just wait in there,” he waved vaguely toward the front door. 

“Ha! No, god no that's weird. I'll be here.” She shooed him into the house, “go on, hurry up, you have thirty minutes.”

Forty minutes later he was battling with his bow tie.

“Up and then under,” Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands covering his face. “No that bit goes round -”

“Round where?” Bucky turned to where he'd leaned the phone so Sam could see. 

“Man, please go and get in that damn car. Your driver will tie it for you.”

“I need to learn…”

“You don't have time, you gotta get movin’. I'll send you a YouTube video later.”

“YouTube? C'mon, man -”

“Buck, so help me I will kill you if you don't get in that car. If Pepper gets on to me ‘cause you're late, I will throw you under that bus.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too buddy.”

The faint beep of the handset let him know that Sam had hung up. By the time he made it outside, she was pacing by the car. 

“Jeez, thought you'd gotten lost! What took you so long? Pepper is blowing up my phone,” she wheeled on him, scowling, but stopped immediately on sight. 

“You any good with a bow tie?” 

She stepped closer and took it from him. Her hands fluttered nervously but she looped the tie around his neck and used it to drag him a little closer to her height.

“You ok?” He asked. “You were about ready to kill me but you stopped?”

“Fine, totally fine.” She tied the knot carefully and tucked the band under his collar. She stepped back after tying the knot, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his collar like she couldn’t quite stop herself. 

He caught the way her hands hovered for a second too long, like she’d forgotten what they were supposed to do.

“There,” she said, voice a little quieter than before. “You’ll do.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her. Her eyes flicked to the side like she was desperate to be anywhere else.  

“What?” she asked.

“I told you, you were scowling. Then I walked out, and you just… stopped. Like you forgot to be mad.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer now. “You're being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, stepping just a little closer. 

Her breath hitched, just barely, but he heard it.

“Are you worried?” He asked. “About Pepper being mad?”

“No, of course not.”

“You don't have to be.”

“I'm not.” She looked up at him then, and there was something in her expression he couldn’t place. He squinted at her.

“Then what?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Instead, she turned on her heel and yanked open the car door. 

“Bucky, just… just get in before Pepper has both our heads.”

The silence that filled the car was different this time. Not the usual, comfortable quiet they’d eased into over the last few weeks. 

This was charged. 

He didn’t say anything. He wasn't sure he trusted himself.  

When she finally pulled up to the event, she shifted into park and twisted to look at him.

He leaned forward instinctively.

Her eyes dropped to his lips for a split second.

“You never call me Bucky,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, just above a whisper. “It just… slipped.”

“Yeah?” 

She didn’t reply, she stayed frozen, eyes on his, like something might snap between them if either of them breathed too hard.

And then…

The rear door opened abruptly, and a polite young valet with the worst timing beamed in at him.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re ready for you inside.”

Bucky stared straight ahead, past the driver, jaw clenched. A breath passed before he looked back at her. She hadn't moved. 

“Enjoy the party,” she said, neutralising her expression and making her voice light and even.

He stepped out of the car, bow tie neat, posture perfect. But his hands were still shaking.

He hated these kinds of parties on a good day. There were always too many people pretending not to be watching him. 

But tonight was worse. He couldn’t stop replaying that moment in the car. The way she’d looked at him. The quiet inhale. The feel of her fingers at his collar.  

He was halfway through a conversation with some city councilman when he realised he hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Earth to Barnes.”

He turned to find Pepper raising a perfectly groomed brow, two champagne flutes in hand.

“You’re a million miles away,” she said, handing him one. “Did I miss a memo?”

He cleared his throat and took the drink. “Just... tired.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. 

Her eyes flicked toward the entrance. “Your driver peeled out of here like someone was chasing her… know anything about that?”

His grip on the flute tightened so hard he could hear the faintest crack. He downed the contents quickly and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter.

“I think there's a tiny crack in that glass,” he told them before turning back to Pepper. “She did?”

“She did,” Pepper said dryly. “I hope you're not upsetting her.”

He didn’t answer.

PART 2

[scopyroris]

The Shape of Silence | pt 2

part 1

pairing: tfatws bucky x (f) reader

summary: after years off-grid, you’re pulled back into the field by Sam Wilson. a freezing safe house, surveillance feeds and one tense comms line are all that stand between you and the past you’ve been trying to outrun. when John Walker blows the op wide open, you’re forced to step out of the shadows. this isn’t how you pictured seeing Bucky again — and by the look in his eyes, it’s not how he imagined it either.

word count: 3.4k

warnings: cannon level violence, emotional trauma, unresolved tension, swearing, and John Walker, well being himself is enough of a warning on its own.

a/n: I wrote this so quickly, so happy people liked part one & really hope you like this one! appreciate the love - msg me to be added to the tag list for the next chapter xx

You weren’t picky about your accommodations these days — so long as they had four walls, a lock, and zero rats. But this place? This place had the distinct charm of a war criminal’s final hideout. How did Sam even scope out this place. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a tenant since the Cold War. Probably because it hadn’t.

The mattress on the floor to your left looked like it had once hosted either a tragic breakup or a quietly successful murder. The walls were yellowing and cracked, plaster curling away in strips. A TV was bolted crookedly to one corner, eternally stuck on static—though you weren’t convinced it was even plugged in.

Outside, the sky was bruised grey, heavy with snow that hadn’t started falling yet but was definitely coming. The cold was creeping in through the gaps in the window and through the cracks of the wall. Every part of the room felt like it was waiting to collapse.

Across the narrow, cobbled street, the neighbouring buildings leaned inward like they were watching. Judging.  Or maybe you were just tired.

You stood, stretching out your legs, and glanced at the battered radiator under the window. It coughed, sputtered, then made a sound like it had lost the will to live entirely. So, no help there.

But the wifi was solid, the walls were thick, and Sam hadn’t asked too many questions when you told him to ditch the Google Maps pin and send coordinates in a cipher you’d created for Natasha many years ago. 

You sat cross-legged on the floor. There was no way in hell you were putting your ass on that mattress.  The floor wasn’t much better, but at least it didn’t feel like a biohazard.

Your gear was scattered around you in a loose, familiar orbit. Some of it was yours, worn but reliable. The rest, newer additions Sam had left in the room for you. But the essentials? They never changed. Burner phone to your left. Gun to your right. A half-drunk Red Bull within arm’s reach. The only warmth in the room came from your laptop, buzzing steady against your thighs.

The headset clung tight against your ears, the cable coiled at your collar like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. It was the only thing keeping you tethered, something solid to focus on while your hands shook and your palms ran cold.

You exhaled, slow. What the hell were you even doing here? You should’ve said no. You could’ve said no. If you’d kept your shit together, maybe you’d be in Fiji right now. Using a rich politician’s credit card you hacked, sipping cocktails and abusing the room service. But instead—this.

Because Sam called. And because deep down, maybe it wasn’t just Sam you said yes to. You swallowed hard and squared your shoulders. You were here now. No backing out. No running.

He asked for your help—and whether it was about the mission or something else entirely, that alone was enough.

“Okay,” you muttered to no one. “Back in the saddle.”

A chime pinged from the laptop. It was Sam

SAM WILSON (incoming): You live?

You rolled your eyes and typed back:

YOU: unfortunately.

The comms link opened with a pop of static. Sam’s voice crackled through the speaker. “What’s crawled up your ass?”

You dropped your head into your hands to avoid punching the laptop. “I’m running on four hours of sleep in a shithole you call a safe house.”

“So business as usual.”

If looks could kill, Sam would be forty feet under.

“We’re just doing a ground sweep. You’ve got eyes on?”

You toggled to the tactical grid you'd just cracked, four security cams stuttering in grayscale. Two guards on the roof. One smoking near the loading dock. A fourth hunched over some kind of device.

“Eyes on and ears in,” you said, adjusting your headset. “You sure you don’t wanna warn Barnes I’m here?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

You arched a brow. “That your version of easing him into it?”

“Look, I didn’t not mention you. I just didn’t... announce it.”

Anxiety crawled up your spine like a spider up a web. That old, creeping feeling—like your body already knew something was about to go wrong even if there was a slim chance it might not. Your stomach twisted, the same way it always did when you let yourself care too much. About him.

“He’s going to be so pissed, Sam.”

A pause.

Then, as smug as ever: “C’mon. Bucky’s never pissed at me.”

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well. He might make an exception.”

Sam hesitated. Just long enough to make you wonder if he was starting to realize this wasn’t just about you disappearing.

“Just promise me you’ll keep your mic on,” he said, switching lanes like he could steer the whole conversation out of a skid. “If something goes wrong—”

“I’ll improvise,” you said, already back at the keys. “I always do.”

You’d been staring at the same cracked patch of ceiling for forty-seven minutes. The waiting was the worst part. Not the gear, not the tech, not even the mission—just the stillness. The kind that buzzed beneath your skin like something old and familiar, the kind that told you no matter how far you’d run, you were exactly who you’d always been.

It scared you, how easily you’d fallen back into it. One call. One voice on the other end. And you didn’t just say yes,  this was you surrendering. Giving in to that voice that you had ignored for so long.

You should be angry. At him. At yourself. At how fragile the illusion of your new life had been, how quickly the walls you built for peace caved in the second someone mentioned his name.

But the anger never really came. Just that quiet hum in your chest. That thing you couldn’t name. Maybe anxiety. Maybe anticipation. Maybe the kind of pull you didn’t want to admit had anything to do with him.

You told yourself it was the mission. That it was about doing the right thing. But deep down, you knew: it was always going to be about Bucky. You would follow him anywhere. You always had. And that truth—raw and echoing—still scared the shit out of you.

So now, sitting in this freezing room with your comms gear spread across the floor and the familiar itch of adrenaline crawling up your spine, it felt like you’d time-traveled. Like the years in hiding never happened. Like you’d never tried to break away.

You were back in it. And worse—you weren’t sure you ever really left.

The low buzz of static in your headset snapped you out of the spiral you’d been caught in. It was go time. No backing out now.

Your eyes swept across the four camera feeds on your screen. You spotted Sam first—he gave the signal you’d worked out earlier. Simple. Precise. It was the first time you’d seen him in a while, and even through the grainy security footage, there was something different about him. Something steady.

Confidence, sure—but not the cocky, reckless kind. This was heavier. More grounded. The kind of confidence that came with responsibility, with leadership. The kind of presence that made Steve hand him the shield without hesitation.

But still—why had Sam given it up?

It was something you never really got your head around. He was the right choice. He always had been.

Your gaze flicked to the next screen—stairwell cam. John Walker. Great.

You didn’t care where he was. Didn’t want to waste so much as a second of bandwidth tracking him. He could cover his own six. If Sam really thought you were going to drop everything and play backup for Walker, then maybe he’d forgotten who the hell he called in.

Then… you saw him.

Mid-movement on the far-right feed. A flicker of motion caught your eye—and just like that, the air left your lungs.

Bucky.

The footage was rough—washed out and slightly off-kilter from the old camera—but even from a distance, there was no mistaking him. His figure cut clean through the frame, sharp and purposeful against the industrial backdrop.

The light skimmed the gold detailing on his vibranium arm as he rolled his shoulder back, smooth and practiced, like it was flesh and not forged metal. The new arm had a quiet menace to it—sleek, dangerous... maybe even a little sexy.

No. Don’t go there.

You’d never really seen this version. You weren’t there the day they gave it to him. By the time you even had a chance, alien warships were tearing up Wakanda and the world was falling apart again.

His suit was black—tactical, minimal, zipped up to the collar like armor he never quite took off. Every piece had a purpose. Every seam looked built to carry weight. It hugged him like it was made just for him. No frills. No distractions. Just Bucky.

His hair was shorter now.

You remembered the way it felt between your fingers that night—the softness, the weight of it. Gone now. Cropped clean. Less wild. More... controlled.

Like everything else about him.

You watched him flex his left hand once, then go still. That kind of stillness that wasn’t calm—just focused. Like a wolf, watching. Waiting. On the edge of violence.

He didn’t look at the camera.

Didn’t need to.

But somehow, you still felt like he knew someone was watching

The feed pinged. Another motion alert lit up red in the corner of the screen. You adjusted the mic.

“Sam—left corridor is clear. Take the next door on your right, and loop around. Avoid the stairwell. You’ve got a nasty surprise waiting if you go that way.”

You heard Sam’s voice crackle back through comms, calm as ever. “Copy that.”

Your eyes stayed on the screens, tracking every shadow, every flicker of movement. You called it like muscle memory. Fast. Sharp. Detached. But your palms were still sweating. And your heart was beating in a way you really wished it wasn’t.

Then—

“Who the hell’s on comms?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the channel, low and clipped. You could hear the annoyance already curling at the edges. Great.

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before Sam sighed.

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” Bucky shot back, dry. “You bring in her, and you think I’m not gonna start?”

Your throat tightened.

There it was. The moment you knew was coming—the crack in the silence you’d built your entire life around for the past few years. All the distance you’d put between yourself and this exact situation? Useless now.

Still, you cleared your throat and forced your voice through. “The Dealer’s moving. Two agents coming up behind you, fast. You’ve got ten seconds.”

Silence.

Then, begrudgingly: “Copy.”

You caught Sam’s faint grunt of amusement. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Bucky muttered.

“No, I did,” Sam shot back. “Because I needed someone who knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can watch our backs while we’re in the fire. And if you’ve got a problem with that, Barnes, I suggest you keep it to yourself until we’re not under assault.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Bucky didn’t answer, but the way he moved on the screen told you everything. Jaw locked. Shoulders tense. You’d seen that posture before. It was the one he used to get when something was digging under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it.

And god, you hated how familiar that still was.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Part of you wanted to disappear again. Fade back into static, let them finish the mission and figure the rest out later. But Sam had asked for you. Trusted you.

And Bucky—

Bucky had every right to be angry. Because you had disappeared. Left him in the middle of a war and never looked back. Not really. Not in a way that mattered.

Your voice was steadier when it came through again.

“Third floor corridor, west wing—two heat signatures holding near the service elevator. Might be backup. Sam, take Bucky and flank them from the north stairwell. Don’t go in loud unless you have to.”

Another pause.

Then Bucky’s voice, gritted but composed. “Understood.”

You stared at the screen, watching them move. Watching him move.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, the weight of it all settled in for real.

This wasn’t just a mission. This was the start of a reckoning.

You tracked Sam’s heat signature as he cleared the west corridor, voice calm as you fed him directions through the earpiece.

“Two coming up behind the generator. You’ve got thirty seconds until they cross your path—”

A new voice cut in, all bravado and static.

“This is Captain America. Copying channel—what’s the plan, boys?”

You froze.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You didn’t even try to filter the disdain in your tone. “Wow. Rolls off your tongue real easy, huh?”

Silence. Then a very slow, very deliberate sigh from Walker’s end.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Someone who’s been doing this longer than you’ve had that overcompensating shield,” you muttered.

Bucky’s voice came in next—low, barely more than a breath, but you caught the huff. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh smothered by annoyance.

“Keep moving, Walker,” he said flatly. “You’re blocking the channel.”

You swore you heard Sam mumble something that sounded like Jesus Christ under his breath, but he didn’t correct either of you.

John scoffed. “Real professional mission you’re running here, Wilson.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” Sam replied, bone dry.

“Gladly,” you added. “I’d put my money on you getting lost in the stairwell anyway.”

You heard Bucky click something—probably a fresh mag sliding into place—but there was a half-second pause before he added, “She’s not wrong.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t have to. The channel was quiet for a beat, and that silence said it all.

A rare kind of solidarity.

Between you and Bucky.

Not forgiveness. Not even trust. Just… alignment.

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how cold the laptop had gone against your thighs. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore, but the weight of what came after this—when the mission ended, when you weren’t safely tucked behind a camera feed—pressed in sharp at the edges of your ribs.

Sooner or later, you were all going to have to face each other in the same room.

You were mid-sweep of the external hallway feeds when a sharp crack split through your headset. The kind of sound you knew too well—the kind that meant something had just gone very, very wrong.

Your fingers flew over the keys as you switched to the north wing camera, the grainy feed stuttering before sharpening just enough to catch a flash of movement and pinpoint the source of the noise.

John Walker. Weapon raised. One guard already slumped at his feet. Another bolting, shouting into a radio.

You yanked your headset closer. “Walker, what the fuck are you doing?”

A pause—

Then another crack of static flared through your earpiece like a whip of white noise. Followed by gunfire.

Of course. Trust Walker to blow the damn mission.

“Sam,” you said, pulse kicking up. “Shit—Walker’s compromised.”

Your hands blurred across the keyboard, flipping between feeds. Walker’s figure flickered from one hallway to the next—his movements all bravado, no strategy. Too loud. Too proud. No subtlety. No sense.

“Walker, stand down,” Sam barked. “We had a plan—what the hell was that?”

“I handled it,” Walker snapped. “Wasn’t gonna sit around waiting for orders while they closed in.”

You didn’t even try to filter your disgust.

“Yeah, well it shows. So easy calling yourself Captain America when you don’t even know how to work with a team.”

A beat of silence.

Then a grunt. A thud.

“What the hell just happened?” Bucky’s voice, low and clipped.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” Sam repeated, tighter now.

“I handled it, alright? Situation changed. I moved.” Walker again—defensive, arrogant, like he hadn’t just jeopardised the entire op.

“You moved without backup,” Bucky snapped. “And you just blew our cover.”

You sat frozen on the floor, heat crawling under your skin. Not from the cold. Not from fear.

Because you already knew what came next.

Then Sam again, quieter this time. Grim.

“Hey, Y/N? Remember when I said to improvise?” A pause. “I think it’s time to improvise.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Bucky’s voice came through like a blade. “You said she was only eyes.”

“She was,” Sam said sharply. “Plan just changed.”

On-screen, more guards were closing in on Walker’s position. Sam and Bucky were two floors over, too far out. There wasn’t time. And if Walker went down—if anyone found out he got hurt when this was Sam's mission. It’d blow back hard.

You stared at the camera feed. At the crumbling mission. At the familiar fury in your chest. You didn’t want to help Walker. You didn’t owe him shit. But you owed Sam. He’d trusted you. Called you in when no one else could.

Goddamn it.

You were on your feet before your brain caught up.

“I’m going,” you muttered into the mic, already yanking on your jacket and sliding the pistol from the floor into the holster at your hip.

You cut the line before anyone could stop you.

This was it. No time to think, no time to prepare.

All those nights you’d imagined how it might go—how you’d run into Bucky again, what you’d say, how he’d look at you—gone.

No carefully scripted reunion. No chance to brace yourself.

This wasn’t about what-ifs anymore.

The only thing that mattered now was whether you remembered your hand-to-hand training well enough to survive this—or if pure adrenaline would do the heavy lifting for you. The only weapons on you were your brain and a gun, and if those failed? You better pray your fists remembered what to do.

Cold wind slapped your face as you sprinted across the alley behind the building, boots slipping on snow-slick cobbles.

The exit you’d mapped as an extraction route had just become your entry point. You yanked open the rear stairwell door, the metal groaning on rusted hinges, and tore up the steps two at a time.

Voices ahead. Movement. No hesitation.

You found Walker in the hallway, back to the wall, still trying to play the hero.

Three guards. One bleeding. Two armed and ready.

They didn’t see you until it was too late.

You ducked the first swing, landed two solid strikes of your own, and drove your knee into the second man’s ribs with a satisfying crunch. The third reached for his weapon—You slammed his head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

Walker blinked at you like you’d dropped out of the sky. “Who the hell are—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, grabbing the front of his vest and dragging him behind the nearest cover. “Stay down and try not to make this worse.”His mouth opened—probably to argue—

But footsteps thundered from the stairwell behind you.

“Down!” Someone shouted.

You dropped without thinking. Instinct.

Just as Bucky rounded the corner, gun raised.

Everything stopped. Just for a beat.

His eyes locked on yours.

Not through a camera. Not through surveillance feed and memory.

Right here.

Close enough to hear your breathing. Close enough to see the years in his eyes.

He froze.

You didn’t.

“Sam,” you said into the comms, voice steady despite the burn in your lungs. “Walker’s secure. Threat’s neutralised.”

“Copy that,” Sam replied. “Sit tight. We’re coming to you. Bucky, are you—”

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just stared at you.

And you stared right back, bracing for whatever came next—the confrontation, the anger, the past you hadn’t outrun.

Because nothing about this was going to go the way you wanted it to.

a/n: YASSSS they have reunited!!! I'm actually SO excited to write the next chapter! how are you guys feeeeeelingg

Taglist/ @awkwardgiraffe726 @mcira @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[scopyroris]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 1

Pairing: Winter Soldier! x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: A doctor, taken from your lab where you study degenerative muscular diseases, find yourself trapped and charged with caring for a living weapon. Terrified for yours and your family's safety, you must work to appease your captors and care for a man who seems haunted beyond words. And as time goes on, you begin to learn just how human the man really is.

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, fear, weapons, and death.

Authors Note: Hi! This is the first chapter of a very very long series. (basically the prequal of the soldat story I posted) I'm a little nervous doing this, but I thought it would be fun. I'd also like to say, I tried to do my best writing a woman who is terrified- so that includes a good amount of nervous stuttering and rambling in the first chapter. Bear with me! Please enjoy, comment if you'd like and let me know what you think! And please be kind!

The door slammed behind you with a shudder, making you jump. It was dark. Quiet. Silent, even. The silence that followed made your pulse jump. Your gaze fell upon your charge. It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t be. You felt glued to the floor, your nerves screaming at you to run, to hide, to close your eyes and pretend none of this was real.

But you couldn’t. 

You had no choice. 

Getting to choose was a luxury, one you weren’t allowed.

The large contraption of metal claws and tangled wires wasn’t what first caught your eye in the room. It was the man. Just a man. Unmoving and unspeaking. He sat on a black bench, made to restrain and recline. His long dark hair hung in his eyes, but his gaze stayed pinned to the floor. 

You knew who he was. You wished you didn’t. 

Hydra wasn’t an entity you wanted to be aligned with. Hydra wasn’t even something you were aware was still around until weeks ago. You were just a woman. A doctor. A scientist. A bright mind with many questions and a burning need to find purpose. 

But you bore the burden of knowledge. Of curiosity. 

You were determined to find the answer to deteriorating muscular disease. You were drawn to the topic from a young age, watching classmates and strangers alike die out from disease. Lose their ability to move, to function, to live. 

You spent your life studying it. 

And it only took seconds for you to regret it. 

Here you were now, tasked with caring for a man forced to live through time and death. A man you knew nothing of a mere month ago.

You slid a hesitant foot forward, your flat scraping the stone floor. Silence stretched, only broken by the friction of your shoe. He hadn’t moved. You held your breath, forcing another step forward. Your stomach turned as you drew closer. You held your shaking fists to your chest, trying to convince yourself  you weren't as scared as you were. 

Why were you so scared, damn it? He was just a man. But then again, men were always God's most brutal creation. And this man, he was different. 

Hydra’s officials spent those first few days briefly informing you about the man, and his condition- between threats to your life and family.

They told you of the broken creature that was the winter soldier. The man whose mind had become nothing more than a button of yes and no. Kill or be killed. They told you of how he could pull your spine from your back with his hands tied and his eyes closed. Of how a single word put him in action. 

You knew he wouldn’t act unless commanded to, but that didn’t halt the fear. A loaded gun still held the reputation of death, even with its safety on.

You stood only a few feet away now. You saw him clearer now. You tried to take him in, humanise him, knowing that's all he was. But god, was it hard. The shadow across his face, caused by his hair, didn’t hide his dull blue eyes. They stared straight ahead, haunted and waiting.

“My…” your voice cracked against your will, exposing your fear. “My name is Y/n…” you spoke quietly, afraid if you were any louder, he would snap. He didn’t move. 

“I’m- I’m here to help you,” you whispered, standing before him now. “I’m a doctor, you see...” Your throat felt dry. Did your voice always sound like that? “They told me your muscles are- well, that the cryo sleep is- um-” you swallowed. Your tongue felt heavy. “They told me your muscles- the tissue is deteriorating. The cryo chamber is having unexpected side effects…” 

You watched him as you spoke. If you didn’t know better, you could almost guess he was still asleep. Or dead. “Can-” you tilted your head at him. “Can you hear me?” 

No response. Not even a twitch. With great hesitance, you knelt before him, your bare knees pressing into the plush carpet. You were lower than him now, but leveled enough. And still, it was like he was looking right through you. “You’re in there, aren’t you? I mean-” 

He blinked, just once. But it was enough. He didn’t even seem aware of it. His brows were furrowed together, his jaw screwed tight. A dark shadow of  a beard speckled his skin. His hair hung in his face, shielding him. 

“I’m- I’m here to tend to you.” You whispered. “I’ll be monitoring your vitals, and the state of your muscles. But-” you tilted your head. “They also want me to clean you up.” He was so still it was unsettling. You weren't surprised, he must be used to every type of needle and poke and prod in the book. 

You glanced back at the door, where a small tray sat atop a table. You took your time steadying yourself on shaky legs, retrieved the tray, then returned to your spot. You dragged a chair over and sat it on the seat. you stared at the man, your heart heavy in your chest.  

It was still dark, flickering light bulbs buzzing overhead. It was still quiet, your breaths sounding like screams. It was still deeply terrifying. But you needed to do as you were told. 

“They want me to shave your-” you gestured to your own face. “I know it's- well- I don’t know, but I don’t really get to say no, you know?” you stammered, your words failing you. You paused, then swallowed, allowing yourself to gather your bearings. “What I mean is- is it okay if I touch you?” 

Silence. 

Tense, thick, palpable silence. You bit back the fear rising in your chest as you reached a hand towards his face. “I’m sorry, I really am.” You whispered, pulling your hand back to pick through your tray. There wasn’t much. Just a bowl of water, a razor, a rag, and a cheap can of shaving cream. 

You had never shaved a man's face, but you’d shaved your legs about a thousand times. How different could they be? “Can you-” you swallowed. “Please, lift your head.” It felt wrong to touch him, to move him. He was so deeply human, sitting before you. It was sickening. After a long moment, he tilted his head back, bearing his throat.

You choked down the dramatic gasp that wanted to follow. His eyes were dull, staring straight through the space ahead. “Thank you,” you whispered, grabbing the rag. Having been unfamiliar with shaving like a man, you followed the steps you would on your own. You draped the rag across his lap and picked up the scissors. 

You spent the next few minutes in painful silence, snipping away long tufts of hair. You shook off the stray hairs onto the tray, then laid the rag back over his lap. After wetting his face, you used your fingers to smear shaving cream across his skin. Goosebumps rose over your arms as you did so, guilt and uncomfortability burrowing in your bones.

Holding a razor to the throat of one of the most dangerous men alive felt wrong. So deeply wrong. He stared straight ahead, unblinking as the blade scraped over the veins in his neck. His breath tickled your knuckles as you dragged the blade beneath his lips. He was like a doll, or a corpse. 

“I’ve never done this before, believe it or not.” You whispered. “I mean, I’ve shaved. Just- never shaved someone else, you know? It’s not something people often do.” You paused, asking him to tilt his head to the left. “Though, I’m guessing you’re pretty used to people doing things for you.” You paused. “Not in the privileged, type of way- I just mean, it’s pretty clear you don’t get to make a lot of choices for yourself…” you trailed off, then had him tilt to the right.

“I am sorry about that…” you whispered. “Having a choice, its- it’s the difference between being a thing, and being human. That’s how I’ve always seen it.” You washed off the razor, then continued. “I mean- I’m a woman, you know?” You laughed dryly, nerves making your tongue loose. “History is written by men taking choices away.”

The razor almost slipped from your fingers when his gaze flickered to yours. You couldn’t stop the gasp that time. You froze, the blade pressed to his cheek. “I’m really trying not to make you uneven right now.” You whispered, the nervous joke falling short. 

For the first time in what felt like the eternity you spent in that room, his lips parted. You held your breath, waiting to hear his voice.

The doors behind you swung open. You flinched, cold dread spreading down your spine. You yanked back the razor when you realized you nicked him. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed, wiping the cut with the rag. 

“Finished up yet? This isn’t a spa. We just need him clean.” It was an older man, a voice you recognised. 

“Yeah- yeah, I’m done.” You rushed, patting his face dry. You shoved everything back on the tray and scrambled to the side. You noticed the soldier go stalk still again, his gaze tracking the new man.

“Great. We need to get started, then.” The man- Pierce - started. His gaze found you. “You’re no longer needed.” The words sent a sickening fear pooling in your stomach, twisting and heavy- like it would rip right through you. A pair of men in suits approached you. “You’ll be summoned when we’re ready for you to start your treatments.”

You blinked. Hands circled your biceps. The tray was shoved into your hands. You were moving towards the door. you wanted to glance back, but your bones felt rusted shut. 

They weren’t going to kill you today. But how long would it last? How long would your value survive you?

Authors Note: Hi! Okay, sooo I hope you guys liked it, or at least feel a little intrigued. It gets a lot better further on, I have like 30 more chapters already written, so just let me know if you want more!

Also, this was originally written from a "she" Pov, so if you find any mistakes, let me know- I had to edit everything to say "You/your" after. Anyways, please comment and be kind!

[scopyroris]

Mounting Spring Ch. 1.

Summary: Paradis has opened its doors to the world, and the Rumbling has not yet occurred. The military board insists, "We need more Ackermans!" to avoid ruining Mikasa's life. Levi agrees. Arranged marriage, explicit consent, Omegaverse. Alpha! Levi x Omega! Y/N. Mentions of underage marriage but it doesn't happen, the reader is over 21. Age gap but they are both adults. (I would say enemys to lover but they don't even know eachother to be enemys lol.) Author note: I've had this idea for so long… Omegaverse is my guilty pleasure, and I decided to treat myself with it. From the creator of "Not in season?" I bring to you "Mounting Spring" lmao haha sorry it's just that my first omegaverse was rather a success… so I decided to do another.

The papers were passed around the Military board members, each set handed off in tense silence. The room’s air had cooled quickly as the sun dipped below the horizon, making Levi’s coat, almost too heavy to bear earlier, feel suddenly necessary. The chill seeped through the old walls, hinting that a bit of heating might soon be in order. 

With methodical precision, Levi slammed the stack of reports against the wooden table to align them perfectly, every edge sharp and in place. He moved aside the sticky notes he’d scribbled on hours before, crossing off the last item on his to-do list with finality. Job done for the day— 

“Well, that’s it,” he muttered, eager to leave the stale room behind. 

A pointed clearing of someone’s throat halted him, making him glance up slowly. Levi’s senses flared; he wasn’t done after all. The tension thickened, and the air shifted to something more ominous. His gaze travelled around the table, landing on each board member’s face. Some looked uncomfortable, others entertained, as if they’d been anticipating this moment. Hange, seated beside him despite their role as Commander now, avoided his eye, their head lowered in apparent resignation. Recent meetings had seen the appearance of new, vaguely unsettling faces, like Kiyomi's, who now looked across the table with a subtle smile. 

“Captain,” Zackly’s voice rasped as he cleared his throat yet again. 

“The day’s agenda is finished,” Levi stated, irritation biting at his words. The official telegram had detailed the topics to be discussed, all of which they’d already addressed. Anything beyond that, he knew, was meant to be cleared with the entire board beforehand. 

“This was a last-minute matter,” a Military Police officer interjected, though the smirk twitching at his lips betrayed more amusement than urgency. 

“Captain,” Zackly called again, knitting his fingers together. “You know we’ve always valued your dedication to Paradis.” 

The pause was rehearsed, the words strangely formal, making Levi’s eyes narrow. “What the hell is going on?” cutting through the man’s attempt at civility. 

“Let the Commander finish,” Kiyomi insisted, her voice smooth and elegant, though tinged with a superiority that grated on him. 

“We wouldn’t have managed to retake Wall Maria without your bravery—” 

“A lot of people sacrificed themselves for that,” Levi replied sharply, cutting off the praise that felt, at best, patronizing. “Including the previous Commander, Erwin. No need to thank me.” 

“Nevertheless,” Zackly forged on, tiring of the interruptions, “without your skill, all those sacrifices might have been in vain. Not only did you dare to fight for Eren’s retrieval from the Female Titan and against the former tyrannical regime, but—” 

“It wasn’t just me. My squad and the brat over there were in it too.” 

The tone of the conversation was growing increasingly uneasy, the excessive praise no longer just annoying him but setting off alarms. 

“Quite right. You and Mikasa were essential in humanity’s progress,” Kiyomi added, eyeing Levi with a calculating gaze. As her look shifted back to Zackly, Levi’s own attention followed. 

“What we mean to say is… even if Paradis positions itself favourably in the new world, more capable individuals like you and Mikasa would be ideal assets for our success.” Zackly straightened in his chair, clearing his throat for the third time, making Levi wonder if the man needed water—or to finally give up smoking like a chimney. “Have you ever considered marriage, Captain?” 

The question hit him like a bucket of ice water. It was so absurd Levi could only scoff. “What?” 

“How old are you now?” Zackly continued, feigning casual curiosity. “Thirty-three? Thirty-four? A prime age, I’m sure. And for a high-breed alpha like you—” 

Behind him, low chuckles began to echo from the MPs, each one making Levi’s grip on the chair’s arm tighten. 

‘This is a trap.’ 

“Whatever it is you’re implying, I I suggest you rethink it,” Levi spat, the weight of their words starting to settle. 

“Let’s be frank,” Kiyomi leaned forward, hands placed firmly on the table. “Captain, we once thought the Ackermans extinct, only to discover Paradis has not one but two. Even Zeke couldn’t deny that meeting you at Shiganshina was... less than pleasant.” 

“Of course,” Levi replied dryly. “I beat that monkey’s ass.” 

“Exactly.” The dark-haired woman showed no amusement, her voice all business. “To the point, then: we intend to provide you with a suitable wife to ensure that you bless this island with as many Ackermans as she’s capable of bearing.” 

Levi shot to his feet. “You must be out of your damned mind if you think I’d agree to this. I’m not here to be used as a breeding tool.” 

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be the one doing the birthing,” an MP remarked with a smirk as the rest of the board broke their facades, amusement flashing in their eyes. All but Hange, who looked as if they might vanish into their seat. 

“You’re insane,” Levi snarled, preparing to leave, feeling insulted to his core. “You can use Historia as your political pawn as much as you want, but I’m not some 17-year-old girl at your disposal—” 

“Think of it as a service to your country,” Zackly replied coolly. 

“I serve this island every damned day,” Levi snapped, baring his teeth. With a sharp slap, he pressed his papers against the table and strode toward the door, signaling his utter rejection of the idea. 

“If you won’t consider it…” Kiyomi's calm, piercing voice halted him at the door, the threat clear. “Then we’ll turn to the only other Ackerman left.” 

Levi stilled, staring at the golden knob in his hand, fury boiling in his veins. He wasn’t about to fall for this. 

“Mikasa is too valuable to be reduced to a broodmare.” 

“She’s a girl of duty,” Kiyomi replied, a note of satisfaction in her voice. “Something you seem to lack. And she’s an alpha. I’m certain she could bear at least one healthy child before returning to the battlefield.” 

Levi clicked his tongue, pushing open the door with disdain. ‘Who the hell do they think I am?’ Hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, he stormed down the royal city’s military headquarters hallways, curses slipping from his lips. The whole idea was absurd; they’d lost their minds if they thought he’d even consider it. 

As Levi stormed down the dim corridor, every step sharp and swift, he couldn’t shake the rancor rising within him. The brazenness of it all, to drag him into their twisted ambitions with such flippant disregard for his will—and then to threaten Mikasa. The audacity alone made his fists clench. 

He barely noticed Hange keeping pace with him until their arm was outstretched, catching him by the shoulder. 

“Levi,” Hange began softly. Their usual spark was subdued, gaze serious, and voice almost apologetic. “I know you’re furious. I knew this would be hell to hear, but I didn’t know how else to—” 

“Save it.” Levi shrugged their hand off, glowering. “You knew, didn’t you? That they were going to bring this shit up?” 

Hange hissed, as if asking them to confessed was almost painful. “Yes… I knew.” 

Levi gritted his teeth, eyes dark with betrayal. “You agreed to this?” Both of them whispering on the empty cold halls of the building.  

“I… didn’t agree,” Hange answered carefully. “But I was there when the discussion happened. Look, Zackly and the others—” Hange hesitated, running a hand through their hair. “They’re dead set on this idea. They think they’re planning for a stronger Paradis, and if they think that means Ackerman bloodlines—” 

“Save the speech.” Levi’s tone was sharp. “They can be dead set on whatever they please, but I'd like to see them drag the entire MP battalion if they want to force me into this.” 

The past year had hardly been easy on either of them, especially Hange with their new title as Commander. Levi was well aware of this—yet the sense of betrayal cut deep. “For fuck’s sake, Hange, you could’ve warned me.” 

A tense silence hung between them, until Hange finally sighed and adjusted their glasses, pressing on the bridge of their nose. “You think I had a say in this? Kiyomi's paying for the entire coastal expansion and the railway. She thought it was a decent idea, and with her money backing it, she’s got the final word on everything.” 

Levi clicked his tongue, crossing his arms in exasperation. “Those bastards in the upper ranks are just itching to get on my last nerve since we changed the policies.” 

“Look, I know it sounds—insane. But maybe… if we don’t try to protect the future of the island, there won’t be one. And if there’s a way to keep the Ackerman bloodline alive, maybe there’s value in that…” 

“Don’t give me that bloodline nonsense.” Levi’s tone was ice-cold, his gaze sharp. “This is some harebrained scheme they’ve cooked up. And let me guess: it reeks of Zeke. That bearded bastard’s across the ocean, and he’s still screwing with my life.” 

Hange pressed their lips together, saying nothing. The silence was confirmation enough. 

“That son of a bitch,” Levi cursed under his breath. “He’s the one with royal blood, not me.” 

Hange’s lips twitched in something close to sympathy. 

“Well, since you two are such good friends these days, feel free to let him know he can kiss my ass.” 

“Levi…” Hange sighed, not because they disagreed but because Levi’s sense of betrayal cut both ways. They were the last two left of the original veterans—family in all but name. It wasn’t just an argument; it felt like a wound between them. 

Convincing Levi? Impossible. But convincing her? That possibility hung in the air, lingering like a storm on the horizon. Levi paced with conviction at first, then with dread. They both knew it, and, worse, Zeke likely knew it too. Mikasa had just turned seventeen, still almost a child, recently visited by someone claiming kinship with her clan. Levi couldn’t care less about all the ancestral politics, but he was all too aware of how they worked. 

“You can choose whoever you wish for the father,” they had told her, as if it was some generous offer. And, step by step, he watched Mikasa’s face transform from disgust to something akin to acceptance. Perhaps it was because she, too, held a certain pedigree; perhaps she felt duty-bound. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care what methods they used to sway her. 

‘She’s smarter than that,’ he tried to tell himself. 

But then he overheard Historia, almost childishly enthusiastic, whispering to Mikasa, “See? I told you—we’re girls with responsibilities.” The blood drained from his face. If they’d managed to convince Historia, to make her some kind of pawn in their twisted ambitions, what was stopping them from pulling Mikasa down the same path? 

‘It’s disgusting,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Maybe this is how those classist bastards operate. They talk little girls into this like they’re just trading dolls for something more ‘exciting.’’ 

That night, back in his office, Levi was a restless storm, pacing the room with his suit jacket hanging loose, fingers curled around his glass of whiskey, his movements sharp and frustrated. The glow of his cigarette flared in the dark room as he took a deep drag, gritting his teeth. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Slouched in his chair, forearm draped over his eyes, his mind circled back to Mikasa’s hesitant, almost innocent blush—her teenage imagination painting a faint, rosy tint over whatever twisted future she thought she might face. And in his mind, as if staring him down, were Eren’s haunted eyes, that deadened look of someone who already knew more than he could say. Maybe the brat already knew Levi wouldn’t let it happen. 

“She’s a damn kid,” he muttered. The thought of Mikasa shouldering this burden felt like a betrayal of his own values. 

Though technically, she was not much younger than many girls who’d borne children before. But this felt different, disturbing— He let out a humourless chuckle, as a man that waits for getting hang. “Those bastards knew… I wouldn’t let them ruin her life like that.” 

And like a cursed prophecy that tightened its grip the more one tried to escape it, Levi found himself back in that same damned office, slouched in his chair as if seated at a poker table. Bargaining his future. 

Levi sat stiffly across from the military board, his expression a blend of frustration and disgust as they spoke. Zackly lounged in his chair, lazily smoking as the other officials presented folders adorned with detailed painted portraits, lists of family properties, and who knows what else. As they laid the offers on the table, a random thought clouded Levi’s mind: It feels like searching for a button that matches at the notions store. 

He was reminded of long strips of fabric with various buttons sewn onto them, each one a potential fit. “Many of the noble families are eager to show their loyalty to the new government,” one officer stated with a practiced calmness. “Some have offered up alliances in exchange for the return of their territories and titles. This includes a number of unclaimed young omegas. You’ll have ample choices.” 

Levi’s jaw clenched. He knew they expected him to appear grateful for the options lined up before him, as if he were selecting a new weapon. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms tightly. “I’ll be imposing some conditions.” 

They paused, exchanging glances. “Naturally, Captain,” one of the men replied, steepling his fingers. 

“No fancy bullshit,” Levi declared. “The wedding will be plain. Just a civil ceremony. I have no intention of making a spectacle out of this.” 

The room fell silent, the officers exchanging looks that spoke volumes. One of them cleared his throat, hesitating before responding. “Captain, you should consider—” 

“I’m not considering anything,” Levi interrupted, his tone sharper than before. “This is a plain arrangement, and it will remain exactly that. I don’t need fanfare or ceremonies—just a quiet signing of papers.” 

The officers shifted uncomfortably, their discomfort palpable as they struggled to reconcile Levi’s cold practicality with their expectations. “Think of the girl. Many young omegas dream of their wedding day, waiting for it their whole lives. It’s—” a female alpha soldier attempted to be the voice of reason, but Levi was clearly listening to none of it. 

“No buts,” Levi said, his patience wearing thin. “If I’m going to go through with this ridiculous arrangement, it will be on my terms. I’m not dragging this girl through some overblown ceremony when neither of us wants to be there.” 

With a loud sigh, Levi lifted himself slightly from his seat to grab the portfolios. He barely looked at them, frowning deeply. “Don’t you have pictures where they look— I don’t know—human?” he spat out sarcastically, noting how overly produced their painted portraits appeared. 

“That’s what’s in fashion,” one officer muttered defensively. 

Groaning in disinterest, Levi rolled his eyes. “Nobles and their weird tastes.” But as he turned the next page to examine the descriptions, it was as if the world had tilted off its axis. “Sixteen,” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. He looked up, venom lacing his words. “You’re offering me sixteen-year-old girls? Girls who could be my damn daughters?” 

“It’s common, you know—” 

“I don’t care what’s common. Twenty-five,” Levi interjected. “At least twenty-five. I’m not getting tied to a child.” 

“Come on,” an exhausted soldier exclaimed, “some are seventeen, eighteen—” 

“Twenty-five,” Levi snapped, his eyes blazing. “I’m not interested in any of this unless you bring me someone who isn’t still in their childhood.” 

“Be realistic,” Zackly finally spoke up, looking weary and disinterested. “How many omegas do you know that aren’t claimed by twenty-five?” 

“Fuck if I know; that’s your job to find out, not mine.” Levi’s anger flared, echoing in the sterile room. “Weren’t you the one telling me to think of the girl? Don’t you think of her?” 

“Why? Are you planning on hurting her?” Zackly questioned, raising an eyebrow. 

“Fuck no.” 

“Then I’m not concerned. Choose one and stop being a pain in the ass.” 

It was clear they were not going to reach any middle ground like this. Amid the hastily scribbled notes, he noticed a name: Y/N, age twenty-one. He pointed decisively at the line, cutting through the cacophony of voices. “That one.” 

There was no picture, no description—nothing. Perhaps it should have raised suspicions, but Levi was too tired for this cheap drama. 

“Why her?” one member scoffed, glancing at the paper. “We have better offers on the table.” 

Levi didn’t hesitate. “She’s the oldest.” He placed both hands on the table, pushing himself upward. He had made up his mind the night before; he just needed this to be over. Striding toward the door, he exited without allowing anyone to stop him. As he walked out of the conference room, he could hear the murmurs behind him. 

As the door shut firmly, one of the cadets held the papers against his chest, confusion written all over his face. Slowly, he turned to the higher-ranking officer. “Shouldn’t we tell him that she’s scheduled to marry this weekend to her childhood fiancé?” 

Zackly chuckled, flicking the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray. Between coughs, he said, “Oh well, he can find out from her once they’re both married. It’s no longer my problem.” 

Link to my masterlist and my other works if you feel like checking them out. Tags!: @nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @trashblackrainbow @l3visthighs @hannieslovebot @flxrartsstuff @feelingsandemotionsnotexplored @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 @levisfavoriteteashop @katestrophes @katharinasdiaryy @ackermanswifee @levistealeaf @an-ever-angry-bi @youre-ackermine @searriously @blackdxggr @storiesofsung @abiatackerman @braunsbabe @moonchild-angel @galactict3a @lemonsupernova @hyuckwon-my-husbands @heyitsd1yaa @sydneyyuu @love-for-faeries-go-burrrr @mandaax @sugacor3 @r0ckst4rjk @vegetasgirl2799 @catiwinky @pinksaiyans @sparklykeylime Wanna join my tag list? Here!