bxtchboy69

[bxtchboy69]

touch starved.

OR dean winchester needs a damn hug! specifically from me, so of course i wrote about it! pretty much based off of my own headcanon that i wrote because this dean is canon— TO ME!

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read part 2 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 6.1 k (would y’all believe me when i say this started out as a drabble… faith be normal over dean winchester challenge level: IMPOSSIBLE!)

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons soft!dean, vulnerability to da max, emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS. no smut (for once!), starts off kinda sad BUT HAS A HAPPY(ISH) ENDING I SWEAR! PLEASE PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

AFTER CENTURIES IT’S FINALLY DONE! just saying once again thank you all so very much for 400 (+87 ?!?!?) followers! this fic is my gift to you! can’t believe over 400 of you want to see my bullshit (and unabashed horniness) on the daily but i love and appreciate every single one of ya! shoutout to my lovely mooties as well!

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dean winchester knew he had something called a touch problem.

and he didn’t know exactly when it started, but after years and years of the only touch he received being hits, punches, the cold feel of steel from a knife or the heat from the barrel of a gun—he craved something gentle.

he needed it.

and goddamn, he was getting desperate.

at first, he usually just sought it out with one-night stands. whether it be holding their hand during it, or sticking around for longer just to lay in bed with whoever the fuck he’d met that night— that kept him at bay. that’s how he got the touch he needed.

but then he got greedy.

it had been a particularly rough hunt. you, dean, and sam were lucky to get out alive. you’d pulled into a town that had a vamp nest terrorizing its inhabitants, and when you saw the familiar hot faces of the winchester brothers at the only decent bar in a 30-mile radius, you’d decided to work together— as you’d all done a million times before.

but still, it was rough. you three each took a floor of the abandoned farmhouse— you on the highest, dean in the middle, and sam on the ground floor. you clambered down the stairs after you had finished clearing your floor, only to be met with two snarling vampires— which you quickly ganked with a schwing of your machete.

after verifying that no threats were coming your way, you started looking for dean— and the panic that flooded through your chest when you saw him crumpled over on the floor in one of the rooms almost made you freeze.

almost.

years of experience and split-second decisions snapped you out of it, immediately falling to your knees by dean’s side, turning him over on his back.

your hands were gentle but swift as you quickly flipped out the sides of his jacket, making sure there were no large gashes or wounds— and the sigh with the feeling of pure relief you let out when you realized he was just knocked out was a little more intense than you had expected it to be.

and you told yourself that was definitely normal.

right?

right.

“dean,” your hand had gone to the side of dean’s face, the other remaining on his shoulder as you shook it gently, trying not to startle him completely as you masked your worry. “come on ya lug, rise ‘n shine.”

despite your efforts, dean still woke with a start— but you caught his arm with the hand not on his face before he could do anything.

“hey— hey,” your voice was quieter, softer. because despite being one bad mother when you were hunting, your soft side came out frequently when it was needed, without fear of judgment and with absolutely no shame. it was one of the things dean wished he could do as seamlessly as you. “it’s jus’ me, alright? come on—”

you then proceeded to stand all six feet and some change of dean up with you, keeping a hand on his back and shoulders and giving him another once over when he stood over you again.

“you all good?” you murmur quietly, your hands resting on the sides of dean’s arms as you stood back, your eyes continuing to rake over him for a moment before looking up at his face— and the expression you were met with wasn’t anger, or even frustration from being knocked out.

no.

dean looked almost… sad.

you’d never been exactly ‘close’ with dean. of course you considered him a friend— for years now, but in all honesty, even that was a stretch sometimes, too. because he was a very closed off and mistrusting person.

but hell, you respected that. especially in this line of work. he did talk to you once in a while, though— on those lulls during a hunt or a case, or when he dropped some crazy lore about himself or his childhood, then going right back to his usual behaviors afterwards.

that being said, you knew dean better than he thought you did— because he didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was going through. despite what he thought, his emotions were always kinda just… written on his face.

but now, back to the farmhouse. back to the look dean had on his face right now. it was a look you saw only after he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant, which is why it threw you off and made your usual easygoing attitude with him falter.

“dean,” you voice had gotten quieter, even softer, “w—” but before you could say or even do anything else, sam called from the floor below that it was all clear, snapping dean out of it, his expression hardening again.

in the days coming after, you didn’t ask dean to explain himself, or push about what had happened that night. you knew if he wanted to, he’d come to you about it— maybe not right away, but when he was ready.

little did you know how soon that would be.

you’d been living in the bunker for probably only a couple months at this point after the apocalypse world had opened up, and a bunch of hunters were living in the bunker too— but less than a week later after the vamp nest, both sam and dean embarked on solo hunts, sam in maine, dean in nevada. both brothers had warned you not to ‘burn the joint down’.

come on. like you would ever do that— on accident. besides, you had the bunker all to yourself.

which was fun—

for all of five minutes.

now, almost six days after sam and dean had left, you’re sitting in the library, surrounded by a scattered array of books, papers, and weapons alike on the tables in front of you— another late night of research and catching up on lore.

because there was always lore to catch up on.

you’d been lost in the words in front of you when you heard the unmistakable noise of the bunker’s door creaking open. you stiffened slightly, instincts on alert, lifting your gaze from where you were standing— but relaxed and went back to scanning the page when you realized it was just dean.

because here’s the thing: over the years, you’ve realized that it’s not a good idea to talk to dean after he’s fresh off a hunt— and especially knowing that he’s probably just drove almost or even over 24 hours straight to come home?

yeah. no way were you about to be running up to dean as he trudged down the stairs, doting on him. to your knowledge, he hated touching people, especially other people touching him.

besides, usually after a hunt, dean would just go to his room, the infirmary, or immediately hit the showers— and not look once in your direction while he did it, much less talk to you.

it hurt, but you understood that the reason he does it wasn’t exactly anything you were doing wrong— it was just what dean did.

but tonight was different.

dean was on his way to his bedroom (or actually, maybe the infirmary might be better so he could patch himself up)—

but then he saw you.

you were still stood at one of the tables, eyes scanning through books of lore you dug up from the bookshelves, illuminated by the golden lamps lining the wooden tables. god, you were pretty. even though you weren’t looking at him, he didn’t blame you. he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful after a hunt.

especially this one.

and because of that, dean’s feet were moving before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

you’d glanced up from the book you’d been completely engulfed in— and was a little surprised to find dean looking right back at you as he walked up the few steps to the library.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could even register what was happening, dean had already made it to you— and without warning, wrapped you in a tight embrace, slamming against you and holding you like you were the only thing that would keep him upright.

your eyes widen slightly at the feeling of dean’s arms around you before you could register the fact that he’d even crossed the threshold of the bunker— a little ‘oof’ sound escapes you completely involuntarily.

“hey,” dean let out a shaky breath against some strands of your hair and shoulder, his voice slightly raspy with…was that relief?

despite how caught off-guard you were, you don’t reject dean’s unexpected hug, though. you let your body adjust to him and your arms wrap around him too, returning the gesture right back. the faint smell of baby’s exhaust, something earthy along with the familiar scent of dean fills your lungs as your fingers ever so slightly grasp onto the back of his jacket, keeping him against you.

the muscles in dean’s shoulders relax the second your arms gently wrap around him. and oh god, he just really missed you—

“hi,” your voice is just as quiet when you greet dean in return, chin resting on his own shoulder. “how did it—”

you’re trying to ask how his hunt went, but before you finish, dean’s pulling you closer to him and squeezing the words from you. his hands slip more around your waist to hold you against him tighter, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he just wants to feel you. you’re so warm, so soft— and goddamn, you smelled good, too. you always did. it was a little infuriating, actually.

dean knows he should probably let go, or at least respond, but he can’t find it in himself to let go yet— so instead he just holds onto you tighter. he still doesn’t respond to your unsaid question, simply standing there, holding onto you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

you assumed something had happened on his hunt for dean to be acting this way— but you don’t press or force him to tell you what. you just wanted to be there for him right now.

“oh,” is what you end up softly replying with a little nod of your head against dean when he simply doesn’t answer your unfinished question. but you don’t let him go. hell no. you just pat your hand on the back of one of his shoulders, tightening your own grip on him in return. “sorry, de.”

and dean lets out a slow breath of… was that relief at your voice, at the nickname you’d had for him since the second (or was it third) hunt you’d ever worked on together? who the hell knows. he’s just so thankful you’re here, you’re hugging him, not pushing him away, you’re holding him— that you’re so close.

“no, it’s okay,” dean’s unusually soft voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“it— it was rough, that’s all," he mutters after a even longer while, his words tinged with a mixture of fatigue and… something else that you can't quite place.

you and dean were so close and pressed together with your combined tight grips— so much so that you swore you could almost feel his heartbeat. but it wasn’t uncomfortable. and it didn’t feel awkward. it never seemed to be with him. besides, by his (few) words, you could tell he needed this a lot more than he was letting on.

in all honesty, you were just glad dean was finally letting himself seek comfort for once in his goddamn life—

in you.

“yeah, i get it,” is what you reply with, just nodding against dean’s shoulder while tightening your own grip on him. without really thinking about it, you start to gently run one of your hands up and down his back while still wrapped up in him, palm and fingers trailing on the material of his jacket. “just glad you’re back.”

you can feel dean’s breath hitch at your touch— and for a moment, you hesitate your motions of your hand tracing along his jacket, but his grip on you unconsciously tightened, like he was clinging to you. so you continue doing it after that.

“yeah,” he murmurs, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “me too.”

and for a long while, dean just stands there wrapped up in you, his face still buried in your hair and part of your shoulder as he lets himself lean into that touch, absorbing its comfort. he grips onto the back of your shirt— and he could feel the tension start to melt away, the warmth mixed with the scent of you filling his senses and working magic on him.

dean stays quiet for several more moments, his face still buried deep in your shoulder, as if he was trying to hide himself from the outside world. his grip on you doesn’t loosen as he stands there, his body against yours. every breath he takes is deep, steady— like he’s grounding himself in this moment with you.

his words break the silence as a whisper against you after a while, the vulnerability clear in his low voice, his words almost like a confession.

“i… missed you.”

a small exhale you didn’t know you were holding releases when dean says that— and your hand falters. dean winchester, king of bottling up feelings and keeping them to himself just said he missed you. this was completely different than how he usually acted around you, but you didn’t mind.

“i missed you, too,” your own voice also quiet when you respond. it was only a few words, but you had understood what dean meant— in more ways than most would. which is why you don’t even attempt to tease him about it, replying with something between a sigh and a laugh at the realization. “like, a lot.”

dean’s grip tightens even further at your response, as if your words had a more profound impact on him than you could've ever imagined. he pulls you closer against him, the hardness of his body against yours should’ve been more uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

there’s a moment of silence as dean just holds you, face still hidden, his chest rising and falling right against yours. each breath he takes is deeper, almost shaky, and for a moment, you can feel the slightest tremble in his grip.

his voice are soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen from him. like he almost didn’t believe you.

“really?”

and you don’t falter your own grip for one second, despite the fact that this was completely out of character for him. you return the action, tightening your arms around dean before resuming running your hand up and down his back.

“yeah, really,” you nod against dean to confirm, letting out a soft exhale into his jacket. “i dunno, it was just… quiet here without you guys. always is.”

your words seem to soothe him— almost as much as your touch, your hug does. despite being strong both physically and mentally, dean seems to need this— and he doesn’t even really know why. he relaxes even more at your words, his body slumping against yours. it’s almost like he’s seeking every bit of comfort and warmth he can get from this— from you.

dean lets out a small, soft scoff, tinged with weary amusement. “yeah, i bet it was,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your . “must’a been like a vacation for you, huh?” there's a note of sarcasm there, like he’s trying to mask the intensity of the moment with something familiar— like he always did.

and you could have played along with dean’s attempt at lightheartedness— but honestly, you were too tired to make that effort right now. so you just shake your head a little against dean, voice much quieter than before.

“first day was nice,” you admit to dean, hands grasping the back of his jacket to keep him close to you before you close your eyes. “the rest were just…”

there’s a beat of silence as you trail off, and dean’s grip on you— if possible, tightens even further at your unfinished sentence, as if he was hanging on your every word, waiting for what you were going to say.

he lets out a small, soft breath, warm against your hair. “just... what?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours. there’s a hint of subtle unease at what you were going to say.

your arms don’t loosen when you feel dean’s grip grow just that much tighter— but you weren’t about to complain. you don’t answer right away, because the rest of your sentence was almost too embarrassing to admit.

but then again, you remind yourself: this was dean who you were talking to. he didn’t judge you for a lot of things you had once assumed he would judge you for. so you just huff out a quiet laugh into his shoulder that wasn’t really one at all— containing no humor and mostly self-deprecation.

“lonely.”

your admission hangs there between you both. it’s a simple word, but it hits dean harder than any blow he’s ever taken in a fight. because you get it. there’s a hitch in his breathing— the kind that gives away more than mere words ever could. he goes still for a moment, just letting your confession sink in, the quiet of the bunker feeling even more pronounced in that moment.

“yeah,” dean finally breaks the silence with a soft exhale against you, pulling you even tighter against him. “me, too.”

you relax a little after dean says that. it meant more than he knew. you weren’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like you and him… kind of supported each other, in a way. like the burdens you both carried separately, your own issues that you had, they seemed to be less overwhelming whenever you were even near each other. even if you and him didn’t actually know each other’s burdens.

there’s always been an understanding between you, a silent knowledge that sometimes words didn’t need to be said for the other to know what that person is thinking.

the atmosphere in the room feels different now, the silence less heavy than it was before, but the intensity and weight of the moment still weighs heavily in the air between you. it must be an interesting sight from the outside looking in— a six-foot hunter clinging onto you like you were the last thing on earth. but you didn’t mind. hell, it was comfortable.

dean’s grip on you remains just as tight— almost like he’s afraid to let go, afraid that you’ll slip away like some dream he only has once in a great while. he takes a deep breath, chest rising against you as he inhales, then exhales slowly. before he’d realized it, his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with a strand of your hair.

this level of closeness between you two was unfamiliar. of course, you’d hugged each other before and spent numerous times in close proximity—whether it be in the backseat of the impala when sam had to drive that one time or when you had to hide in a not-so-big broom closet from a wraith.

but this... this was different.

and you knew the uncomfortableness of seeking comfort better than most— but somehow, you never had an issue when you were the one who was comforting others. but still, this was new territory. you certainly hadn’t expected dean to hug you for this long tonight. truth was, you didn’t really didn’t want to let go. but you couldn’t say that to him. that would be too weird.

the library is silent, only the soft tick-tock of the old clock on the wall filling the air. there’s a vulnerability, an understanding greater than words in this moment that neither of you are used to— but strangely enough, it's also the most comfortable you’ve both felt in a long time.

and then, dean breaks the silence again— his voice so low, so quiet, that you almost miss it.

“don’t wanna let go.”

your gaze softens when dean says that— but you don’t loosen your grip on him. you weren’t sure exactly why he was so adamant on not letting go, or why he’d been hugging you like you’d almost died. but you don’t ask questions.

besides, dean’s been more vulnerable with you tonight than i’d ever seen or heard in all the years you’d known him. and when he admitted that? you knew you had to be there for him, in whatever way he wanted. so when you reply back, your words are just as quiet as his.

“well, you don’t have to.”

the words feel like a weight being lifted off dean’s shoulders. he clings to you even tighter, burying his face even deeper into your shoulder, like he was ashamed. he doesn’t say anything for a moment— instead, just taking deep breaths. because he’s struggling to keep his emotions intact.

finally, he mumbles into you again, his words muffled by your shirt.

“you promise?”

“yeah,” you echo back quietly, nodding your head against dean’s buried into you. “promise. we can stay like this as long as you want to.”

there’s no malice hidden in your words, or any hint of teasing— because it was nothing but the truth. you’d stay with dean for as long as he wanted you to. and you bury your face a little more into him when he does the same to your shoulder.

there’s another long moment of silence as dean holds onto you, his face still buried in your shoulder. normally, he’d be making some smartass comment by now, acting like his usual self— but he can't seem to find the words. or the energy.

dean huffs softly against your shoulder after a moment— the closest thing to one of his usual snarky remarks. but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice when he speaks.

“what if i wanted to… all night?”

you’d half been expecting dean to brush off your words with a joke or at least something, but the tone of hesitation told you that he was being anything but that. you hesitate, but ultimately lift your head off of his shoulder— you don’t pull away fully, though.

and dean’s body visibly tenses when you pause and pull away slightly to look at him, and he’s almost immediately on the defensive— but relaxes a little when you don’t go far.

your gaze silently searches dean’s as you scrunch your eyebrows slightly. you knew that what he’d just asked you for was… different. and you didn’t have to ask him for clarification. you knew what he meant, why he was so hesitant. because this wasn’t going to be just hugging him anymore.

this would be all night.

and there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes when he lets his guard down just enough as you let your gaze linger on him. dean almost looks like a wounded dog right now, the exhaustion, the weariness making him drop his typical persona in favor of honesty— maybe even desperation, just this once.

from that look on dean’s face, he was not kidding about what he asked. the expression he had was one you hadn’t seen this intensely in a long time. you knew he wasn’t one to just ask something like this, either. not unless he needed it.

the thought of being so close to dean all night makes you a little nervous, but not as much to outright say no. so keeping his gaze, your voice is just as quiet as his was when you nod, breaking the silence of the library once again.

“then i’d say ‘get your pj’s on’.”

the way dean’s body relaxes in relief at your words is almost overwhelming. he’s still staring right into your eyes, the vulnerability almost raw. he manages to nod, searching your gaze. he’d been expecting a boatload of teasing with a side of humiliation— but he’d been proved wrong.

“yeah?” he almost whispers as he holds your gaze, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s unable to determine if this is real. if you’re real.

“yeah,” you nod in return, a pang of warmth hitting you again as you look at dean right back. you’re both still standing so close together— and the air felt different, thicker when you take another breath. “s’long as you don’t kick me.”

dean appreciated the break in seriousness, more than you would ever know. something resembling a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“no promises,” he murmurs back, something softer in his gaze as his eyes continue to rake over your face. “but i’ll try.”

“good,” you nod a little again, your own smile tugging on your face as your hands almost absentmindedly trail on dean’s arms— and his eyes literally almost flutter shut at the contact. “and you’re comin’ to my room. and you’re showering.”

dean raises an eyebrow and tries to ignore the warmth that stirred in his chest when you said that all authoritative-like— he swallows before he talks again.

“yes, ma’am.”

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

dean knocked on your door before he entered your room not twenty minutes later— don’t ask him, but he showered faster than he ever did in his entire life. he wasn’t too keen on the why.

your head perked up from your pillows when you heard the knock, already under your blankets and— well, let’s be honest here: waiting for him you’d even already moved to the left side of your bed, so dean would have a spot.

a stupid, small part of you had doubts that dean would actually ultimately show up, but it was a little embarrassing how much relief you felt when you call out a soft “yeah”, signaling him to come in.

dean stepped into your room, the only light being from your barley-lit desk lamp. it doubled as a night light, so you didn’t trip over yourself after a midnight snack break.

dean might as well have been in heaven. or something pretty damn close.

of course, he’s been in your room before— but this felt much different than all the other times. because he was going to be sleeping here tonight.

everything felt heightened, more intense— but as dean shut your door, he also had an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. of home. like this is where he was supposed to be this entire time. he pushed those recurring thoughts and feelings he always felt when he was around you, but without first reminding himself that you had agreed to do this. the thought alone was almost enough to make dean’s heart do that thing it always did whenever he was around you.

he’d been lost in his own thoughts, barely even registering the fact that he’d made it to the edge of your bed. your bed. not his, not some old, dingy motel’s. it almost made him chicken out. until—

“as much as i’d like to see you stand there all night, i think you should probably lay down.”

there it was. your incomparable capability to snap dean out of his head, back to reality. he didn’t know how you did it— and to be honest, you didn’t really know, either. but you always could, even giving sam a run for his money.

dean doesn’t hesitate again. you’d already peeled back your covers for him, so he just lifted them up and got under them. like he belonged. as if he’d done so a million times before. 

your bed, your sheets, your pillows— it was warm. and it smelled like you, tenfold. an equal blend of your fabric softener that only you used because dean said the teddy bear on the bottle looked at him weird and your shampoo that was way too expensive and you had to go to a separate store for. 

dean knew you smelled good, that was no debate— but this was like he was wrapped in it. like he’d been earlier when he hugged you. and so close to how he’d always wanted to be wrapped up in you. yet he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

besides, when was the last time dean winchester got what he wanted?

the answer?

right now.

your eyes hadn’t left dean’s figure when he finally lays down next to you, both now facing each other— it was strange actually seeing him in your bed after years of restless nights wishing he was.

and you could smell him, too— the faint scent of the soap you’d gotten him for his birthday, along with the tea tree shampoo sam kept hidden in the back medicine cabinet (but not well enough, apparently). you decided right then and there that the pillow dean’s head was currently resting on was the one you were going to sleep on after tonight, just so you could smell him after he was gone.

“how you wanna do this?”

dean’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke your thoughts, and you met his eyes when he spoke. his expression looked softer, too— almost hesitant. like he was uncertain. it was a look you rarely ever saw on his face. to see it now, in this way, was bittersweet. then it clicked. 

he was nervous.

“however you want to,” is what you reply with, voice just as quiet as his. you reminded yourself that dean had asked for this. in your mind, it was only fair that he get a say. “whatever you need.”

whatever you need. well, dean needed to kiss you silly if it was the last thing he did, but not tonight. not here. he wouldn’t be able to take it if you rejected him in that way. 

but he had to take some sort of risk right now. he couldn’t deny himself of it— of you any longer.

so before dean can talk himself out of it, he wraps an arm around you, closing the remaining distance— and to your surprise, he buries his head right into your chest, nuzzling against your shirt.

your breath hitches, and you hope to god that he didn’t hear that. but you don’t reject him. you just wrap your own arms around him, accepting him and his touch just as you had done earlier in the library. 

dean would’ve made some joke about basically burrowing his face into your boobs. he didn’t really mean to— but his eyes had fluttered shut already, because you letting him, and you were warm, and you smelled good, and you were so soft.

he’d always loved that about you. from a distance, of course. it didn’t matter how many hardships you’d gone through; you were soft in every sense of the word, both physically and emotionally. and once when he’d taken a shower in your bathroom since sam was hogging the main one in the bunker, the whole damn place smelled like you. he found himself wanting to drown in it.

and hell. he wouldn’t even complain.

your free hand went into his hair at some point, and it took everything in him not to let out a noise. dean sighed a little into your shirt, his breath warm on your chest— he finally let himself relax. go slack.

and he was so grateful that you didn’t tease him, or point out the fact that all six feet and one inch of him was in your grasp and snuggling into you like some damn koala. like a little kid who had a bad dream. but then again, his life felt like a never-ending bad dream most of the time.

you were his one exception to that.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

you weren’t sure how long you both stayed like that, wrapped up in each other before dean breaks the warm blanket of silence— it could’ve been hours or seconds. but his voice is so low, so soft, you almost didn’t hear it.

“thanks.”

the word was spoken against you, dean still remaining unmoving. he didn’t necessarily think himself as weak at the moment, even though he thought he should— and he dared not to say it out loud, knowing that you’d immediately shoot his insecurities down. 

but dean was finally letting himself get comfort. warmth.

something he’d had for a fleeting moment, then lost. something he had deemed too precious for a man as ragged and as sinful as him a long time ago. he didn’t deserve this. you.

he’d never be one to just take something like this, to ask this of you, without any regard for how you felt. but you showed— all you ever showed to him was the love he thought he’d never receive. the love he’d given so much away, but it never got returned back to him.

because you made him feel like he actually meant something. like he was the hero people he’d saved described him as. like he wasn’t some piece on a chessboard, a punchline in someone’s story, a puppet on a string, or a cog in some eternal machine. 

truth was? the big secret?

you made him feel normal. human. 

it was almost overwhelming, how safe, comfortable he felt right now. the last time he felt this safe, he’d been a child. the last time he felt this comfortable in himself— damn. it was before hell.

when it was just monsters of the week, the only big goal being finding his dad. staying at bobby’s. you had visited that summer. he can still remember your laugh echoing off of the wallpaper and the piles of books. it was before demons.

and the only angel he saw daily was you.

it was in the way the light shone in through the stained glass of one of bobby’s kitchen windows and hit your face, you making him coffee without being asked. when you smiled at him just because.

you treated him like a real friend. like family. like an equal.

sometimes, when everything in his head was too loud, dean missed it. when the only thought of lucifer he had was when he saw the cartoon on the bottle of the devil’s hot sauce at that barbeque place in texas. when everyone he loved and cared about was still alive. when the world wasn’t ending. when you kissed his cheek after not seeing him for a while.

you still did that last one, though.

“anytime, de.”

dean had flinched a little, but didn’t open his eyes after you replied—he had been too lost in the comfort. in you. he could die right now instead of sleeping, and honestly? it’d be a good way to go out. he’d prefer it over going down swinging any day, he decided. 

dean got most of what he wanted tonight. maybe someday he’d get it all. but for now, he’d just dream of it, like he always did.

the only difference?

he was actually in your arms this time.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you have one ( 1 ) more new message from the author ! ↓

i know i said it already, but i need to hold this man so so so BADDDDD 💔💔💔 he deserves everything and more like that’s my shayla ☹️ my baby my world my everything (he’s a murderer and monsters fear him)

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bittersweetfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[bxtchboy69]

Dangerously Close Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You & Bucky are undeniably attracted to each other. Seemingly the only way you two are getting together is with some extreme meddling.

Themes: mutual pining, teasing teammates, possessive Bucky, Thunderbolts chaos, friends-to-lovers-but-stupid about it, pining (a lot)

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex

📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Chapter 2 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Chapter 3 - Part I | Part II | Part III

Epilogue

[bxtchboy69]

[bxtchboy69]

Lavender

Summary : The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

Pairings : royal guard!Bucky Barnes x royal!reader (she/her) with a sprinkle of nobility!Bob Reynolds x Royal Guard!John Walker (Sentryagent)

Warnings/tags : Royal AU. Lavender Marriage AU, Medieval AU, Forbidden Love. Fluff, angst, domestic abuse, Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol and drug abuse, withdrawal symptoms. Death (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : For context, a lavender marriage is mixed-orientation marriage used to hide one or both partner's sexual orientation, in this case, it's Bob's. I have been way into Sentryagent lately lol. Enjoy!

You were eight years old when you met Robert Reynolds, the Viscount’s only son.

Your father, the King, had just finished praising the Viscount in front of the court. “A man of unwavering loyalty,” he said, “and discipline enough to raise a boy a family can be proud of.”

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes. 

And you met his son that day. 

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father —  looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class. 

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course. 

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty. 

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured. 

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege. 

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep. 

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket. 

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James. 

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel. 

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.  

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it. 

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing. 

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded. 

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast. 

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery. 

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm. 

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.” 

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time. 

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent. 

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness. 

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams. 

Queen. 

You were Queen. 

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father. 

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges. 

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed. 

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all. 

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening. 

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage. 

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing. 

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep it up, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press. 

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it. 

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm? 

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him. 

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit. 

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him. 

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers. 

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door. 

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls. 

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes. 

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night. 

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence. 

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running. 

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits. 

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful. 

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take. 

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James. 

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded. 

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs. 

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly. 

The gown was next. Then the jewels. 

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised,  He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded. 

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it. 

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought. 

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile,  — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked. 

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze 

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching. 

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks. 

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move. 

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you. 

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes. 

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin.  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once. 

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin. 

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world. 

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes. 

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not. 

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own. 

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked. 

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John. 

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders. 

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

-end.

[bxtchboy69]

Black Sheep

Summary : The Winter Soldier fell in love with his doctor. Bucky Barnes remembers.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Protective!Bucky, slow-burn, trauma bonding, whump, bit of fluff and a lot of angst, violence, mentions of death, medical trauma, human experimentation, psychological manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, attempted and threatened sexual assault, isolation. Protective!Bucky, slow-burn emotional bonding, and angst. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of sexual violence or abuse. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.2k 

Requested by : Anon! Based on this request

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

When you took the job, you didn’t ask too many questions

The recruiter approached you late—long after you’d sent out resumes, long after your student loan grace period had dried up and your dreams of a hospital residency were smothered under interest rates and rejection emails. They found you exactly when they knew you’d be desperate. 

The offer came in a nondescript envelope. No return address and company name. Just a number to call, and a time limit.

It sounded too good to be true. It offered full medical license activation and triple the usual pay. Off-books, but government-sanctioned, they claimed. You’d be working with elite personnel in a high-clearance, undisclosed location. It was a matter of national security, they said. 

When you made contact, they brought you to a warehouse and made you read non-disclosure agreements—dozens of them. They didn’t let you take them home to review. You signed everything in a windowless room with a clock that ticked too fast, and signed up to the project.

Your official title was “Classified field medic for enhanced personnel. Clearance Level 6 required.” It sounded impressive, official. You told your parents it was part of a DOD black ops program and that you weren’t allowed to say more.

You were happy you could finally help— 

 they had far too much medical debt to ever dig their way out.

And… They were proud.

If only they knew.

You were told you’d be assigned to “classified subjects.”

When they finally gave you the details of the work, you noticed the facility wasn’t listed on any public records. The address they gave you wasn’t on any GPS. The car that picked you up had no license plates. You were blindfolded before arriving.

You should have run then. But you didn’t, because they paid in advance.

You paid off your loans in one go and gave the rest to your family, promising you’d be earning more over the next couple of years. 

The facility you were assigned to didn’t have windows. The lights never changed. Days bled into each other until even your internal clock began to fail you. The air was too clean, the silence too dense—like the walls were swallowing sound. They injected you with yellow liquid when you arrived, and you weren't allowed to ask for details. Cameras were in the corners, always watching. 

You weren’t allowed to ask names. You weren’t given files.

You weren’t allowed your phone. No clocks. No outside contact unless you had prior clearance.

They never called it a hospital, because it wasn’t.

It was a slab of steel buried deep underground in Siberia, and you worked under it like a cog in the coldest machine you’d ever known. The men you reported to didn’t wear name tags or rank insignias. They all looked the same— pale-faced, dressed in black. You didn’t know their names, and you have never heard them use yours, either.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Just for a year. Just until you paid off your loans. Just until you figured out where you really belonged.

But then you saw the red flags. You folded them neatly and tucked them away with your conscience.

See, they knew the kind of people to look for— desperate ones. They recruit smart people who were overworked, drowning in debt or grief or fear. The ones who couldn’t afford to ask where the money came from. 

And by the time you realised who you were really working for, it was too late. Because no one leaves that facility unless it was in a body bag. 

Hydra was predatory like that.

—

You had been patching up STRIKE team operatives for almost a year. You were good—efficient, clean, and silent. You didn’t pry, and what made you valuable.

You never asked where the injuries came from. Bullet wounds, knife gashes, torn ligaments, crushed bones—you treated them all. You developed antiseptics that worked faster than standard-issue cream and learned how to seal a shrapnel wound in under ten minutes. You fixed what needed fixing, and you didn’t get in the way of the mission.

One morning, you were pulled from your bed at 0400 hours without an explanation. Two men in black shook you awake by the arm and took you to an elevator that descended farther than you knew the facility even went. There was a change in the air the deeper you went—thicker, colder. Like the walls were full of ghosts.

They didn’t tell you what your new assignment was, not until you stepped into the white-lit room and saw him.

He was on a reinforced chair, with blood crusted over his ribs and soaked through his cargo pants. The metal arm was twitching with little sparks, the seams dripping oil and blood in equal parts. His right eye was swollen shut and his lip was split.

And still— he didn’t look away.

You’d heard whispers about him before— the Asset.

They called him It.

Not a name. Not a person. A living weapon— built, not born.

You expected more people guarding the cell, but the only other man in the room was his handler— Colonel Vasily Karpov. You’d met men like him before, but none who looked so openly afraid of the thing they commanded.

"The previous doctor had been terminated due to noncompliance,” Karpov said, which was Hydra-speak for the Asset snapped his spine in two like a breadstick.

Your mouth went dry. "And I’m next in line?"

“You’re competent,” he said. “And replaceable.”

He walked out before you could respond.

The door shut behind him with a final hiss, like a coffin sealing.

And then there was just you— and him.

You took a step closer. He tracked your movement with his blue, calculating eyes. You could tell he didn’t know what you were—but knew how to kill you if you got close.

You didn’t speak at first. You just moved slowly, methodically. 

Eventually, you became brave enough to clean the blood. You assessed the damage. His injuries were extensive— fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, deep lacerations across his abdomen. Most people would’ve gone into shock hours ago.

But he sat there, still breathing like a machine.

He didn’t flinch when you treated him.

Not even when you pulled a broken tooth from the inside of his right bicep.

He winced, though, when you put a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. And later, when your gloved hand rested gently on his chest, while rubbing small circles to calm him down, his eyes flicked to your face.

It was the first time he looked at you. 

Afterward, you logged the treatment. You followed the protocol. You filed the injury report.

In the official files, they referred to him as an it. But in your private notes, you called him he.

—

Over the next year or so, you were his doctor. 

And apparently, you were the only doctor who survived more than eight months.

You’d fix up his ribs when they were fractured. You cleaned bullet wounds from his side, his shoulder, the meat of his thigh. You iced swollen knuckles and stitched torn flesh, always so amazed how quickly his body healed. 

But still, they used him until he broke. They froze him from time to time, but after he was out, they dragged him back and told him to put the pieces together.

You worked in silence. He sat in silence.

Most days, his eyes were washed-out and programmed.

But sometimes, during the worst of the injuries—when your hands pressed into open wounds, when you whispered sorry— his eyebrows softened.

At this point, you had memorised his injuries, and the places his enemies targeted again and again. You started pre-packing supplies before he even arrived. 

The handlers noticed.

You began modifying your ointments—adding subtle numbing agents, to match his supersoldier metabolism. 

You weren’t supposed to. They wanted him in pain. 

But you did it anyway.

Once, they brought him in half-conscious, his metal arm sparking at the joint, blood soaked through the tactical gear. There was a knife wound under his ribs— and it was too deep. 

He grunted when you pressed gauze to it.

It was not a reaction to pain. It was a warning. His eyes met yours, and they were clearer than usual— as if he was fighting something.

And then, for the first time, you realised: He knew what was happening to him.

Maybe not always. Maybe not fully.

But there was a man inside the machine, and today was awake just long enough to hate it.

That night, they froze him and drilled the trigger words into his brain again. 

—

Tonight, he came back worse than usual.

Bruised. Bloodied. Shot in seven different places. His face was partially swollen, split lip crusted with dried blood, a jagged tear across his side soaking his uniform black-red. His metal arm twitched violently, fingers clenching and unclenching with a mechanical rhythm— as if the programming inside him was short-circuiting.

He was strapped into the chair again, the restraints digging into his wrists deep enough to turn the skin purple. Four guards had hauled him in like he was an animal— one of them nursing a broken arm. 

They left you alone with him and chuckled, “good luck.” 

The Asset’s head was bowed low, hair falling like a curtain over his eyes. The tension in his shoulders was wrong. Too rigid, too coiled, like a wire stretched too tight and ready to snap.

You stepped closer, and he jerked suddenly against the restraints—and his metal hand nearly caught your arm.

You froze.

In your peripheral vision, the guards laughed behind the glass.

He didn’t look at you.

He was breathing hard and shaking violently, as if was trying to stay in his body.

You looked at the camera in the corner, swallowing back a panic and anger.

“I can’t treat him like this,” you said. If he didn’t calm down enough for you to stitch him up soon, he was going to bleed out.

Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be. It was… unprofessional. 

A few seconds passed before the speaker crackled.

“That’s too bad,” said Karpov’s cold, detached voice. “It is your job.”

You stared at the glass behind which they watched— always watched.

Then you turned back to him.

You tried, as always, to be gentle. To be careful. You knelt to clean the gash under his ribs. You threaded your needle, soaked the wound with antiseptic.

But his body thrashed again.

You dropped the needle.

His metal arm lunged forward, nearly catching your throat before the restraints snapped him back into place.

He didn’t mean to, you reminded yourself.

But the part of him that killed without asking questions was surfacing, and you were too close.

Your hands shook.

He turned his head away from you as if ashamed. Or furious. 

Fuck.

You were losing him.

So you did the only irrational, human thing that came to mind.

You… sang.

“Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool…”

Your voice cracked on the first line. It had been years— you hadn’t sung it since you were small— curled up on your mother’s lap while she ran her fingers through your hair and kept the nightmares away.

You saw his breathing slow down, just slightly. 

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full…”

He…  didn’t flinch again.

You kept singing while you threaded the needle and stitched the worst of the gash along his side. His trembling eased.

You spoke without really meaning to, your voice almost a whisper.

“My mother used to sing it to me,” you lulled. “I only realised later what it meant,” you continued. “‘One for the master, one for the dame…’”

You wiped sweat from your forehead, working on a deeper wound now.

“Servitude, right? ‘One for the little boy who lived down the lane.’ Maybe lullabies sung to entertain children. Maybe they’re for making people… obedient,”

You paused, still stitching, thankful he calmed down. 

“Because I think…,” you said, tilting your head as you managed to fish a bullet out of his side. “Obedience it taught. Not born.”

And then, like the thought slipped out of your mouth without permission, “Were you taught well?”

You didn’t expect a response. 

But this time, his head turned and he looked at you.

His voice came out rough, underused, gravel dragged across rusted metal. But these sounds were not growled nor screamed.

“It was the only thing I remember learning,” he whispered. 

You froze.

It was the first time you had ever heard him speak.

The needle slipped from your hand, fell into the tray with a clink. You were stunned. 

Through all that, he watched you. 

You knelt beside him, picked up the needle again with shaking hands.

His eyes followed you as you resumed treating him. He was silent the rest of the session. 

But something had changed.

—

The first time he leaned into your touch was a couple of months later. 

You were bandaging a wound just beneath his collarbone in tight, methodical loops when your fingers brushed the skin of his neck. He let out a deep breath and tilted his head just slightly toward your hand.

He… made a conscious choice. 

You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But your hands lingered a little longer than usual.

Sometimes, when he was lucid, he’d look at your hands while you worked— following their motion like they were the only real thing in the room. You weren’t sure what he was seeing. 

Then… you started narrating aloud. It was partly for him, partly for you. “This’ll sting a little,” you’d say, cleaning a wound.

“Pressure here—sorry, hold on…”

He never answered at first. 

Then one day, he did.

You were stitching a deep tear in his thigh when your thread caught. “Sorry,” you said under your breath.

“You always say that.”

You looked up, needle halfway through the thread. “Say what?”

“‘Sorry,’” he managed, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry,” you mentioned sheepishly. “I’ll stop saying it.”

Then, you resumed your work.

The next time he came in, he was limping badly, and for once, the restraints weren’t used. Maybe they knew he couldn’t stand. Maybe they didn’t care if he bled out.

And he didn’t even make it to the chair. He sat on the floor instead.

When you knelt beside him, your knees touching his, he didn’t pull away. He let you cut the fabric from yet another ruined suit— fifth one this month— or year? You have long lost track of time in this Siberian bunker. 

Still, he let you clean the blood from his temple.

“Don’t they ever give you a break?” you asked, not expecting an answer.

“No,” he said simply. 

You frowned. 

Still, your hands were steady.

You started humming when he came in—low, quiet melodies under your breath. Sometimes lullabies. Sometimes nothing at all—just sounds, like a lifeline tossed into water. He never asked you to stop.

One night, after they’d brought him in burned—his arm singed, the edge of his jaw blistered—you held an ice pack against his skin and whispered, “You shouldn’t be alive after half of this.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then, after careful consideration, he said, “Sometimes I think I’m not.”

Eventually, he started helping you—lifting an arm for treatment, shifting his weight when he knew it would help you work faster. He never said much. Never more than a sentence or two. But the words, when they came, were clear. 

“Thank you.”

“Be careful.”

One night, he asked for your name.

You told him. But when you asked him what his was, he only said, “I don’t know.”

But for the first time in a very long time, The Asset smiled. 

Because it was the first time anyone ever cared to ask.

—

When he wasn’t in cryofreeze, they kept him in a reinforced room that wasn’t technically a cell, but wasn’t anything else either. It had a cot, a chair, and a toilet.

You called it the holding room.

They called it the kennel.

You’d come in for treatment checks once or twice a week between missions— tended his joints, monitored the fluid viscosity in his metal arm, checked for infection. 

But the guards watched him too. Always. From the control room, behind the glass, hands on the mic.

They joked about him.

At first, it was petty things— how much blood he could lose before he passed out, how many bones had healed crooked.

But it got worse.

Much worse.

They joked about his body when he was in heat. How he “rutted in his sleep sometimes.” How they’d seen the security feed catch him grinding against the mattress, the cot, the restraints, whatever he could in his animal state after missions.

“He’s always desperate after a kill,” one of them said once, laughing. “Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Fucking the pillow like a mutt.”

You had frozen when you heard it. But today—today, it went further.

“Bets?” one of them said. “Ten rubles on the mattress tonight. Twenty on the wall.”

All three of the guards stationed to watch that night laughed. 

“Stop,” you said, through gritted teeth. “What you’re doing is disgusting. Watching him like that—mocking him— when his agency’s being taken from him? He’s a fucking person and you need to grow up.”

What followed was the longest ten seconds of silence in your life. 

And then one of them leaned forward in his chair and sneered. “If you think he’s a person, why don’t you go in there?”

You blinked. “What?"

“Go on,” The other guard grinned and got up from his seat. “If you think he’s man and not machine, let’s test it.”

You stepped back, realising what their plan was. “Don’t touch me.”

“Too late.”

Their hands grabbed your arms.

You fought—kicked, screamed, bit one of them hard enough to draw blood—but there were three of them, and you were half their size. One of them slammed your head into the wall hard enough to daze you. 

You didn’t know where the pain began — your scalp where they’d yanked your hair? The side of your jaw where a fist had struck you clean across the face? 

Still, you fought. You slammed your elbow into one guard’s windpipe hard enough to make him choke. You thrashed and tried everything, but they were stronger. 

And they enjoyed it.

You’d never seen teeth like that — bared in joy at suffering. One of them— Maksimov had blood on his knuckles and another— Yuri had both hands up your shirt before you bit him hard enough to draw blood.

You screamed, “He—we— a person!” not knowing whether you meant yourself or the Winter Soldier.

But they didn’t care.

One of them tore at the buttons of your shirt while another held your arms behind you. The fabric split as your bra snapped and air hit your chest and you curled inward, shaking, humiliated, trying to hide your body with trembling hands.

“He’ll definitely go for her pussy,” one of them muttered like it was a bet at a bar.

“I’d go for the ass first,” another chuckled. “Tighter.”

Then came the worst line.

“I bet the dumb beast doesn’t know the difference and finish in her mouth in under three minutes.”

The laughter didn’t stop.

Your legs gave out once they dragged you through the hallway to the lower levels. You stumbled, bleeding from your lip, your breasts half-exposed, nails broken from the fight. They hauled you back up and slammed your back into the steel door before keying it open.

You saw the inside of the room for only a second before they shoved you in and locked the door behind you with a clang.

“Have fun, soldat!” A guard, Anton, said.

You fell, and started trembling.

Everything hurt.

And then you looked up.

He was there.

The Asset — him. The Winter Soldier.

He was standing in the center of the room. He wasn’t strapped down this time, his long hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. His chest was bare, streaked with drying blood and oil. His eyes locked onto you the moment you hit the floor.

You froze.

Your arms flew across your body, trying to cover yourself as you backed yourself into the wall.  You curled in on yourself, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the rush of blood in your ears.

He’ll fuck you, they had said. He’ll take the choice away from you. He’ll use you as a way to satisfy himself.

You believed it for a second.

You’d seen what he could do — seen the machine they’d made him into. You’d see the bloodlust in his eyes when he came back from missions. 

You were terrified.

You curled tighter.

He took one step forward.

And… stopped.

You took a chance and looked at your face.

He wasn’t looking at your chest. He wasn’t leering. His pupils weren’t blown wide with mindless hunger. He wasn’t hard, or panting, or unchained from reality.

He was staring at your injuries.

At the torn fabric, at the swelling in your cheek. The handprint rising red on your arm. And the grip marks on your breaks. The blood at your lip. His brow furrowed.

And his whole body… melted.

The heat was gone, almost instantly. 

Slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.

“Who…” he rasped, “did this to you?”

His voice was hoarse, barely there. But there was no mistaking the rage that had formed underneath it — nothing like the lust the guards had imagined.

He handed you his only blanket, and you clutched it. He let you wrap yourself in it, and when you couldn’t stand, he helped you sit up, not touching your skin unless he had to.

“Maksimov, Yuri, and Anton,” you whispered, lip trembling.

His teeth clenched.

He reached out slowly — slow enough that you could move away, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t force — and brushed the blanket more tightly around your shoulders, like he was covering you from the world, from the camera, from the three guards he knew were watching.  

You were still crying. You didn’t realise it until his human thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

He just sat there, at your level, holding the blanket closed with one hand, eyes locked on yours. Not on your body. Not on your skin. 

You folded into his chest, not because he demanded it, but because it was safe. 

He wrapped his arms around you like he’d never learned how to hold a person without breaking them. And still — he didn’t break you.

He just held you, shivering, until your breathing slowed.

And in the silence, you heard the quietest thing of all. “I won’t hurt you.”

Once again, The Asset had made a choice. 

A human one.

—

Hours passed.

The two of you stayed curled together on the concrete. You had stopped crying eventually, but your body still trembled now and then— from shock, from adrenaline.

You still felt his arm around your shoulders—gentle, not possessive.

The guards who had been watching were probably bored. You thought maybe—maybe—you’d be left alone. Maybe they’d gotten the message. Maybe they wouldn’t push again.

You were proven wrong when the heavy steel door hissed open.

You barely had time to pull the blanket tighter.

The same three guards entered and they were prepared. They carried sleek, matte black rifles. Loaded, to deal with The Asset should he go rogue. 

And then you heard the voice.

“Что с тобой, солдат?” — What the fuck is wrong with you, Soldat?

Yuri stepped forward, gun dangling casually in his hands, eyes not even on The Asset— but on you.

“Мы дали тебе дырку, и ты даже не воспользовался ею?” — We gave you a hole and you didn’t even use it?

You flinched so hard your head hit the metal wall behind you.

The Asset stood up and stepped directly in front of you, body between yours and theirs, fists clenched. He was…shielding you.

The guards exchanged glances, laughing now. One of them cocked his gun and slung it over his shoulder like a prop in a theatre.

“Ладно. Тогда мы сами её трахнем,” —Fine. Then we’ll use her ourselves. Maksimov said, smiling.

And then Yuri moved fast. He reached out and grabbed your ankle, hard, yanking you out of the blanket.

You screamed.

And The Asset snapped.

No hesitation, No programming.

Just rage.

The Asset’s metal fist punched Yuri square in the chest and launched him into the far wall. The impact was loud enough that you heard a crack—maybe the wall, but most likely Yuri’s spine.

Before anyone else could react, he twisted and ripped the rifle from Anton’s hands. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and shot Maksimov in the throat.

Blood sprayed the walls, and Maksimov gurgled once before slumping to the ground.

Anton raised his hands to surrender.

Too late.

Bucky pivoted, metal arm slamming the barrel of the rifle into Anton’s face with brutal force, then fired— one shot, clean through the eye.

He dropped the gun.

It clattered to the floor, ringing louder than the gunshots had.

He turned back toward you, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

He knelt. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You blinked, still clutching the blanket, hands shaking.

—

Within minutes of the bodies hitting the ground, you heard the sound of heavy boots walking in.

Karpov entered the cell like he owned the air in it.

He didn’t look at you.

He didn’t look at the corpses.

He only looked at The Asset who was still crouched in front of you, body curled like a shield.

Karpov simply pressed a switch on a small black device he held in his gloved hand.

There was a crack of electricity, and The Asset screamed.

You jolted, reaching for him—but it was no use.

His body seized up as the taser pulse ran through his spine, his metal arm locking tight against the floor, 

He didn’t resist. He didn’t even try.

When he collapsed unconscious beside the cot, Karpov turned to you without missing a beat.

“Come.”

You shook your head. “He—he was protecting me—he saved me—”

“You’ll have time for your little report later,” he snapped, throwing you some clothes to put on. “For now, come.”

—

The interrogation room was cold. 

Karpov stood across the table from you, arms folded.

“You will explain,” he said coldly.

Your eyebrows furrowed, still half in shock. “Explain what?”

He tilted his head. “You calmed him down.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

"You do understand," he said in his frigid Russian-laced English, “that he should have either killed you, or fucked you.”

You froze.

He watched your reaction like a scalpel watches skin.

“That’s what the programming was designed to do,” he continued. “You are aware of his conditioning, yes?”

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice.

“Then you know what heat was for.”

You have heard of why it was drilled in his brain— but you didn’t answer.

Karpov did not wait for permission to continue.

“It was an instinct trigger. Embedded in his biological and neural mapping through synthetic hormonal injections and psychosexual conditioning. During these ‘heat’ cycles, he was supposed to be motivated—” He paused, eyes narrow, “—it was supposed to encourage mating.”

Your throat closed. Did he really not care about the dead guards? Was the project really his main concern?

“The Soldier’s DNA is nearly perfect.” he said, as if it was. “Hydra wanted progeny. Super soldiers born, not built.”

He leaned in then, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“But every woman they introduced… didn’t survive long enough to be useful. He tore through them out of instinct. So the project was abandoned years ago. The heat was too unstable, and he had no control.” He sat down across from you. “Until you.”

Your stomach lurched.

“You,” Karpov said slowly, “calmed him down.”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. 

“You must have!” he snapped. 

You flinched. 

“I’ve studied his tapes for years! I've watched him crush skulls with his bare hands, tear out throats. Rip people in half when the words are spoken. But you—” Karpov stood, circling the table again. “—you knelt half-naked in front of him while he was in heat—and instead of fucking you to death, he held you.”

“I don’t know,” you said hoarsely. 

Karpov stared at you for a long moment, then sighed. He picked up the file from the table and turned to leave.

At the door, without turning back, he said, “You’re being reassigned.”

—

When you went back to your quarters. Your bunk was gone.

Your locker was cleared and stuffed neatly into a duffel bag. 

On the floor was a folded piece of paper.

REASSIGNED TO: THE KENNEL Effective Immediately. Observation: Subject Winter Soldier Objective: Behavioral stabilization Note: Subject's physiological response indicates reduced volatility in your presence. Further utility assessment pending.

You sank onto the cot.

Now, to Hydra, you weren’t just a doctor. You were a leash.

—

The cot wasn’t meant for two.

It was military-issue— narrow, hard-edged, bolted to the floor like everything else in the kennel. At first, you didn’t even sit on it when he was there. You’d sleep on the floor with your back to the cold steel wall, too awkward to mention what happened that day. The blanket was wrapped tight, pretending it wasn’t humiliating, pretending you weren’t always cold.

At first, he’d just watch, afraid of crossing a line— especially after what had happened to you. 

Then, after a week, he motioned for you to sit beside him on the cot when you changed bandages or administered injections.

Then, a month in, after a mission where he came back with his knuckles broken and a gunshot wound near his ribs, you were too exhausted to curl back up on the floor. You’d been crying silently that night, your hands trembling as you stitched him, your eyes stinging, wondering where everything had gone wrong. 

When you’d finished, he looked at you. “…You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“What?”

He shifted to make room. One side of the cot opened up to you.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

That night, you lay stiff as a board beside him, back to back, flinching to touch. You barely slept, afraid to breathe too loud.

But the next night, when you came back from the showers and the lights dimmed for sleep, he scooted over before you even asked.

By the second month, your backs were pressed together at night. 

By the third, you’d curl inward, and he’d curl, too. One of your legs would brush his. Your forehead might graze his chest. His arm, the flesh one, sometimes draped around your side in the middle of sleep and didn’t pull away when you shifted closer.

—

When his heat cycles came—and they always came—you prepared.

You stayed calm and gave him space. 

You… would sing to him. Lullabies, mostly— songs meant for children too small to understand how cruel the world could be.

He never moved toward you during those nights. He never touched you without invitation. He’d sit on the cot, the muscles in his neck pulled tight.

Sometimes he’d whisper things to himself, half-delirious.

"No. Not her. Not her."

—

When he was frozen, you stayed in the kennel alone.

You didn’t think you’d miss him, but you did.

You’d find yourself sitting on the floor beside his cot, staring at the sealed cryo-chamber, singing to yourself just to fill the space.

And when they unfroze and reset him, you were still his doctor.

You still iced his knuckles. You still placed his dislocated shoulder back. You still pulled bullets from his flesh and closed the wounds with care no one else gave him.

But after the first few months, he started looking at you differently.

Like he knew you. Even after resets. Even after ice.

—

One day, after a mission that had stretched on far longer than any of the others—he came back. He was quiet when he entered. He did not say a word. 

But after two hours of working on his wound, he whispered, “Bucky.”

You tilted your head, confused. You weren’t sure you’d heard right. 

Then he said it again, firmer this time. “My name is Bucky.”

What?

Your mouth opened slowly, your breath finally catching up. 

He… remembered?

“…Okay, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be— because anything louder might shatter whatever this was—perhaps a glimpse of the man buried beneath all the programming and pain. “Can you please lift your arm for me?”

He did.

And for the first time, he looked… not just present. Not just there.

He looked real.

—

You were still asleep when the cold hands tore the blanket from your body.

Two Hydra agents stormed into the kennel, and before you could even sit up, they had you by the hair, dragging you off the cot like a rag doll.

Bucky shifted awake next to you, but the third guard tased him before he could fully even register what was happening.

“What—what are you doing—?!”

They didn’t answer. They just manhandled you down the corridor, your bare feet scraping along concrete, your heart still stuck between dreams and dread.

In the interrogation room, one of them shoved you into the metal chair so hard the back of your skull smacked against steel. A hand grabbed your chin, wrenching your face toward him. The other paced behind, a cattle prod crackling ominously in his grip.

You recognised the person in front of you as Karpov. “What did he tell you?”

You blinked. Your ears rang. You were still half-asleep, disoriented. 

Then you realised: 

Oh. 

Someone saw the footage.

Someone saw what happened last night. Someone heard Bucky say his name.

Your mouth opened, before shutting again. You weren’t even sure what to say. He didn’t tell you anything else, but if you said so, would they even believe you?

But Karpov demanded more.

“Did he say his designation?”

“Did he say anything else? Was there a code?”

“What did he tell you, girl?”

The prod surged forward with a snap of electricity, kissing your side. You screamed—more from shock than pain—but the heat seared like fire across your ribs. You convulsed in the chair, gasping, trying to curl away, but the restraints held you firm.

And then—through your haze—you saw a flicker in the hall.

You heard a grunt. A thud.

And suddenly—he was there.

The Winter Soldier. No—Bucky.

His body still shook from the effects of the tasers, but his eyes were burning. 

One of the agents turned in time to catch a brutal kick to the gut that sent him sprawling. The other barely got a hand to his weapon before Bucky lunged, using the full weight of his body to knock him back. You saw blood and heard bone crack.

In seconds, it was over. Even Karpov was hauled away to safety. 

Bucky was at your side, kneeling, his trembling fingers working clumsily at the restraints. 

“Bucky—” your voice cracked. “You’re hurt—your face—”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

The cuffs snapped off.

You sagged forward, into his arms before you even realised you were doing it. You felt the thrum of his chest, the rise and fall of ragged breathing. 

He cupped your face with his human hand, and for a second you thought he might kiss you — but no. He pulled back.

Because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t have the strength to lose you.

“You need to go.”

You froze. “What?”

“There’s a tunnel—service corridor—they don’t watch it after hours. It connects to the south barracks. You can get outside the perimeter.”

“Bucky—no,” you said through gritted teeth, “I’m not leaving you.”

He clenched his teeth. 

“You have to,” he said. “I can’t protect you here.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.”

That stopped you cold.

His voice cracked on those words. He looked away, just for a second, as if ashamed of how much he meant them. “I— I’m starting to know things I shouldn’t,” he said softly. “I need you to go. If I don’t… if I’m not… If they wiped me…”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“I need you to promise me,” he said, almost begging now. “Don’t come back for me.”

“I—please—”

His lips brushed your forehead, right before he shoved you gently but firmly toward the hall.

“Go.”

So you did.

—

Thirty Years Later.

The world had changed. 

Until yesterday, James Buchanan Barnes was a congressman. He didn’t go looking for redemption anymore. And he certainly didn’t go looking for you.

What would be the point?

You were probably… what? In your sixties? Seventies? If you’d survived at all— and Hydra said you hadn’t, that they’d caught you in one of the tunnels and killed you— he could only hope you’d built a life—married someone kind, had children, found a place where the past couldn’t follow you. If you had managed to find peace, he wasn’t going to rip it open like an old scar just to ask, Do you remember me?

So he never tried.

But he never loved again either.

Because even if he never said it out loud, Bucky Barnes had once loved you in a place where love wasn't supposed to exist. 

He still did.

That kind of love didn’t fade. It just lay quiet beneath the skin, like a healed-over wound that never quite stopped aching.

It wasn’t something he talked about. Not to Sam. Not to Steve, before he left. 

Until...

—

New York. Post-Void.

The sky was still clearing after the void had swallowed New York City whole

The Thunderbolts were scattered across the debris-littered street, dragging survivors from the wreckage after Valentina smirked smugly from successfully introducing them to the world as the New Avengers.

Bucky was scanning for movement in the fallen concrete.

That’s when he heard it.

It was faint, like madness like a lullaby from another life.

“Baa baa, black sheep… have you any wool…”

His whole body went still. 

He whipped around, scanning the dust and rubble, and—

There.

You were kneeling beside a crying girl on a broken stoop, blood smeared down her shin, and she had a sprained ankle— maybe. Nothing fatal—but you held her like she was made of glass, one hand gently pressing a bandage against her knee, the other stroking her curls as you sang.

And you… you hadn’t changed.

There was not a wrinkle on your skin, not a gray hair on your head. You didn’t look a day older than the last time he saw you, thirty years ago.

He was so stunned, he forgot how to breathe. 

“You know her?” Yelena asked, stepping beside him, flicking blood from her forehead.

“Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.”

You calmed the little girl down when she started sobbing, making sure you were gentle with her injuries. 

Bucky didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His lips parted like he might say yes, but no sound came out. 

“One for the master, one for the dame,” you sang as the girl sniffled, “and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.”

It was like his lungs had forgotten air. His heart beat painfully inside his ribs—too much, too fast, too sudden.

And then—

You looked up.

Saw him.

And smiled.

—

You walked over to him like you were in a dream—like every step was an act of defiance to everything that had broken you, bent you, tried to erase you. 

He was now sitting on the ground, legs sprawled like they couldn’t quite hold him up anymore. Blood streaked across his jaw, already drying in cracked lines. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from drowning.

Your boots crunched over broken glass and gravel as you closed in. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t know if he could handle words yet—not until your presence fully registered. 

You crouched down, and he flinched when you touched his face—not because it hurt, but because he didn’t trust that any of this was real.

“You’re hurt,” you finally said. “Let me help.”

You pulled out the antiseptic, your hands shaking slightly. You dabbed the cotton gently along the edges of a deep cut above his brow. The moment the liquid touched skin, he shuddered.

And then he started shaking.

The tremble that began in his hands and spread to his shoulders, his chest, his teeth. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, to ask something, but the words got lost 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. His breath hitched before the first choked sob, clawing its way up his throat.

And maybe it had been.

Because it wasn’t just about seeing you. It was about seeing you alive.

Alive.

Not a hallucination. Not a memory. Not like he saw you, in the void. 

Alive. With breath in your lungs and heat in your veins and the same look in your eyes that once held him when he was in pain. 

His lips moved—silent at first. Then the words came out shaky. “Do you… remember me?”

You froze for half a second, eyes softening in a way that shattered him all over again.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, brushing a stray hair away from his forehead. “I could never forget the love of my life.”

Was that what he was to you?

After all this time, he still meant the same thing that you did to him? 

He turned his face away like it might somehow spare him some tears, but it didn’t. The sob that followed ripped from the deepest part of his heart, almost primitive. Not the kind you cry when you’re sad, but the kind you cry when you realise your heart’s still beating after being convinced it was gone.

He collapsed into himself, shoulders hitching, breath stuttering out in ragged gasps. His metal hand clawed blindly at the ground like he needed something solid to hold onto before he slipped under.

You didn’t say anything else. You just moved closer, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders, resting your forehead to his temple as he wept.

Yelena had wandered off a while ago—probably in search of someone else to pester— most likely her father. 

She hadn’t even looked back. She probably knew that this moment didn’t belong to her.

It belonged to him. And you.

He tried to say something else—an apology, maybe, or a confession—but all that came out was, “I—I…” he swallowed, “I— I…”

“Bucky…” You hushed him gently, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “We’ll talk somewhere private, yeah?”

He barely nodded. 

Because right now, language was too small a thing. All he could do was hold onto you. And all his mind could think was the way your hand fit in his like it always had.

—

You walked ahead of him, leading him down the cracked sidewalk with a hand hovering just near his arm in case he stumbled again.

He hadn’t stopped shaking.

Every so often, Bucky would glance sideways at you—like if he looked away for too long, you might vanish. His eyes were still red, his fists clenched like it hurt to hold himself together. Still, he followed.

It wasn’t far—just a few blocks. Somewhere between tourist traps and bodegas. 

The sign above the trauma clinic was clean and professional. Your name etched in utilitarian serif, easily overlooked.

You didn’t take him through the front. Instead, you circled to the alley behind the building and paused before a rusted steel door that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. But then—you looked directly at a small, seamless panel embedded beside the frame.

A red light swept across your retina, and when it recognised you— the lock hissed open with a pneumatic sigh.

“Come on,” you murmured as the door swung inward.

You descended a narrow staircase, the lights flickering on ahead of you one by one—clean, white fluorescence bathing the walls. At the bottom, it opened into a wide, reinforced corridor. 

And then you turned the final corner.

Oh.

That was all his mind could manage.

This was not a secret lab. Not some grim Hydra hellhole or impersonal bunker. 

No. This place was…

It was your life. A shrine. A sanctum buried beneath the city.

It was a sterile medical bay with sleek counters, an exam table and chair, sealed cabinets filled with trauma kits and gauze and every instrument a trauma doctor could need—but the walls told a different story.

To his right: a newspaper framed in glass. “Harlem Disaster Narrowly Avoided: Doctor Treats Over Fifty Civilians After Abomination Rampage.” Your name was in the byline. There was even a photo—blurry, taken on someone’s flip phone, of you, sleeves rolled up, arms smeared with blood as you performed a field tourniquet on a screaming man.

Then, “Unsung Hero of New York: Trauma Doctor Saves Dozens in Battle of Midtown.”

He kept turning. The memorabilia… evolved.

A cracked Daredevil helmet, dark red and scuffed.

A display case holding a single 9mm bullet, etched with the faint white skull of the Punisher— etched on it. 

A shattered web cartridge, unmistakably Spidey’s, with a bit of dried synthetic fluid still crusted at the nozzle.

Even a shelf with a glittery Ms. Marvel Funko Pop, clearly out of place, sitting cheerfully among medical books and gauze rolls.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was nothing more than a breath. “What is this?”

You stepped beside him, your fingers trailing the little bobblehead. “Gifts from… friends.”

He turned to you. “Friends?”

You gave him a tired smile and joked, “Is it so unbelievable for me to have friends, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled by the levity. You gently nudged him to sit on the exam table, and he obeyed without protest as you cleaned his wounds. 

“I just…” he said, voice thin. “I don’t know how you’re still alive. Or how you still look so…” His eyes lingered. “…young.”

You didn't meet his gaze. “Thank Hydra.”

Bucky swallowed, but you continued. 

“When I got recruited, they injected me with something— they said it was just a stimulant— to keep me going longer, help me work longer hours.”

He went still.

“Later, I learned that it was something called the Infinity Formula. Not exactly a Super Soldier Serum, but it… slowed my aging significantly. I guess they didn't want to have to train more people.”

You kept working on the cuts on his face. 

“When you got me out… I didn’t know how to be in the world anymore. So I built this practice. I wanted to be… useful”

Your fingers paused briefly, then continued.

“But then, vigilantes started showing up. People who couldn’t go to hospitals— people who were bleeding, hunted, scared. It was a small community, so word spread.”

Bucky winced as you moved on to the next cut.

“I patched them up.” You nodded toward the artifacts on the walls. “No questions. Just… tried to keep them breathing long enough to get back out there. It became my life.”

Every artifact had a story, and you were the invisible thread stitching it together.

“A couple months ago, Fisk outlawed masked vigilantes and made everything worse. Not a lot come round anymore, but I still help. How could I not?” You looked up at him.“They show up half-dead, still trying to save people. They just need someone to believe they’re worth saving too.”

Bucky's hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

You pulled the final stitch and wrapped the wound. “There,” you whispered. “You’re good.”

But Bucky didn’t move. He was staring again. Not at the artifacts, not at the walls. But… at you.

“You…” His voice cracked. “You never stopped.”

There was no more Hydra. No more handlers. No more needles.

And yet you continued doing what you do best. 

Back then, he'd thought he'd imagined it. That flicker of you— the only good thing in that place built to destroy anything good.

But now…

Now, here you were. Standing in front of him. Still real. Still breathing. Still looking at him like he was a man, not a weapon.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse and hesitant, like it hurt to say.

“Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He looked at you, struggling to find his voice. “Can I touch you?”

You didn’t move for a heartbeat. But then you nodded.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you ever closer, barely daring to breathe. He lifted his metal arm so gently, like you might vanish if he pressed too hard— he cupped your cheek.

His thumb brushed along your skin, just once.

It was real. 

His other hand followed, cradling your face between his palms. His calloused fingers trembled against you, his lips parting. A man who had faced death a thousand times over… and was now utterly undone by the fact that you were standing in front of him, alive.

Bucky pressed his forehead against yours, and the first sob slipped out of him like a wound opening in real time. His whole body curled inward, as if trying to shield you and collapse into you at the same time.

Your hands came up slowly, mirroring his motion like magnets finding their way to each other after centuries apart, holding him just as gently. “I missed you, Bucky.”

His eyes, that haunted blue, searched your face. “Why didn’t you come for me?” he asked, pain buried deep in his voice. You must’ve seen him in the news— during the Sokovia Accords, the ordeal with the Flag Smashers, or when he became a congressman. You simply have had to have seen him.

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think…,” you admitted, “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

His brows furrowed. “Of course I remembered you,” he said, a little broken, a little desperate. His thumb moved again, tracing circles against your skin. “But Hydra told me you were dead— I never believed them. But after everything, I thought maybe you’d moved on. That you were gone for good, one way or another.”

Tears welled in your eyes now, hot and brimming over, and you let them fall. “After what we’ve been through?” you asked, your voice trembling as a sad smile curled your lips. “How could I ever move on from you?”

He let out a sharp breath, like your words were a punch to the chest. Gently, as if giving you the chance to pull away,  he pulled you closer — chest to chest, heart to heart — until he helped you up and you were straddling his lap, your hands finding a perch on his shoulders, his arms caging you in like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His forehead rested against yours again, breaths mingling, warm and shallow. 

“God, Bucky…After all this time,” you whispered in amazement, “what are we?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

Then, finally, with certainty, he said, “A choice.”

Your breath hitched.

“A choice,” he repeated, eyes locked with yours, his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “The first real choice I made after having my mind taken from me. The first person I cared for that were not orders, not missions.”

Oh.

You let your fingers trail up into his hair, letting yourself touch him like you’d dreamed about for so long. He leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat.

You swallowed again, sighed when he leaned into your touch. 

“I…” you started, but  pulled back just slightly so you could see his face, your eyes meeting his. “Can I kiss you?”

He looked at you like you were the only person in the world that made any sense.

He could only nod. 

And you kissed him.

It was cautious at first, tentative, like a secret being unravelled — but the second he hummed, the world disappeared. His hand slid to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you to him as he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. You melted into him, your mouths moving together like you’d done this a thousand times in your dreams.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead pressed to his again, both of you smiling like teenagers.

You let out a small laugh, “I’ve always wondered what your lips tasted like.”

He chuckled too, that low, boyish sound you hadn’t heard… ever. “Yeah?” he asked, fingers still tracing lazy lines along your spine. “Was it everything you imagined?”

You grinned, eyes still closed. “Better.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth and whispered, “I missed you, too.”

—

You and Bucky had taken it slow.

After those first intense days together, you both decided to learn about each other outside of Hydra. Just to see who you were now. 

You went on actual dates— coffee that turned into late dinners, morning hikes, lazy afternoons in museums, cooking together and arguing over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. 

Turns out, outside the cold walls of bunkers and laboratories and hidden bases, you and Bucky were more compatible than you'd even dared hope. He liked vinyl records and peaceful mornings. You liked stargazing and stealing his sweaters. You both loved old noir films, loved sushi, and had developed a strangely passionate shared hobby for urban beekeeping.

You laughed more. He smiled more. It was like discovering each other for the first time all over again.

You’d kept your medical practice open, still offering your services to non-traditional patients. But when the Watchtower was done and the New Avengers moved in, they asked you to help the team.

Your official title was Medical Liaison and Trauma Consultant, but mostly you patched up a rotating cast of stubborn supersoldiers and spies who swore they “healed fast” and then passed out on your med bay floor.

But today, the med bay was calm — just a light checkup for Alexei, a bruised rib for Yelena, and a lot of banter.

Everyone knew you and Bucky were dating, but no one had the guts (or stupidity) to ask questions. 

Until now.

You were cleaning up your tray of instruments when Bob leaned back in his chair and asked casually, “So… how did you guys meet again?”

You paused.

Bucky, seated on the edge of the exam table with his shirt half-buttoned, glanced at you.

“Oh, you know,” you blinked, “Mutual enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What does that even mean?” Walker asked, clearly disappointed. 

You smiled sweetly. “It means you don’t want to know.”

Yelena squinted at you from the other bed. “It means the real story is either classified or deeply traumatic.”

“Or both,” Alexei said.

You laughed — a little too brightly for the topic — and handed Yelena her discharge form. “Exactly. Now who’s next for bloodwork?”

Bucky slid off the table, kissing your cheek quickly as he passed. Ava rolled her eyes so hard you could practically hear it.

Mutual enemies? Yeah, right. 

The more accurate term would be: the best thing Hydra never meant to happen. 

– end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

[bxtchboy69]

Grimmauld: The House That Buried Its Children & The Ones Who Stay

brother!sirius black x fem!black!reader (centered) , james potter x fem!reader

synopsis: within the ancient and noble House of Black, where shadows cling like whispered memories, the story of its heirs unfolds — bound by blood, silence, and a past that never lets go. this is the quiet tragedy of a family built on legacy and expectation, the tale of three siblings — Sirius, Regulus, and you — whose lives were shaped by the name Black and forever haunted by the weight it bore.

cw: grief, trauma, loss of family, sibling conflict, secret romance, emotional and psychological distress, neglect, abuse, war, death, sacrifice, PTSD, intense emotional themes, bittersweet romance, legacy burdens, depression, death, very minor brief hints of suicide, forced marriages, and mourning. (timelines aren't canon compliant)

w/c: 13k (what can i say, the Black trauma is very detailed and long)

a/n: this is probably the best thing i’ve written — maybe the best i ever will — and i won’t apologize for the angst <3

masterlist

1978

It is raining the night Sirius leaves.

Not the kind of rain that arrives with spectacle and fury. Not the dramatic sort that rips through the clouds like a wound or makes the house tremble with thunder’s weight.

But a quieter sorrow. A gentle and ceaseless drizzle that feels older than memory, as if it began long before the sky turned grey and will linger long after the world forgets what it means to be dry, to be warm, to be whole.

Grimmauld Place breathes in that rain like it knows what’s coming, like it has always known, and the halls are colder than they’ve ever been. Not because the hearth has gone dark or the embers have died, but because something unseen is curling into ash in the walls. Something made of shared secrets and childhood echoes and the paper-thin thread of love that once bound a family, now fraying with every breath, every step, every silence.

There is no shouting now. Not anymore. Not since the voices collapsed into exhaustion, into finality.

And even though it might have been an hour ago or maybe two, or maybe longer than that, the house still hums with it, still remembers the shape of the words, the violence of the vowels, your mother’s voice cutting through the air like something sacred and profane all at once—a blade you’ve heard so many times your bones flinch on instinct, and your ears have begun to confuse cruelty with comfort, with home, with love.

You sit on the stairs, knees drawn up and head pressed to the banister, half-swallowed by shadows like the house is trying to hide you or keep you from breaking, and you listen even though it hurts. Listen because it’s the only way you know how to say goodbye without saying it, without naming it.

And down the corridor, your mother’s voice rises again, shrill and bitter and full of rot. But Sirius does not raise his voice in return. Not tonight. Not this time. And that silence is worse than any screaming. That silence is a goodbye carved in stone. It is a decision made in a place too deep for you to reach.

You do not know where Regulus is. Only that he is not here. Not in this moment that has changed everything. And maybe that’s his gift—to disappear when it matters most, to tuck himself into corners and shadows and silences so precisely that not even grief can find him.

Maybe he is in the library with the door shut and the curtains drawn, pretending that thunder doesn’t exist and neither does rain. Maybe he is curled so tightly into himself that to unfold him would be to shatter him completely.

But you are not Regulus. You never were. And silence does not fit in your mouth the way it fits in his—soft and seamless and sharp. You are not good at pretending you don’t feel the world falling apart around you. You are not good at swallowing the scream that’s lodged in your throat or the ache that is blooming beneath your ribs like something alive and vengeful and unspoken.

You are not good at pretending you don’t care.

And tonight, as the rain keeps falling and the house holds its breath and Sirius walks away without looking back, you feel something in you break in the exact shape of him.

You rise when you hear the trunk click shut. You move before you think, your bare feet slipping across the floor as if your body already knows it has to chase him before your mind catches up.

You don’t remember crossing the corridor, only the way your breath falters when you see him at the door—one hand on the handle, the other curled tight around the strap of his bag.

His hair is damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes bright with something that is not joy, not quite sorrow either, more like finality, like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Sirius,” you breathe, and the name comes out small and frightened, like it used to when you were six and couldn’t fall asleep without his hand wrapped around yours.

He turns, and for a moment you almost forget how to speak.

“Don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks halfway through. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s already rehearsed it, like he’s already said goodbye to you in his head.

“No you don’t,” you say, stepping closer, arms trembling now. “You don’t have to leave me, Sirius, please. You can stay. We can fix it, I’ll talk to her, I’ll try harder, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t fix this,” he interrupts, and his voice is rough around the edges, like it’s been scraping against his own ribs. “You shouldn’t even be trying. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands are shaking now, reaching out without permission, fingers grasping for something to hold on to, something steady in a world that’s coming undone.

“But you’re my brother,” you whisper, and your voice breaks entirely, like it’s never learned how to carry this kind of goodbye. “You’re my favourite person in the world. You always were.”

“I know,” he says, and this time his voice shakes too. He drops his bag. Takes a step toward you. “You were mine too. You never had to earn that.”

You want to laugh, or fall to your knees. “So don’t go.”

“I have to,” he murmurs, but softer now, like he’s hoping you won’t shatter if he says it gently enough. “I’ve stayed for as long as I could. But staying... it’s not living anymore.”

“But I need you,” you say, almost like a child, almost like a prayer. “You’re the one who made it bearable. You’re the reason I could stay. If you go—Sirius, if you go, I don’t know who I’ll be without you.”

He’s closer now, so close you can see the shine in his eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, as if to make the leaving softer. As if to make sure you remember his face from this angle too.

“You’ll still be you,” he says, and his hands come up to cradle your face, as if he could hold all the years you’ve shared between his palms.

His thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, slow and reverent. “You’ll still have the stars in you. You’ll still sing in the morning when you think no one’s listening. You’ll still make Regulus eat when he forgets. You’ll still be light, even here.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t want to be light. I just want you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it hurts. “I want you too. But I can’t stay. Not when staying is killing me.”

You press your forehead to his, tears dripping between you, breath shared like it used to be when the world was smaller and kinder.

Sirius’s breath hitches. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, just like he used to when you were children afraid of thunder.

For a moment, you are six again, hiding under blankets while he told you stories about stars and carved tiny moons into the wood of the headboard. For a moment, there is no family name, no blood purity, no war waiting at the doorstep. Only the brother you loved first.

“Take care of Regulus,” he whispers, voice like wind through a dying tree. “He’s going to need you. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Even if he pretends he doesn’t want you near.”

“He hates me,” you say, and it stings because part of you believes it. “We don’t talk anymore. We’re twins but we’re strangers.”

“Then love him anyway,” Sirius says, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Because this house is going to eat him alive. And you’re the only one left who can remind him what a soul is.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “No. You can stay. Please. I’ll—I’ll talk to Mother. I’ll make her stop. You don’t have to leave me, Sirius. Not you. Not you too.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment something in his eyes breaks, softens, just slightly, but then it’s gone again and his mouth sets into that line you’ve come to dread—the one that means he’s already decided.

“She’s never going to stop,” he says, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t know how. This house will never stop. And you—you don’t understand, you think this is just noise, but it’s not, it’s poison, and it’s been inside us since the day we were born.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts a hand to brush your tears away, gentle like always, like you’re still little and he’s still the one who could fix things just by being there. “I want you to stay,” you whisper. “You’re my brother. You’re the one person I—”

Your voice breaks, and you fold forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like if you hold tight enough, he won’t go.

“You’re the one person I feel safe with.”

Sirius exhales sharply, and for a second you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to change his mind. That he’ll sit down, put the bag away, crawl back into the twin bed down the hall and wait for morning. But instead he presses a kiss to the top of your head, slow and lingering.

“You were my home long before I knew what that meant,” he says quietly. “But I can’t live in a place that only wants to break me.”

“I don’t care about the house,” you cry. “I just care about you.”

“I know,” he says, and his hands are trembling now too. “That’s why I have to go. Before I forget who I am. Before I become what they want.”

You look at him and realize this is the last time he’ll ever be your brother here. The last time he’ll be Sirius Black of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. After this, he’ll belong to somewhere else. To someone else.

And still—still—you whisper, “Don’t go.”

He closes his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just reaches for the trunk, fingers curling around the handle like it’s an anchor, like if he doesn’t hold on he might shatter entirely. And then he turns, and he walks. Like he’s already gone.

You stumble after him, barefoot and unraveling, your voice rising into something feral, something half-child, half-grief.

“Sirius, please—don’t do this. Don’t go. You can’t leave me here. Not with them. Not alone.” The words come out wrong, cracked and too loud, but you don’t care.

You’d burn yourself down to keep him in this hallway if it meant he’d stay. You reach for him — just his sleeve, his hand, anything — but the world shifts.

You don’t know if it’s the mist curling under the door or your own shaking limbs, but your feet slide out from under you. The marble rushes up and meets you with no softness at all.

Your knees hit first, a dull, ugly sound echoing through the corridor. Then your palms, scraping raw against the cold. A flare of pain licks up your legs and into your chest, sharp and immediate — but not worse than the ache already blooming beneath your ribs.

Blood beads along your skin, tiny red betrayals of how fragile you are. You cry out before you can stop it, a startled, broken sound. Not for the fall, but for what’s walking away.

That’s when he turns. When he finally looks.

His eyes find you — crumpled on the floor, bloodied and shaking, your face wet with tears you can’t seem to stop. For the space of a single breath, he doesn’t move. And you see it then — the boy he used to be. The boy who held your hand through thunderstorms. The boy who carved moons into your bedframe because you were scared of the dark. The boy who always came back for you.

For a moment, just one, he looks like he might come back again. Like he might run to you, drop everything, fall to his knees and pull you into his arms and promise you the world won’t win. That he won’t let it. That he won’t let them.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run back. He doesn’t kneel beside you and press his forehead to yours. He doesn’t reach for your hands or wipe the blood from your knees. He only stands there, soaked in silence, the storm rising behind him like the breath of something ancient and cruel. His mouth opens, just barely, and the words come soft and weightless, as if he already knows they won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Then the door yawns wide and swallows him whole.

Rain pours in, cold and relentless. It soaks the marble, the hem of your nightclothes, the trembling shell of your body. You don’t rise. You don’t call his name again. You crawl. Fingertips dragging against the stone, knees splitting open with every inch, the sting lost beneath the throb of something deeper. You reach the threshold on hands and knees, soaked and shaking, and watch the place where he used to be.

You wait for him to turn back. To look over his shoulder. To see you the way he always used to, like you were the only part of this house worth saving. You wait for the sound of footsteps, for the thud of the trunk being dropped, for the whisper of his voice promising that he didn’t mean it.

That he’s still your brother. That he’ll stay.

But the silence is complete. And he is already gone.

You kneel there as the blood from your knees stains the rainwater pink, as the storm creeps into the house, into your lungs, into your bones.

You stay until the cold makes you numb and your arms are too tired to hold you upright. You stay because you do not know where else to go. Because nothing feels real anymore, except for the way your chest keeps breaking open in slow, quiet pieces.

You are thirteen years old, and you have never known this kind of silence. Not even in the dead of night. Not even in your mother’s shadow. You will remember this silence for the rest of your life. You will carry it like a second skin, like a wound that never quite closes.

That night, you will wash the blood from your knees in water gone lukewarm.

You will not cry again. Not then. Not in front of the mirror. Not where anyone can see. But the ache will settle into your spine, deep and wordless, and it will never let you go.

You will grow into silence like it’s the only thing that ever wanted you. You will wear it like a second skin, learn its contours, let it fill the spaces where love used to live.

You will master the art of stillness, of holding your breath when you want to scream, of smiling when your throat burns with grief. You will stop reaching for people who walk away. You will become so good at pretending you don’t need anyone that even you begin to believe it.

You will teach yourself to cry only behind locked doors. You will carry sorrow in your ribs like a splinter, sharp and invisible, a secret that hums when it rains. You will speak softly and laugh rarely and wonder, always, if you are too much or not enough.

You will look for Sirius in the curve of strangers’ hands, in the way someone tilts their head when they listen, in every boy who calls you brave without knowing why. But no one will ever be quite him. No one will ever hold your name like it’s sacred.

You never spoke to Sirius again.

Not after that night. Not after the front door of Grimmauld Place slammed like the end of the world. Not after your knees stopped bleeding and your voice forgot how to say his name without splintering.

Not after you wrote that letter two weeks later, alone in the dark, words trembling like a heartbeat you couldn’t hold still. You didn’t send it. You couldn’t. So you folded it and slipped it into the lining of your trunk, where it still waits.

1981

You are sixteen now.

You wear Slytherin green like silk-wrapped steel and walk the halls like the castle owes you something. Your mother calls you her softer one, the quiet twin, but there is nothing soft left in you. Not really.

Not after everything you’ve learned about silence and what it costs. You’ve mastered the art of holding your breath, of keeping your voice still, of curling your fingers into fists behind your back. Regulus watches you sometimes like he almost remembers who you used to be. But you don’t look back.

And yet here you are — beneath the Quidditch stands at midnight, with your tie crooked and your shirt coming undone, with James Potter’s hands at your waist and his mouth pressed to your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not with someone who makes the world feel brighter than you know how to bear. But your hands won’t listen. They tangle in his hair, slide over his jaw, trace the freckles across his shoulder where his sleeves are rolled, where his skin is warm and golden and too much.

“Someone will see us,” you whisper, the words barely formed, lost against the breath between you.

James just smiles, that crooked, reckless smile that should not feel like safety. “Let them.”

Your heart stutters. He always does this. Knocks the wind out of you with nothing but his grin and the impossible tenderness in his eyes.

“You Gryffindors are all the same,” you murmur, but the words are an echo, stripped of bite.

“And you Blacks are all trouble,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise. Like worship.

His fingers brush your hair behind your ear, soft, reverent, and you freeze for half a second. Not because you want to pull away. Because you don’t. Because when he touches you like that, something in you splinters. Something buried and locked.

You look at him, and he’s still there — real, impossibly real — and you don’t know how this happened. How someone like him ended up here, with someone like you. How he looks at you like you’re not something broken.

And still, you stay. Still, you let him touch you. Because no one else knows you like this. Because with him, you are not a name or a legacy or a weapon in the making.

James doesn’t ask why. He never asks. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back — because he touches you like you’re not broken, like you’re not a Black, like your blood isn’t dripping with secrets that could ruin everything it touches.

He doesn’t flinch when you go quiet. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or pity. He just waits. Steady. Warm. Like he has all the time in the world to watch you come undone and still choose you after.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your brother found out?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a wondering.

You scoff, sharp and breathless. “Which one?”

He looks at you then, really looks — the way he always does when you try to be cruel and fail. His eyes never waver. “Both.”

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is, you do think about it. You think about it more than you want to. You think about Sirius finding out and looking at you like you’ve become someone else, someone dangerous, someone he can’t save. You think about Regulus finding out and looking at James like he’s something to destroy. A danger. A betrayal. A boy who dared to love the wrong part of you.

Sometimes you think about dying before they ever find out. That would be easier. Cleaner. You could keep this — this secret softness, this impossible thing — untouched by consequence.

James shifts closer, and when he speaks again, it’s not words, not really. It’s warmth. It’s the space between heartbeats. “You’re not your family, you know.”

The sentence cracks something open. You swallow around it. The air tastes like smoke. Like ash.

“Yes, I am,” you say. Quiet. Final. “That’s the problem.”

But you kiss him anyway.

You kiss him like it’s a prayer with no god left to hear it, like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Because here, under the stands, in the dark, with his mouth on yours and his hands at your waist, you are not a name or a legacy or a shadow waiting to fall. You are not a sister, not a secret, not a danger.

You are a girl. Wanting. Wanted.

His fingers thread through your hair, and you let him. You let him touch you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like he doesn’t see the ruin clinging to your bones or the storm sitting in your chest waiting to tear everything down.

And that’s enough. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. It’s not forever.

You always know when he is near.

The air changes first — grows thin, almost reverent, like the world itself remembers. Like the stone corridors remember. Like the dust in the windowpanes and the cracks in the floor still carry his name beneath them.

The sound softens, dims around him. Laughter hushes. Footsteps falter. It’s the kind of silence that used to fall over you both when you stayed up too late, whispering stories by the fire, your shadows dancing on the walls like they had lives of their own.

There was a time when his presence meant warmth. Hearth-smoke and moth-eaten blankets. Winter pressed against the glass while you curled into each other like the last two embers in the world. He would talk about stars — draw them with his voice, sketch them in the dark with words that made you believe escape was possible, that the night sky could make you brave. You would fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing and wake to find his hand still wrapped around yours.

But all of that is gone now.

Now there is only stone beneath your feet and a bone-deep cold that doesn’t leave you. You are ruins, both of you. You are the silence after a song. You are what’s left when the fire goes out.

You see them just as you’re turning the corner out of the library, a book held tight to your chest like it can keep your ribs from cracking open. Defensive Magical Theory, something dense and forgettable, a shield made of ink and false comfort.

Your knuckles are white. Your fingers ache. Your robes are perfectly pressed, every pleat a performance. Because since he left, you have had to become flawless. You have had to become iron.

And there he is.

In the center of them like a flame, Sirius with his head tilted back in laughter. It is the same laugh that once made you believe the world could be beautiful. The same laugh that stitched broken hours into joy. And now it’s a blade.

Now it cuts. Because he laughs like nothing was lost. Like he didn’t tear himself out of your life and leave you to bleed in the quiet. Like he doesn’t remember the night you screamed his name until your throat gave out and your knees went red on the marble.

He laughs, and you want to tear the sound out of the air.

You remember it all too clearly — the way the front door slammed like a gunshot, the way you chased after him with shaking hands and a voice that couldn’t carry the weight of your grief. You begged him not to go. You begged like a child, raw and ragged and terrified. And he looked back, once, with something like pity.

Now you are ghosts in the same castle. Passing shadows. No nods. No glances. No names.

You walk past each other like graves being dug on opposite sides of the world. And you do not look back. And he does not turn around.

But your heart still breaks in your chest, quietly, every single time.

They round the corner and time thickens, slow as honey spilled on cold stone. His eyes find yours first—piercing through the crowd, through the clatter of footsteps and whispered names.

For a breath, the corridor dissolves. No James, no Remus, no ticking clocks or careless breezes—just you and him, two children once again, sharing a room heavy with secrets and the soft crackle of an old record player spinning lullabies.

But this time, he does not smile. He does not speak your name. He only looks at you as if trying to recall a face buried beneath years of silence, like the memory itself has fractured and turned to glass too sharp to hold.

Your heart clenches, a sudden, fierce knot, because you remember everything—the way his fingers braided tiny plaits into your hair when exhaustion pulled at your lids, the way your small hand reached for his in the dark before Regulus could even string words together, the way he whispered that you were his favorite, that he would never leave you behind.

But he did.

He burned the letters you wrote, one after another—long, trembling confessions stitched with apologies you never owed. Letters full of Regulus, school, a house growing colder and quieter, a mother retreating into silence, and a brother who refused to eat. You signed each with love, fierce and stubborn, because even after the cracks, even after the distance, you loved him still.

Regulus told you he saw the letters in the fire, unopened. Your handwriting curled into ash like a voice that never mattered. And you cried—not in front of Regulus, but later, submerged in the bathwater, where no one could hear.

You cried as if something sacred had been ripped from your chest, as if your brother had died and left only a hollow shell behind, wandering with someone else’s heart inside.

Now he passes you in the hall, silent and cold. Your fingers twitch, aching with memory, yearning for the ghost of his palm that once cradled your cheek—the night he left, trembling breath promising strength, begging you to protect Regulus when he could no longer do it himself.

You nodded through your sobs, because you were always the older twin by a single minute, and he said it meant something—that you were meant to keep him safe.

You have tried. But Regulus does not want your protection anymore.

You pass him in the corridors too—your twin, your mirror just slightly cracked, a shard drifting farther with every passing year. His eyes have grown colder, sharper, his mouth set like a blade forged from quiet bitterness.

Sometimes he speaks, brief and clipped, syllables sliced thin—news, reminders, fragments of a life you once shared but now only touch through echoes. There is no laughter, no whispered confessions in the dark, only the vast, cold distance measured in the space where hurt has settled deep and unmoving.

And still, you ache for the warmth you once knew. You ache when you see Sirius throw his arm around James like it costs him nothing, when he leans in close and laughs against his shoulder, calling him brother with a light that never shone for you.

You hate yourself for it, for the ugly bloom of envy rising in your chest, a bitter flower twisting through your ribs, because James gets to have him.

James gets to be near him every day, to tease him, to bicker with him, to follow him into trouble and hold a place beside him like it was always meant to be that way.

You used to be that person. You used to be the one Sirius reached for first.

Now you walk past them with your chin lifted, your stomach hollow, wondering if he ever thinks about that night.

Does he remember your hands clutching his sleeve? Your voice cracking as you called after him? Does he think of the blood staining your knees and how long you sat on the steps of Grimmauld Place, shivering long after he was gone?

He does not look back now.

But James does.

His eyes find yours and hold you there, a quiet tenderness breaking beneath the weight of unspoken things. He sees the ghosts too, the empty spaces where love was stolen. Maybe he even feels the ache when Sirius talks about his sister as if she never existed, or only existed in shadows and silence.

James tries to reach for your hand beneath the table, tries to make you laugh in the soft places where the world feels less heavy—but it is not the same. It will never be the same.

Because you are no longer the girl you were when Sirius left. You have spent too many nights wondering why love was not enough to make him stay.

And he is not the brother you remember.

The wind moves gently through the willow branches, like fingers combing through hair. The sunlight glimmers through the gaps in its leaves, casting thin golden lines across your cheek as you lie curled against James beneath the canopy of green.

You should not be here. You both know it. This is not the kind of softness your life has been shaped to allow. But here, in this sliver of stolen time, you forget the weight of your name and the way your chest has ached since you were old enough to know that in the Black family, love always came with locks and keys.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, and your head rests just below his chin. Your fingers are loosely entangled on the warm grass. His heartbeat is steady against your back, a rhythm you are slowly teaching yourself to trust.

You don't speak at first. Just listen—to the breeze, the rustle of willow limbs, the distant laughter from the Quidditch pitch.

And you try not to think about how long it’s been since you laughed like that with someone, without feeling like you were stealing it from a world that was never meant for you.

He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. There is something so gentle about him tonight, and it makes your ribs ache.

You know he is about to ask you something. You always know when James is thinking too much.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, hesitant and fragile, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter the space between you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, your head heavy against his chest, eyes shut tight as if the darkness behind your lids might keep the world at bay. You already know what’s coming.

“Have you ever thought about talking to Sirius again?”

The words hit you like ice water spilled over skin. Your whole body stiffens, every nerve on fire, the warmth of his arms suddenly burning too bright, too close.

You sit up with a sharp movement, pulling away like his question has scorched you, like it’s a wound you thought had scabbed over but still bleeds when touched.

His brows knit together in confusion he reaches out, as if to catch you before you fall apart, but you shake your head fiercely, as if to say don’t. Don’t reach for me here.

Your voice comes out sharp, brittle, colder than you expected, words clawing their way from a place you’d hoped was buried deep beyond reach.

“Why would I do that?!”

James blinks slowly, the calm in his gaze unwavering, gentle but not naive.

“Because he’s your brother.”

You laugh then, a sound bitter and quiet, like broken glass scraping against old stone. It catches in your throat and leaves a raw ache in its wake. You stand abruptly, arms crossing over your chest as if to hold yourself together, and you turn away, facing the shimmering lake instead, the silver-blue water reflecting back a fractured version of your own haunted eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with all the things left unsaid. You feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, soft but relentless.

And somewhere deep inside, the fight inside you trembles—part pain, part stubborn hope—that maybe if you don’t speak his name, you can keep the memory from unraveling completely.

But the truth is a jagged stone lodged in your throat. You’ve thought of him every day since he left—the brother who once braided your hair and whispered promises like a sacred lullaby. The brother who vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes and cold silence behind.

You want to believe that love could have held him here, that if you’d been enough, he wouldn’t have slipped away. But love in your world is never simple.

James sighs deeply, sitting up beside you with a careful softness that somehow feels like it might break under the weight of your silence. “I just think maybe it would help. You’re hurting, and he’s—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the air sharper than you meant it to, like glass breaking in a quiet room. Your voice trembles, but the edge is there, raw and fierce. “Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend you understand.”

James’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “I’m not pretending. I just know Sirius. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was hurting too. You know what that house did to him.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a bitter crack, like a blade scraping bone. “Do I? Do I know what it did to him? Because last I checked—” Your voice catches, then steadies, voice sharp and jagged — “I was there too. I lived it. I breathed the same suffocating air. I walked those same cold hallways. I heard the same poisonous words about blood and duty and silence that built a prison around us all.”

You turn slightly, hands clutching the grass beneath you until your nails dig into dirt. “I watched those cursed portraits scream their curses night and day, felt the walls shrink closer, trapping my breath. I watched my brother—the only one who stayed—fade, twist into someone I barely recognized, someone swallowed by shadows and cold.”

You swallow hard, the memory like a stone lodged in your throat. “And yet, somehow, he’s the one who gets to hurt? The one you all rush to protect? The only one whose pain matters?”

James shifts uncomfortably, voice quiet but earnest. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

But you shake your head, bitter tears burning the edges of your eyes. “No, James. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Your voice cracks, ragged and breaking, revealing the wounds you’ve fought to hide. “You all look at him like he’s some kind of hero. Brave Sirius Black—the runaway, the rebel who escaped the nightmare of that cursed house. The one who got to find Gryffindor, friendship, love. The one who got to build a new life from the ashes.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of everything left unsaid. “And what did I get? What did Regulus get? We got left behind.”

Your hands ball into fists, digging deeper into the earth, grounding yourself to the pain you can still touch. “I begged him to stay. I cried until I had no tears left. I chased after him on bleeding knees, desperate and small, and he left anyway. Left like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

You swallow, voice raw, “He never looked back. Never answered a single letter. Never came home. Not for me. Not for Regulus. And I waited. I waited years, hoping maybe one day he would come back. And you want me to just… talk to him now?”

Your breath catches, broken by the shuddering ache in your chest. The world feels hollow, cruel, and empty around you, and the distance between you and Sirius stretches wider than any words could ever cross.

James’s voice drops, soft and cautious, like stepping on fragile glass. “He was just a kid. He was doing what he had to do.”

You laugh, bitter and broken, the sound splitting the silence like a wound. “And I wasn’t?” The words shatter on your cracked lips, voice cracking with the weight you’ve carried far too long. “I was a kid too. Barely thirteen. And I had to stay. Had to sit at that cursed table and swallow every poisonous word Mother spat about the purity of our name. Had to learn to bite my tongue until it bled, lower my eyes until they almost forgot how to look. Had to be perfect — or at least pretend.”

Your hands tremble as you clutch your knees, the ache raw and alive beneath your skin. “I had to watch Regulus vanish into silence, buried under pressure and cold that no one—not one soul—asked if I was okay. No one ever tried to save me.”

James’s hand reaches for you, slow and hesitant, but you recoil like his touch burns you.

You fall back against the tree, the rough bark pressing into your spine, your palms clutching your eyes as if the darkness can swallow the ache whole. The tears come harder now, hot and unrelenting.

“You think he hurts? You think he cries?” Your voice breaks, raw and ragged like a shattered song.

“Because I do. I do every time I see him walk the halls like nothing happened. Every time I watch you two laugh like you’ve known each other forever, and I wonder if he ever laughs like that for me. If he ever remembered me.”

You choke back a sob, voice barely more than a cracked whisper, “I sit in a common room full of snakes and secrets, keeping my head down, swallowing my pride and my pain, because I’m still there. I never left. I never got out.”

“You don’t get it,” you whisper, but the whisper breaks halfway, splintering like thin glass. You’re shaking now, fists curled into the grass as though it can hold you together. “You never will.”

James doesn’t speak. He watches you the way someone watches a dying star—helpless, reverent, a little afraid.

“You were always allowed to be human.” Your voice wavers, rough with disbelief and years of swallowed words. “You were allowed to get angry, to mess up, to fall apart and still be loved. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where love is a chain. Where affection only comes after obedience. Where silence is survival.”

You laugh, but it’s not really laughter—it’s the sound a wound might make if it could scream.

“You have people. People who would tear the world apart if you broke. You have a mother who kisses your cheek and a father who’s proud of your name. You have friends who call you home, James. You’re the sun, don’t you see that? You’re the sun and everyone else just gets to grow around you.”

You’re crying harder now, tears streaking down your cheeks in thick, aching lines. You try to wipe them away, but they keep coming.

“You got to love Sirius without bleeding for it! You got to become his brother in the safety of a dormitory, with warmth and laughter and stolen butterbeer. You didn’t have to earn it in that house. You didn’t have to survive it!”

Your voice rises now, shrill with grief. “You got the best parts of him. The jokes, the loyalty, the fire. I got the version who left. The one who didn’t even look back.”

You gasp for breath between sobs, pressing your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

“Do you know what it feels like to scream for someone as they walk away? I begged him. I begged him not to go. I ran after him barefoot in the cold, my voice going hoarse. And he left anyway. He left me there.”

You pull your knees to your chest, rocking slightly. “He chose to leave. And then he chose you. He chose you over me. Over Regulus. Over every piece of his old life. You’re his brother now. You’re his family. And I—”

You look up at James then, face soaked, lips trembling. “I’m just a ghost he doesn’t talk about.”

The words fall out of you like stones from your mouth, one by one, and each one seems to hurt more than the last.

“You sit around the fire with him and laugh about pranks and broomsticks and I sit alone in the dark, wondering if he remembers the sound of my voice. If he ever thinks about the way I cried that night. If he ever sees my handwriting and feels guilt. Or if it’s just... easier. Easier to forget I existed.”

James moves again, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He doesn’t touch you this time. He just listens.

You curl tighter around yourself. “You want me to forgive him. You want me to reach out. But you don’t know what it costs to touch someone who let you rot. You don’t know what it’s like to scream for someone and never hear your name again.”

Your voice drops to a whisper—ruined, splintered, soft.

“He’s your brother now.”

And then, the softest, most broken truth:

“But he was mine first.”

You fold in on yourself completely, hands trembling, heart heaving with grief too old for your bones, and the only sound left in the world is your breath—shattered, uneven—echoing in the hush beneath the willow branches.

James looks at you then like he finally sees the wound beneath your skin. Not something angry. Something abandoned. Something small and bleeding and still waiting on the floor of a house that swallowed you whole.

-

The year slips through your fingers like water, and you try to hold it tight, but it’s already gone.

It’s strange how time moves differently when you’re pretending everything is fine, the days bleeding at the edges into one another with a quiet rhythm of routine that softens sharp edges but never heals the cracks beneath.

You go to class, you study, you sit beside James under the willow tree and pretend not to ache when Sirius walks by laughing with Remus, a sound that feels like a sun you cannot touch anymore.

You watch Regulus drift further away, his shoulders straighter, his eyes colder, his voice a careful blade you no longer recognize—once a warmth you could finish, now a silence you cannot breach.

You used to finish each other’s sentences; now he barely finishes his own. He doesn’t talk to you much anymore, not really. At the long, silent dinner table, he sits across from you, nodding when spoken to, answering questions like they’re lines from a script he’s been forced to memorize but doesn’t want to perform.

He disappears into his room, each time returning quieter, more distant, as if someone has reached inside him and hollowed him out with a spoon, leaving only a shell that reflects nothing back but shadows.

You want to scream at him, to shake him until he remembers how to breathe, to pull him back by the collar like Sirius did when you were children and Regulus was about to climb too high in the trees, but you don’t.

Because you don’t know if he would let you catch him, and you don’t know if you still have the strength to hold on to what’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you keep your head down, your voice soft, your secrets close, like fragile embers you cannot risk exposing to the wind. And still the year ends.

There’s something about the last few weeks of school that tastes like dread, like metal pressed cold against your tongue, like the low rumble of a storm you know is coming but cannot stop. You walk the corridors counting how many times Sirius glances your way and how many times Regulus doesn’t, memorizing James’s grin like it might be the last warmth you touch for months.

You stop sending letters home because there is no one waiting to read them.

Because summer means going back. Not home. Back.

Grimmauld Place isn’t a home. It is a mausoleum, a cold, echoing archive of all the things you never got to say, the silence between your words etched deep into the walls.

It smells of wax and dust and something darker, something ancient and unforgiving beneath the surface. The portraits still scream behind their frames. The silver still gleams with a sharpness that cuts through the gloom. The curtains block out the sun like heavy lids refusing to open.

Your room remains untouched, waiting in suspended breath for you to return and pretend you don’t hate it.

You dread the silence most. The way it wraps itself around the furniture like cobwebs spun from forgotten sorrow, the way the house watches you with a patient, waiting hunger, as if it expects you to fold back into its cold embrace and fall in line with the shadows that have claimed it.

Regulus is already there. He has been slipping for a while now. You have seen it in the way he avoids certain topics, in the sharp flinch when someone utters the word “Mudblood,” in the way his fists clench so tightly at insults to the Dark Lord that his knuckles whiten, before he tries to play it off as nothing.

His robes darken with every passing day. His smiles become rarer, like a flame too weak to chase away the night. His wand is never far from his grasp, a silent threat held close, as if waiting for the moment he must become someone else—someone you barely recognize anymore.

So you pack your trunk slowly, each movement deliberate as if by folding your robes with care you might fold yourself back into a place that no longer holds you. You close your books with trembling fingers, the pages whispering secrets you cannot bear to carry anymore.

You don’t say goodbye to Sirius because his eyes no longer meet yours, and you don’t say goodbye to James because you know the pain would only unravel tighter if words were spoken.

You watch as Sirius swings his arm around James’s shoulders, already grinning at the thought of staying with the Potters for the summer, and something inside you twists — not anger, not sadness, but a sharp, aching envy that claws at your ribs like a hungry bird.

Because he gets to escape.

He gets to walk into a house that smells like sugar and laughter and freedom, a sanctuary where love is worn openly like a second skin.

He gets to sleep in a room where nothing screams at him in the dark, where the walls cradle him instead of closing in. He gets to sit at a table where voices rise and fall like music, where people eat too much and ask about your day as if it matters, where family is not a story told in fragments but a living breath around you.

And you get the house.

The house with your name carved deeply into the bannister, a cold reminder of roots that bind you to shadows. The house where every unspoken word drips from the ceiling like damp, settling into the cracks until the silence itself weighs heavy and thick.

The house where your mother waits, her eyes colder than winter and expectations sharper than knives, where portraits hiss and leer from their frames like silent witnesses to your undoing. The house where Regulus drifts through the halls like a ghost caught between worlds, already halfway gone, already fading into something you cannot hold.

The house where no one speaks Sirius’s name aloud, where you are still the older twin, and yet each day you feel smaller, as if your own shadow is shrinking beneath the weight of everything unsaid.

You step off the train, and the air already feels colder, a thin frost settling on your skin even though the season has only just begun.

The night tastes bitter with regret, heavy and metallic on your tongue, and Grimmauld Place waits like a patient predator, breathing you in as though you never left, as though it has been holding its breath for your return. It closes the door behind you with the hush of finality, a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

The silence settles on your shoulders like dust, thick and suffocating, a reminder that you belong here — even if you wish with every trembling heartbeat that you did not.

You try not to flinch when the wards hum around you. When the doorknob bites your palm. When the portraits blink awake at the scent of your return. They watch you with knowing, disapproving eyes, oil-painted mouths already ready to spit something cruel.

This house was never a home, but once it breathed — not warmth, not safety, but noise, presence, life. It used to echo with slammed doors and uneven footsteps racing up the stairs, with Sirius shouting something reckless and defiant down the corridor just to make someone angry enough to shout back.

It used to be full of Regulus’s low hum when he thought no one could hear him, that quiet little song he’d hum while reading in corners, while brushing his hair, while stitching up the tear in your sleeve when you’d come back from a duel pretending you weren’t crying.

It used to be full of voices, arguing and demanding and laughing and hurting and always, always living.

Now it is quiet in the way that makes your chest ache, the kind of silence that feels like a punishment rather than a peace. The air tastes like dust, like something lost and forgotten and left to rot behind velvet curtains and locked doors. The carpets still muffle your steps, but there's no one left to hear them anyway.

This is the first summer without Regulus.

Not the shadow version that’s lingered these past few years, the one who walks too quietly and listens too carefully and parrots the words of your parents with a voice that isn’t his. Not the stranger in dark robes who stops humming and starts watching. Not the version who still existed in some half-form, drifting down corridors without speaking, but still there.

No, this is the first summer without him, without the boy who used to read beside you in the library, his knee bumping yours under the table. The one who used to steal sweets from the kitchen and then blame you with an innocent blink. The one who tied your shoelaces together under the table at family dinners and bit back a grin when you tripped on your way out.

That Regulus faded the way ink fades in water — slowly, gently, irreversibly. You didn’t notice at first, only that he laughed less, and then not at all. That his hands stopped reaching for yours. That his voice grew thinner and his silences heavier. You lost him the way you lose something to illness, slowly and with a thousand tiny betrayals of the body before the final breath.

But this time is different.

This time, he did not come back.

No warning, no owl, no quiet knock on your door, no hurried explanation in a whisper only you would understand. Just silence. Just your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line when you asked, and your father’s eyes skimming past you like your question was a speck on his glasses.

You sit in his empty room. It smells like dust and lavender and something that aches in your teeth. The bed is still made. The books are still in their careful order, spines aligned like soldiers. His desk is untouched. His quill still leans in the inkwell.

The window is cracked just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of air, like the room itself hasn’t quite decided if it should keep holding on. There’s dust on the windowsill now — and there never used to be — and that tells you more than anything else. That the room has been waiting. That no one has come back.

This time, he is truly gone.

And you are alone.

You try to shrink yourself into corners. You keep your footsteps light, your voice quieter still. You tie your hair the way your mother prefers it and fold your napkin just so and tuck your wand out of sight at the table.

You speak only when spoken to. You say nothing when the family says things that hurt. You keep your grief compact and clean and buried deep in your chest like a well-folded shirt, like something shameful.

You make yourself smaller every day, and still, somehow, it is never enough.

But this summer — it’s different. This summer, they hand you your fate like a gift wrapped in silver and blood, gleaming like something sacred, rotting like something buried.

You sit at the long dining table, the one with claw-footed legs and too much silence, and you hear the words spill from your mother’s mouth like prophecy. Your father folds his hands, watching you without warmth, without softness, only the calm expectation of obedience.

They tell you the name.

He is a man older than both of them, old enough to have stood beside your grandfather, old enough to know better, but still willing. He is loyal. He is powerful. He will honor the purity of your blood.

He will preserve the name of the House of Black.

You are seventeen. He is not young. You do not need to ask his age. You already feel it sinking into your skin like ice.

Your stomach coils, tight and bitter.

“No,” you say. Soft at first. Like a breath you’re trying to swallow.

Your mother doesn’t even blink. “You will.”

“No.” Again, louder this time. Sharper. The air around you stills.

She lifts her chin, unbothered. “You are a daughter of this house. This is your duty.”

“Duty?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth. “You want me to marry a man three times my age so you can keep the family name alive like it’s something holy. You want me quiet and obedient and grateful.” You’re trembling, but you don’t care.

“I am not a vessel for your legacy.”

Your father rises. His voice cuts across the room like steel. “You will not speak to your mother with such—”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” you snap, voice breaking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide who I am just because you raised me to be afraid of you!”

Silence floods the room, thick and bitter.

“You want to talk about duty?” you say, your voice low, shaking with fury. “Let’s talk about Sirius. You pushed him out like he was nothing. You wrote him off, erased him, like he never belonged to you in the first place. And Regulus—”

You choke, just for a second. But it’s enough to taste the grief under your rage.

“Regulus is gone. And you didn’t even flinch.”

Your mother’s gaze turns to ice. “Sirius was a disgrace,” she says. “Regulus was loyal. We will not lose the last child we have left.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong. Crooked. Cracked open.

“You already did.”

You stare at them — these people who gave you their name and called it love.

“I’m not your child,” you say, the words leaving your mouth like a final spell. “I’m what’s left. After the screaming. After the silence. After all the sons you burned through.”

You do not cry in front of them. You never cry in front of them.

The house taught you early that tears are weakness, that silence is survival, that emotion is something to be buried beneath polished shoes and perfect posture.

But the moment the door shuts behind you, the weight drops. You press your back to the cold wood and slide down until you are curled on the floor, your body folding into itself like it’s trying to vanish. And you cry. Not the gentle kind. Not the cinematic kind.

You cry until your throat burns and your face is damp and your chest feels like it’s being carved open from the inside. You cry the way the walls might, if they could. With all the grief they’ve soaked up over the years spilling out through the cracks.

You cry for every year you were quiet. For every word you never said. For every version of yourself you buried to stay alive in this house.

You feel seventeen and seven and seventy all at once. You feel like a ghost of your own girlhood, flickering between doorframes. You feel the house watching. Breathing. Remembering.

The floor beneath you is cold and unkind, and still you cling to it because it's the only thing solid left. You think of Sirius, and the way he used to laugh so loudly it shook the curtains. You think of him sleeping now in a house full of warmth and sugar and safety, a house where love isn't earned but given, where no one flinches when he reaches for joy.

You think of Regulus, not the boy they mourn in stiff silence, but the boy who once left crooked notes in your textbooks and stared out windows like he was already halfway elsewhere.

You think of the way he disappeared — not all at once, but slowly, like a tide pulling further and further out until you could no longer see where he ended and the darkness began.

And you think of James.

James with his easy smile and his steady hands, who never asks for more than you can give, who touches your shoulder like it means something, who holds your gaze when the room is too loud.

James, who looks at you like there is still something worth saving, like you are not the ruin this house has made of you, like you are more than a name etched into silver and expectation.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you now, curled like a child, broken open in the hallway like a spell gone wrong. You wonder if he would still look at you like you matter. If he would still believe you could be more than this.

But the truth is: you are not Sirius, brave enough to run and let it all burn behind him. You are not Regulus, quiet enough to disappear without a sound. You are not even James, bright enough to belong to a world that doesn’t hurt like this.

You are just you — the one who stayed.

The one who held her breath while the house tore itself apart. The one who learned how to fold pain into politeness, how to wear duty like perfume, how to live without taking up too much space.

You stayed because someone had to. Because someone had to carry the name. Because someone had to keep the silence from swallowing everything.

And now, you are the last one. A girl with no room left to run, with a dress being stitched by house-elves who won’t meet your eyes, with a fate wrapped in silver and blood and sealed with your mother’s satisfaction. A girl being handed over like an heirloom. A girl they call duty. A girl they call legacy. A girl they will call wife.

And you cry not because you are weak — but because you were strong for too long. Because this house eats daughters and calls it honor.

Because deep down, you are still waiting for someone to come back. Or take you away. Or give you a reason to leave. But no one comes. And so you cry.

So you give in. Not to the marriage — no, that would be too clean, too final — but to something slower, heavier, something like gravity or grief.

You give in to the house. To the quiet. To the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say aloud. You let it wrap around you like ivy, creeping in through the cracks in the walls and the bruises you keep hidden under your sleeves. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t cinematic. It’s the kind of surrender that looks like silence.

Each day becomes a ritual of forgetting. You wake late, eyes heavy with sleep you never earned. You push food around your plate until it cools and congeals and no one bothers to tell you to eat. You wander from room to room like a ghost, dragging your fingertips along the wallpaper as if it might remember you.

You reread the same book, the same page, five times, and the words never stick — they slide through your brain like oil through a sieve. You braid your hair tighter and tighter each morning until your scalp stings, until the ache becomes something solid you can carry. You stop speaking at meals.

You stop asking where Regulus went. You stop writing letters to Sirius, because no one writes back and ghosts don’t send owls.

And then one night, when the wind wails like a child outside your window and the rain lashes against the glass with the fury of everything you’ve swallowed, your feet carry you where your mind dares not go.

Up the stairs. Down the hallway. To the door you haven’t touched since he left. Sirius’s room.

You shouldn’t go in. The house groans like it’s warning you. But your hand is already on the handle.

The room is a battlefield.

The bed is splintered, cracked in the middle like a snapped spine. The posters are slashed, half-hanging like open wounds. The wallpaper is clawed down to the plaster. His name, once spelled in bold ink across the wall, is a black smear now — a wound too scorched to read. The air smells like old fire and bitter memory. You step inside.

You lower yourself to the floor with slow, trembling hands, and that’s when it breaks.

The scream tears from you before you can stop it — low and ragged and real.

You cry for Sirius, who ran and burned and somehow found something close to freedom. You cry for Regulus, who disappeared into silence and shadows and never looked back. You cry for James, whose laughter doesn’t belong in this house, whose kindness is a bruise you keep pressing. But mostly, you cry for yourself.

And when there are no more tears left to cry, your eyes catch something under the bed — a soft flicker of gray, tucked away like a shy secret waiting patiently.

Eventually, with trembling fingers, you take up your quill and smooth a sheet of parchment across your desk.

You’ve written to him a hundred times before—maybe more. None of them ever came back. None of them were ever answered.

And this one, you know, will be the last.

Dear Sirius, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I imagine it will not. And even if it did, I cannot picture you reading it. Perhaps you would glance at the ink, then turn away, pretending not to know the hand it came from. Perhaps you have already taught yourself to forget. Still, I write. I write because I do not know what else to do with my hands, now that they have nothing left to hold. Regulus is gone. They will not say how or where or why, only that he vanished, and everyone speaks of him now in the same tone they used when they stopped saying your name. He is gone, and I feel something in me beginning to follow. This summer has been long. There is sun in the air and dust in the curtains and no one speaks above a whisper. They say I am to be betrothed by autumn. He is pure of blood and proper of name and perfectly forgettable. I have already begun practicing how to look content beside him. Everyone tells me how lucky I am. No one asks if I am well. The house is colder than I remember. I think you were the last warm thing in it. Since you left, it has not once felt like home. The corridors are quieter now. The portraits turn their eyes away. Today I found your old toy — Buttons, the little grey dog with the floppy ear. He was under your bed, asleep in dust, but still whole. I pressed him to my face and thought I might fall apart from the scent of him. Smoke and summer and boyhood. I found Honeybell too. Her stitches are split and her eye is gone. But I held her anyway, the way you hold something that remembers what you cannot say aloud. Regulus’s was still in his room. Mister Wisp. The black raven. He was soaked through with rain. His wings sagged. His thread was fraying. He looked like something abandoned. He looked like someone who had waited too long. I placed them on your bedroom floor. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. The three of us, in our own way. I sat with them until the sun went down and the house forgot me again. I hope you are safe. I hope there is laughter where you are. I hope someone brushes the hair from your eyes with tenderness. I hope you never once feel as forgotten as we did when you vanished. I want to hate you, but I never could. This is the last letter. Not because I have stopped loving you. That would be easier. No, I am stopping because love should not be sent into silence forever. And I have been silent for too long. Je me souviens de tout, même quand il fait mal.

You fold the letter and press it to your heart, feeling the weight of every word settle deep inside you.

You sit there in the broken room, cradling the worn plushes as the first pale light of morning spills through the cracked window, soft and hesitant, like forgiveness that always comes too late.

The summer stretches endlessly, longer than any before, a slow and quiet rot rather than rest—a soft unraveling that steals breath and hope alike. Time does not move but lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing down on your bones like a heavy secret.

Outside, the war no longer whispers but rumbles beyond the horizon. Names vanish like ghosts, smiles falter under the weight of dread, and the sun mourns openly, bleeding orange into clouds as if the sky itself knew the darkness to come.

Grimmauld Place waits in silence. Its walls have always been cold, but now they hold a quiet deeper than stillness, a silence like held breath, like a house on the edge of swallowing you whole.

And then Sirius returns.

He had never meant to come back, not truly.

But something pulls him through the shadows, not duty, not family in the way you understood it. Perhaps it was memory, haunting and relentless. Perhaps regret, bitter and sharp. Perhaps it was you—the echo of your voice that chased him through sleepless nights, the image of you at thirteen, trembling and begging him to stay, a scar etched deep across his ribs. 

So he came back.

By the end of summer, Sirius Black stood before the house he had sworn never to return to, and this time he did not knock. This time he did not wait. The door groaned open as if it had been waiting for him all along. Dust hung heavy in the air, the stench of magic—old, burnt, and wrong—clinging like smoke caught deep in his lungs.

Something had happened here. Something violent. The house was not quiet. It was hollow. Empty. Ruined.

And that was when he found you.

Not sitting in the drawing room, not wrapped in a blanket with a book and tea, not curled in the window seat staring out at a life that had never been yours.

But lying on the marble floor, exactly where he had left you.

You did not die screaming. There was no flash of rage, no final incantation on your tongue, no defiant end befitting the fire that once lived inside you.

You were simply still. Folded into yourself, as if the world had leaned too hard on your ribs and you forgot how to fight it. Blood pooled around you like petals from a ruined bloom, soft and red and blooming in silence.

Your hair fanned around your face like something sacred — a fallen halo, a crown undone — and your limbs lay slack in a kind of surrender that spoke not of weakness but of exhaustion. Like the house had finally exhaled, and you let it take you with the breath.

Sirius dropped the moment he saw you. Not with ceremony, not with noise — just gravity doing what grief always does.

The way your knees once buckled when he walked away.

The way your voice had cracked, trying to stretch the word “stay” into something that could bind him.

The way your chest must have caved in, not from a curse, but from absence. He fell in the way people fall when something inside them has been waiting to shatter for years.

He reached for you. What else was there left to reach for, if not the girl who once braided red ribbons through his coat sleeves, who lined his pockets with honey drops and letters that smelled of ink and lavender, who sat beside him on staircases and said nothing, simply stayed.

He had run for so long — from this house, from this name, from everything that shaped him — but no one ever told him that ghosts have longer arms than memory. That your voice, the soft echo of it, would find him across every burning bridge.

And now you were here. Not thirteen anymore, not crying in the hallway where he left you. But also, not gone from that moment either.

You had never truly moved past the marble floor. He saw it in the way your fingers still curled inward, as if clinging to something invisible. In the tilt of your head, angled just like the night you begged him not to go.

He saw the years between then and now, every one of them, stretched like threads between your ribs — unravelled, fragile, frayed.

He saw the waiting. The tea that went cold on windowsills. The letters that never found their way past trembling hands. The summers that rotted slowly around you while everyone else grew up.

The stuffed animals lined like offerings beneath dust-heavy light. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. Childhood turned reliquary.

He saw it all and understood too late that grief does not knock — it carves its name into your skin and waits. It waited for him here.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer never answered. He had lived, but not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You had stayed, but not whole. You had waited so long for someone who was always running, and now that he was still, you were gone.

The sun began to rise, golden and slow, creeping through the cracks like a forgiveness that had missed its hour. It lit the marble floor like a chapel.

But it could not touch you. It could only fall across your shoulder, warm and useless. The kind of light that arrives after the room has already emptied.

And Sirius stayed there. Not as the rebel or the Black heir or the boy who broke free. But as a brother.

A brother who came home too late. A brother who looked at the cost and could not look away.

Time passed for him. He found love. Friends. A family not built of blood, but of choice. He laughed again. He dreamed. He lived. The world opened for him, and he stepped through — a boy turned man, a soul scraped raw but mending, slowly, beautifully. There were hands that held him.

Voices that called him home. Places where the sky was wide enough to forget. And he let himself forget.

And you stayed.

You stayed in the house that swallowed your name like a secret. In halls that knew only how to echo orders and lock away softness. With a father who spoke in sharp edges. A mother who carved obedience into you like scripture.

A twin who disappeared — not all at once, but in whispers and footsteps and doors that no longer opened. You stayed among portraits that scowled at your breath. Among books that weighed more than comfort. Among silences that wrapped around your throat until you mistook them for lullabies.

You stayed. Right where he left you. And the world, as it always did, looked away.

Except this time, the blood wasn’t from scraped knees or childish scuffles.

It was from the war that bloomed like rot through every crack in your home. From the letters you weren’t allowed to send. From the screams you weren’t allowed to make. From the spells you learned not to cast. From the hope you were forced to smother before it ever took its first breath.

And Sirius wept.

Not the kind of weeping that shatters in public. Not the kind that can be soothed by arms or words or tea gone cold.

This was the kind of weeping that hollowed. That stripped him to the marrow. That made him reach for a version of you that no longer breathed.

He wept for the sister whose hands once clutched his in the dark, when the storms rattled the windows and the world felt too big.

He wept for the girl who tucked notes into his pocket when Mother screamed. He wept for the ghost of you still sitting on the staircase, waiting for a brother who never turned back.

He wept for the birthdays you spent alone. For the letters he never wrote. For the words he never said. For the child you were — bright-eyed and bruised and so full of belief.

For the woman you could have been — fierce and aching and free.

For the way you died in the exact place he left you.

And for the way he only came back when there was no breath left to forgive him.

Time seemed to pass, though slower now — not measured in calendars or seasons, but in aches. In absences. In the small betrayals of memory.

For Sirius, time lost its rhythm. It did not tick or toll. It bled. It staggered. It sighed through floorboards and doorways and walls that still remembered the sound of your footsteps.

Time became the color of mourning — the dull grey of ash, the deep bruise of regret, the cold white of hospital sheets that never warmed beneath your weight.

It moved in the dust he could not bear to sweep, in the scent of your perfume fading soft on a pillowcase, in the broken music box that no longer turned, in the echo of your laughter — not in reality, but in the cruel trick of dreams.

He searched for you in everything, in the corners of rooms, in the backs of crowds, in the shadowed silence of the old stairwell where you once sang lullabies to the dark.

And when he found the letter — the one you never sent, crumpled at the back of a drawer, ink smeared as though you’d tried to erase your own voice — he pressed it to his lips and sobbed like a boy again. Like the child who promised he’d take you with him. Who swore you’d never be left behind.

Three plushes laid neatly beside each other, like a shrine to what was once whole. Not toys anymore, but gravestones — soft and worn and sacred.

They should have meant nothing. Just fabric, stuffing, thread. But Sirius could barely look at them without his chest caving in.

His own — hadn’t moved in years. You must’ve thought he’d come back for it. That if you left it untouched, just as he left it, maybe it would bring him home.

Yours was different. It was torn down the middle, the seam split like a scar, like a scream frozen in time. The stuffing spilled out like spilled insides, like something wounded and left to rot. It looked like it had tried to hold itself together for too long, and finally failed.

And Regulus’ — pale blue-grey, delicate in a way only he had been — soaked through and warped from rain. It lay slumped over, waterlogged and forgotten, as if the storm outside had wept it into surrender. The window above had cracked open, and the sky had poured in for hours. Sirius liked to think the heavens had mourned with him that day. That even the sky had broken, just a little.

You never knew, but Sirius never let them go.

Not once.

Even when the world fell apart. Even when the Order returned and war carved new hollows into their lives.

Even when Azkaban loomed like a ghost at his shoulder. He kept them — hidden, at first, under floorboards and false bottoms of trunks. Then folded into boxes labeled with things like “storage” or “old keepsakes,” as if a name could make them matter less.

But they always came back out. Back to his bedside. Back into his hands on sleepless nights. Because they weren’t just toys. They were the last soft things left. The only parts of his childhood that hadn’t turned to ash.

They were what remained of the real family he had chosen — not the one etched into tapestries or carved into rings, but the one built in whispers and quiet dreams.

You, Regulus, and him. Three children clinging to hope like a secret. Three hearts hoping that if they held each other tightly enough, they could outrun their legacy. They could be something else. Someone else. Someone free.

But grief is not kind. It is greedy. It takes and takes and keeps on taking.

So it took Regulus, too.

No goodbye. No body. Just whispers in the dark — that he had gone beneath the water, chasing a kind of redemption Sirius hadn’t known his brother still believed in. That he had died trying to undo what he never had the power to fix. A boy with the name of a star, drowning in a sea too vast to name.

And Sirius had hated him, once — for his silence, for his compliance, for surviving the home that killed you. But when Regulus vanished, Sirius understood he’d been wrong. Regulus hadn’t survived. He’d only delayed the dying. Now it was just him, and the plushes — three relics, three ghosts, three pieces of a family no one ever thought to grieve.

Because what were children like them, if not warnings? What were Black children, if not cautionary tales?

1994

Years later, Sirius will stand before a boy with too-bright eyes and a scar that speaks of wars no child should remember. And in the boy’s grin — wide, reckless, full of sun — Sirius will see James, not as memory, but as marrow, as instinct.

But it's not James that makes him ache, not really.

It’s the quiet moments, the in-between ones — when the boy furrows his brow in thought, or stares too long at the stars, or speaks with a gentleness he doesn’t even know he carries.

That’s when Sirius sees Regulus, not in likeness but in the ache of being too young for so much weight.

And most of all, he sees you.

He sees you in the boy’s stubborn defiance, in the way he fights for others before himself, in the way he loves — fiercely, awkwardly, with every unguarded part of him. He sees you in the boy’s eyes when he reaches for Sirius without hesitation. He sees the child you once were, all scraped knees and wild dreams, asking impossible questions and believing in things too big to name.

And it undoes him. Every single time.

Because this boy, this Harry, carries all the pieces of the ones he lost — but he carries you most of all.

Sirius will not know how to name that kind of grace. Only that it feels like standing in the past and being forgiven by it. 

And in that child, in the fragile miracle of his existence, Sirius will understand that love does not end. It threads itself into blood and bone and story. It survives. Even when nothing else does.

And that understanding — that impossible, aching recognition — will be the cruelest grace of all. Because by then, the war will have come and gone, carving its tally marks into the bones of everyone left standing.

He will have buried too many. James, Lily, and names he once spoke with laughter now spoken in silence, in dreams. The fire will have gone out, and Sirius will have learned to live in the smoke. A man half-built from memory, half-held together by loss. He will carry it all, quietly.

The old house on Grimmauld Place will still stand, but he will not return. Some ghosts are too sacred to disturb, and some rooms still remember how to bleed.

Yours will remain untouched — the air thick with dust and song, the bed still hiding three plush toys like relics of a time when the world had not yet shattered. The scent of childhood still clinging to the curtains, as if waiting for someone to come home.

And though the world will move forward without him — blooming and burning and beginning again — Sirius will remain quietly stitched into the edges of it, in every reckless laugh, every act of love carved in defiance, every child who believes that family is something you choose.

Because what he lost cannot be measured in names or battles or years. It is deeper than that. It is a wound shaped like a sister’s lullaby, a brother’s silence, a best friend’s grin. It is the kind of grief that builds a home inside your ribs and dares you to live with it.

And even when there is no one left to speak your name aloud, Sirius will. Not out of duty, but because somewhere within him, the boy who once held your hand still waits in the dark.

He still listens for the echo of your laughter through silent halls, still glances at the doorway like you might walk through, still dreams of a world where everything broken might find a way to mend.

There is a quiet place in him that never grew older than sixteen, still caught in the house where you stayed behind, still curled beside you in the dark, still whispering stories of escape to the ceiling.

That part of him hears your voice when the world forgets how to be kind. 

It sees your eyes in every child who refuses to stop hoping, every child with bright eyes and a scar on their forehead — especially the one who looks at him like he is something good.

It believes, even now, that the love you gave was too bright to vanish, too true to ever fade. 

Sirius Black remained — not because he survived, but because love, once given, does not know how to leave, and grief, once born, does not know how to die.

And then, years later, it was his cousin who ended him — blood of his blood, born of the same ruin, raised on the same silken lies, sipping from the same poisoned cup. Bellatrix did not strike like chance, but like prophecy, like the final breath of a story written long before they ever lived it.

It was not kindness that undid them, nor mercy. It was inheritance — a name carved too deep, a legacy that devoured its own.

In the end, nothing could tear down the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Except itself.

For those whose fate was never their own,

for the one who bore the weight alone,

for the one who stayed,

so ends the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

-

a/n: um..hi? is this too angsty? :(

[bxtchboy69]

Grade-A Pain in My Ass

Single dad!Bucky x Teacher!Reader, enemies to lovers fanfic

64.2k words || completed || domestic fluff || sexual tension || no y/n || f!reader || angst/comfort || smut

Bucky Barnes is a single dad who doesn’t do love. He’s got everything he needs: a steady job, cozy home, and his whole life wrapped up in one little girl, his daughter Rebecca. No complications, and absolutely no room for romance. After a rude and not-so-pleasant first encounter, he finds out you’re the elementary school teacher of Rebecca’s class. He would make it his mission to avoid you at all costs and to absolutely not fall in love with you. I mean, how could he? Especially since you’re a grade-A pain in his ass.

can be read on ao3 here <3

[bxtchboy69]

A Star Without a Sky Masterlist

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Note: Old West Bucky, just because.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[bxtchboy69]

YUMMY

need a man so muscular he struggles to get his jacket AWF

[bxtchboy69]

Darling

Reader x cacw Bucky

Summary: You join the Avengers right before they're torn apart by the Sokovia Accords. You join Cap's team, and end up stuck in a safe house with Bucky, slowly earning his trust.

Word Count: 7,315

You literally just became an Avenger last week, and the team was already falling apart.

You just got into the swing of things, and now the Sokovia Accords were sitting on the table in front of you in the conference room, dividing the team in half.

You had to admit, you agreed with Steve. Not that you would say anything out loud though. You were just sitting off to the side, wishing you could disappear. Which, you probably could. You weren’t sure if half the team even knew your name.

The next couple days were a blur. Everyone was still arguing about the Accords, then everyone had to travel to London for Peggy Carter’s funeral.

After the ceremony, you were milling around in the church lobby, debating whether or not you should go talk to Steve after Natasha was done talking to him. While Nat was walking out, you gave her a slight smile and nod, and she stopped.

“Hey. Y/n, right?”

You paused, surprised that she was talking to you. “Uh, yeah.”

“Are you coming with us to sign the Accords?”

You froze. You knew you couldn’t sign the Accords. You agreed with Steve on this one. But you didn’t want to admit that to her. But you also couldn’t tell her yes, knowing that she’d be expecting you there then.

She noticed your pause and raised an eyebrow.

“Umm…no I don’t think so,” you said finally.

“Have you talked to Steve about it?” she asked.

“No. I was debating whether or not I should talk to him now actually.”

“Well, I think you should. He’ll be happy to know someone else is with him on it.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you just nodded.

She just smiled at you, then looked you up and down.

“You know,” she started, “most rookies probably wouldn’t have the guts to choose a side on something like this.”

You just huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. Guess I chose the wrong time to join, huh?”

“Guess you did,” she agreed, laughing. “I’m glad you did though. I like you.”

You just smiled, feeling accomplished at that comment. “Thank you.”

She gave you a pat on the shoulder before walking away, back towards the others. Then, you took a deep breath before walking back into the church to talk to Steve.

“Hey Steve.”

“Oh, hey y/n,” he replied, smiling at you.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I also wanted to tell you that I’m not signing the Sokovia Accords.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking a little surprised. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I agree with what you said. I think it’s better if we didn’t sign.”

“You don’t have to agree with me it you truly don’t want to,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I want you to be dragged into this. I mean, you did just join the team.”

“I know,” you said, smiling at him. “But I’m with you on this one. If you need my help, just let me know.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Well, thank you.” He gave you a smile and patted you on the shoulder, looking like a proud dad.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” you said, backing away.

“See ya. I’ll probably be calling you.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

And sure enough, he did call you. Which is how you found yourself leaning out the window of a random car, chasing Bucky Barnes down the highway while the Black Panther was hot on your tail.

You watched as Bucky grabbed a motorcycle mid-motion and turned it around, hopping on and driving in the opposite direction.

You knew he was a super soldier, but that was impressive…and kinda hot.

You trailed after him, and when you were close enough, you didn’t think, just jumped. Out of the car window and onto the back of Bucky’s motorcycle.

He jerked slightly from the unexpected weight, and you wrapped your arms around him so you didn’t fall off. His grip tightened on the handlebars, and he just kept driving like a man with tunnel vision.

“Hey!” you yelled over the wind, leaning forward to speak near his ear. “I’m not here to hurt you!”

No response. He swerved around a car, eyes laser-focused on the road ahead.

“I’m here to help you, okay? Steve sent me!” you tried again, gripping tighter around his waist as the bike took a sharp turn. “You don’t know me, I get it - but you’re not alone!”

Still nothing. Not even a glance.

“I know you don’t remember much right now. I know everything’s a mess. But Steve, he’s trying to help you. And so am I.”

The motorcycle jumped over a curb, dodging traffic like it was instinct. You gritted your teeth and held on tighter.

“I know you’ve probably heard a lot of lies about yourself. That you’re dangerous. That you can’t be trusted.” You swallowed hard, hoping you didn’t sound too breathless. “But I don’t believe that. Steve doesn’t either. You’re not a weapon. You’re a person.”

You caught him flinch at that. Barely. But it was something.

“Just…let me stay on this bike with you. You don’t have to stop. You don’t even have to talk to me. Just let me make sure you don’t crash and bleed out in a ditch somewhere, alright?”

Silence.

But he didn’t shake you off. He didn’t tell you to jump. He didn’t even look back. He just kept going, navigating the streets like he’d been born on two wheels.

You exhaled shakily, letting your forehead rest briefly between his shoulder blades. “There’s a safe house I can take you to, you’ll be safe there. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

And though he never said a word, something in his body shifted - just barely. His shoulders loosened a fraction. His breathing evened out. And for the first time since you jumped on the back of the bike, he didn’t feel like he was running blind.

After a few minutes, when you made sure you weren’t still being followed and finally figured out where you were again, you started giving him directions to the safe house. He still didn’t say anything, but he followed your directions.

About 20 minutes later, you pulled up in front of a secluded cabin, miles from any other building or town. He pulled the motorcycle around the back of the house and cut the engine, getting off before you had the chance to say anything.

He turned around and looked at you, but you were still sitting on the bike, trying to push the hair out of your face and smooth it down. There was some in your mouth, and you know you probably looked weird to him, sticking your tongue out and spitting, trying to push all your hair back.

You finally got it and stepped off the motorcycle, and his eyes didn’t leave you.

“Hey, sorry about that. I’m y/n.” You thought about putting your hand out to shake his, but decided against it since he probably wouldn’t take it anyway.

“Sorry about like, jumping on you back there. But I’m on a team with Steve, like I said, and this is one of our safe houses. I’ll let Steve know we’re here and he’ll let us know what to do next.”

You gave him a smile, trying to be as friendly as possible. You made your way over to the door, putting in the code you got from Steve, then opened it up and turned back to Bucky.

“Come on in,” you said, stepping in the door. He followed you inside, and you let out a little breath of relief. He may not be saying anything but at least he seemed to trust you.

You scanned the cabin, and even though it was small, it was pretty nice. It looked overgrown on the outside, but they obviously kept it clean and stocked for emergencies.

You sent Steve a quick text, then took off your jacket and threw it over the back of a chair at the tiny kitchen island, then immediately started going through cupboards.

Bucky had stepped inside and closed the door, and just stood a couple steps away from you, watching.

“Do you want something to eat? You’re probably starving.” You came across some cans of soup and held one up. “Do you want some soup?”

Again, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you.

“Umm…okay. Well, I’ll make you a bowl.”

You grabbed another can, then opened drawers until you found the can opener, then found two bowls. You busied yourself with opening the cans before popping one of the bowls in the microwave. When it was done, you grabbed a spoon and slid the bowl onto the island in front of a chair.

When you turned back to Bucky, he was still standing there, still looking at you.

“There, you can have the first one.”

He finally moved, sitting down in the chair while you put the other bowl in the microwave. When it was done, you sat down in the other chair and took a bite, then noticed Bucky hadn’t touched his yet.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Мне не дали разрешения (I was not given permission).”

You furrowed your eyebrows, not understanding what he was saying. Maybe you should’ve studied Russian.

“What? Sorry, I don’t understand Russian.”

He just looked at you for a second, then repeated it in English.

“I was not given permission.”

Your heart twisted at his words. The way he said it – flat, automatic, like it was a rule carved into him – made your chest ache.

You slowly set your spoon down and looked at him, frowning. “Hey…” you said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t need permission anymore.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guarded, unsure.

“You’re not under anyone’s control,” you continued. “Not anymore. You can eat, rest, breathe – live – without asking anyone first. You’re free, Bucky.”

He didn’t say anything, but he stared at you a moment longer. Then, slowly, he gave the faintest of nods. Just once. But it was enough to make your throat tighten.

Without another word, he picked up the spoon and started eating. You didn’t say anything else, just watched him, relieved to see him finally taking care of himself – even if it was just soup.

And he ate fast. He finished the bowl in record time, like he hadn’t eaten in days. You were barely halfway through your own when you looked up and blinked in surprise.

“Wow,” you said, eyebrows raised, your tone light and a little teasing, trying to ease the heavy air in the room. “You really were hungry.”

You caught a flicker of something across his face – so brief you weren’t sure if it was amusement or just a muscle twitch – but it made you smile anyway.

You took another bite of your soup and leaned your elbow on the table. “We’ve got more, if you want it. And I think there’s even coffee somewhere in this place, if you’re the kind of guy who runs on caffeine.”

He didn’t respond, but the silence didn’t feel as tense anymore. It was still quiet, still uncertain, but there was something else now too. A thread of something warmer…something like trust.

By the time you finished the last bite of your soup, Bucky had already set his spoon down and was quietly watching you again, bowl empty.

You glanced at it, then back at him. “Do you want some more?”

He hesitated for a beat, then gave a small nod.

You smiled, standing up and walking over to the cupboard again. “Alright, let’s see…” You grabbed another can of soup, holding it up in your hand before turning back to him. “Do you want me to make it, or…do you want to try?”

He looked at you, eyes flicking to the can in your hand, then to the microwave behind you, clearly uncertain. Like he wanted to say yes but wasn’t sure how.

You stepped a little closer, gently placing the can on the island in front of him. “Totally your call,” you said casually. “But if you do want to try, I can walk you through it. It’s pretty simple. Not super spy-level stuff or anything.”

Still unsure, he looked down at the can, then back at you. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t back away either. So you took that as a yes.

“Okay,” you said, voice gentle. You grabbed the can opener and set it next to the can. “This thing looks more complicated than it is, I promise. See this part here?” You pointed at the blade. “That’s what pierces the top. You just line it up with the edge of the lid and squeeze the handles together.”

He picked it up slowly, awkwardly, like he was worried he’d break it. You helped guide his hand, showing him how to clamp it onto the can.

“There you go. Now just turn the knob – yep, like that.”

The opener made a soft grinding sound as the blade cut through the lid. You smiled, watching him slowly get the hang of it.

“Nice. See? Easy. Way less terrifying than fighting a guy in a catsuit on a freeway.”

He glanced at you briefly, but there was something a little looser in his posture now.

Once the can was open, you slid his bowl over and stepped aside.

“You want to pour it in?”

He did, carefully. You saw his eyes flicker toward the microwave again.

“Alright,” you said, walking over to it. “This part’s even easier. You just put the bowl in, close the door, and press this button here.” You tapped the 1. “Each press adds one minute. Two minutes should be good.”

He followed your instructions, and you stood by him, resisting the urge to hover too close.

“There,” you said once the microwave started humming. “You’ve officially made your first post-fugitive meal. Not bad, Barnes.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened. Maybe it was the way his shoulders relaxed. Maybe it was how he didn’t immediately retreat from you. Either way, you’d take it.

You leaned against the counter and gave him a small grin. “Told you – you don’t need permission. You just needed soup.”

And for a split second, you could’ve sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

When the microwave beeped, he pressed the one again, making it hum back to life.

“Good job,” you said, giving him another smile as he glanced over toward you again.

When it beeped again, he opened the door and pulled it out, shutting the door again and carrying it back to the counter, setting it down carefully as he sat down.

“There you go. Pretty soon you’ll be cooking five course meals.”

He gave you a small smile – an actual smile – then dug into his soup, eating it just as quickly as the last. You just washed out your bowl then leaned against the counter, watching him eat.

When he finished, he looked up at you.

“Thank you.”

You smiled at him. “Of course.”

You took his bowl and rinsed it out, then turned back to the counter, picking up your phone, finding a text from Steve.

Okay, glad you’re safe. Just stay there for the night, we’ll meet up again tomorrow. Unless you’d rather not be alone with him, then I can come up.

You glanced up at Bucky, who was still watching you. “Steve said we could just stay here for the night. You okay with that?”

He nodded, so you texted Steve back.

No that’s fine, Bucky also said that’s okay. I taught him how to use a can opener so we’re basically besties now

You smiled a little at your response, then set your phone down. “Okay. Do you want to shower? Or take a bath?”

His eyes finally left you, glancing toward the bathroom then back at you, like he was unsure.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Just thought it might help you feel better.”

He looked at you a little while longer, then slowly nodded. “Bath.”

You smiled softly. “Okay, I’ll go start the water.”

You pushed off the counter, heading to the bathroom and turning the water on and plugging the drain. As the tub filled, you made your way to the bedroom, finding extra clothes for him to change into. You grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that both looked brand new, then walked back to the bathroom.

Bucky was standing outside the bathroom door now, looking in cautiously.

“It’s okay,” you said, walking into the bathroom and setting the clothes on the counter. “You can come in.”

He stepped inside as you turned the water off, then grabbed a washcloth.

“Here’s a washcloth you can use, and there’s body wash and shampoo here,” you said, pointing to the little shelf in the shower and setting the washcloth on the side of the tub. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He just nodded, so you stepped out, shutting the door behind you.

A little while later, you were sitting on the couch, scrolling on your phone when you heard Bucky say something in Russian, loud enough so you could hear through the closed door. You jumped up and made your way over, knocking on the door.

“Bucky? You okay?”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “I need help.”

You slowly opened the door, peeking in to see him sitting in the tub, back to you.

“Hey, Bucky. What do you need?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, looking embarrassed. “My hair.”

You glanced up at his hair, which was still completely dry. “Do you need help washing it?”

He nodded.

“Okay, give me one second.”

You went into the kitchen and grabbed a cup from the cupboard, then headed back into the bathroom, sitting on the side of the tub as Bucky kept his back to you.

“Can you tilt your head back for me?” you asked, dipping the cup into the warm water. He did, and you slowly dumped water onto his hair, careful that it didn’t drip down his face.

You did that a couple more times, then grabbed the shampoo and squeezed some into your hand. You rubbed the shampoo between your hands before gently starting to work it through his thick hair, taking your time so it didn’t tangle.

“It’s okay,” you murmured softly, fingers massaging gently at his scalp. “I don’t mind. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders slowly began to relax under your touch, and you took that as a good sign.

“This stuff smells good,” you added after a moment, trying to keep things light so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. “Citrusy. Kinda reminds me of those little hotel bottles you never want to admit smell amazing.”

You lathered carefully, making sure not to pull or snag any of the strands. It was clear no one had done this for him in a long time – maybe ever. You didn’t rush it. You didn’t want to. You just wanted him to feel safe, even in this small, quiet way.

“Okay, I’m going to rinse it now. Tilt your head back again for me?”

He obeyed, and you slowly poured the water over his head in even, careful streams, watching the suds wash away. You kept your hand over his forehead to make sure none of it ran into his eyes.

When the last of the shampoo was rinsed out, you set the cup aside and used both hands to gently squeeze the water from his hair, starting near the top and carefully working your way down to the ends.

“There we go,” you said softly once you were done, brushing some hair off the side of his face. “All clean.”

You stood up and grabbed a towel from the nearby shelf, setting it on the counter next to the clothes you’d brought earlier. “I’ll let you finish up. Just yell if you need anything.”

As you started to turn, he looked over his shoulder slightly. “Thank you,” he said again – quiet, but sincere.

You offered him a warm smile, your hand gently resting on the doorframe for a second. “Anytime, Bucky.”

Then you stepped out and closed the door behind you, giving him space to dry off and, hopefully, feel a little more human again.

You sat back down on the couch, picking up your phone again. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened, and he spoke in Russian again, the same thing he said earlier.

“Любимая (darling)?”

You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, dressed in the clothes you left for him. “Yeah?” you said, getting up and walking over.

He held out his towel and pointed at the bathtub. “I’m done. How do I…”

He trailed off, so you took his towel from him then stepped inside.

You hung the towel neatly on the hook behind the bathroom door. “You just have to unplug the drain,” you said, kneeling down beside the tub. You reached in and showed him the small metal stopper. “Just lift this part up, and the water will drain out.”

He leaned over the tub to watch, nodding as the water began to swirl and gurgle its way down. You looked up and gave him a smile. “Easy, right?”

He nodded again, and you stood up, moving to one of the drawers under the sink. You opened it and pulled out a small pack containing a brand-new toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hairbrush. You opened the toothbrush pack and tossed the cardboard into the trash before setting it and the toothpaste on the counter.

Then you turned and held the brush out toward him. “Do you wanna brush your hair? Or – I can do it…if you want.”

He looked at the brush for a moment, then met your eyes. “Can you?”

Your expression softened. “Yeah, of course.” You pointed to the floor in front of you. “Come kneel down. It’s easier for me to reach.”

He hesitated only slightly before kneeling in front of you, back straight but body still cautious, like he wasn’t used to the care being offered. You stepped behind him, gently running your fingers through his damp hair first, untangling a few sections before beginning to brush. You moved slowly, careful not to pull, watching the way his shoulders started to relax again as you worked.

“You’ve got really nice hair, y’know,” you said quietly, brushing through it in long, smooth strokes. “Kind of unfair, honestly.”

That earned the faintest huff of a breath – maybe a laugh – making you smile.

A few minutes later, you finished and set the brush down. “All done,” you said, smoothing down the top once more.

He turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder at you. “Thank you, Любимая (darling).”

You blinked, your lips curling into an amused smile. “Okay, you’ve said that before. I recognize it. What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first, his eyes flickering down before he simply murmured, “It’s your name.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh,” you said, caught off guard. “Well…that’s kinda cool.”

He looked back up and gave you a small smile.

“Well, I’ll let you brush your teeth, then I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

He gave you a nod, then you stepped out and went back to the bedroom to find clothes for yourself. As you pulled out the same sweatpants and t-shirt in your size, your gaze drifted toward the bed…the singular bed.

You frowned, wondering how you were going to approach the sleeping situation. But you decided you’d just sleep on the couch, giving him his space.

You made your way back to the bathroom as Bucky stepped out.

“Knock if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded, and you closed the bathroom door, then turned on the shower.

You showered quickly, then pulled out your own pack to brush your teeth and comb your hair. When you finished, you pulled open the bathroom door to find Bucky sitting on the floor right outside the door.

He stood immediately when you opened the door, his posture straight and alert like he’d been on watch.

You furrowed your brow. “You could’ve sat on the couch, y’know?”

He shook his head. “I was guarding the door.”

Your heart pinched at that. The sincerity in his voice, the way he said it like it was the only thing he knew to do – it made you ache a little.

“You don’t have to do that for me,” you said gently. “But…I appreciate it.”

He just gave a small nod in response.

You gave him a soft smile, then walked over to the kitchen counter and grabbed your phone. “Come on,” you said, heading for the bedroom. He followed close behind you.

You stepped into the room, glancing again at the single bed. “You can sleep in the bed,” you said, turning toward him.

He frowned, eyes shifting from the bed back to you. “Where are you going to sleep?”

You shrugged. “I’ll take the couch.”

He shook his head immediately. “No. You take the bed.”

“It’s okay,” you started, but he said it again, more firmly this time.

“You take the bed.”

You watched him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

You crossed the room and opened the nightstand drawer, rummaging until you found a charger. You plugged your phone in beside the bed, then climbed under the blanket, settling against the pillow with a quiet sigh.

Bucky stood still for a second, then grabbed a pillow off the bed and laid down on the floor beside it.

You sat up a little, brow furrowed. “Bucky?”

He lifted his head, looking at you.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” you said, voice gentle again.

He didn’t answer, just held your gaze.

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Do you want to sleep on the bed with me?”

His eyes flicked to the bed, then back to you. His voice was quiet. “Is that okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Of course it is.”

He looked at you a moment longer, then crawled up from the floor, placing the pillow back on the bed. He pulled the blanket up and slid under it slowly, still a bit stiff, still unsure.

You shifted slightly to give him space, and once he settled, you glanced over at him with a small smile. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

He looked at you through the dim light, his voice low. “Goodnight Любимая (darling).”

--

Bucky fell asleep quicker than he expected. The warmth of the blanket, the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him – it had all lulled him into a rare sense of calm. But something changed. A touch. Weight. Movement.

His eyes snapped open, heart hammering against his ribs.

His arm twitched as panic set in, his instincts screaming danger, his mind already preparing to throw off the blanket and bolt.

But then…he remembered.

The cabin. The safe house. Her.

He forced his breathing to slow, blinking as the haze of sleep and instinct gave way to recognition.

Her head was resting on his shoulder. One of her hands was splayed gently over his chest, fingers curled slightly into his shirt. Her leg was draped loosely over his, her body pressed close.

That was all it was. Her.

His muscles relaxed little by little, the tension slowly leaking out of him as he stared up at the ceiling. He could feel her exhale against his skin, warm and soft, and he let out a quiet breath of his own.

She’d rolled over in her sleep. Reached for him like it was natural. Like she wasn’t afraid.

And she wasn’t. That’s what stuck with him.

She wasn’t scared of him. She let him in, helped him, fed him, taught him how to use a can opener for God’s sake, and when he needed help, even if he was too ashamed to ask for it, she didn’t make him feel small. She just helped.

And now she was curled up against him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He turned his head slightly, looking down at her. Her face was peaceful, relaxed, framed by her hair that was still a little damp from her shower. She looked so soft like this. Trusting.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that.

His eyes drifted back to the ceiling, and he let his hand settle lightly against her arm, careful not to wake her. She shifted just a little, burrowing closer, and he felt a flutter of something unfamiliar in his chest.

Gratitude. Maybe even hope.

He thought about earlier – about the way her eyebrows had lifted, the little smile that played at her lips when he told her darling was her name.

She had no idea.

She didn’t know he’d forgotten her name for a second, which is why he resorted to calling her that. He wasn’t sure why, but it just felt right. So, even after he remembered her name, he continued calling her darling. Not mocking. Not sarcastic. Just…her.

And somehow, even without knowing, she still made him feel like he mattered. Like he was someone worth staying close to.

His eyes closed again, and for the first time in what felt like years, he let himself drift back to sleep – with her weight resting against him, her hand on his chest like a tether.

And in that moment, it felt like everything would be okay.

--

You blinked awake slowly, the morning light peeking in through the thin curtains. It took a second to realize where you were – and another to realize how you were lying.

Your head was resting against something solid and warm…and breathing.

You froze slightly, glancing down to see your hand on someone’s chest. Your leg slung over someone else’s.

Oh no.

You tilted your head up just enough to see his face.

Bucky.

He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way you didn’t think you’d seen before. His brow wasn’t furrowed. His jaw wasn’t tense. He actually looked…peaceful.

A tiny pang hit your chest, part fondness, part embarrassment. You must’ve rolled over in your sleep, and the last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable. Especially after how careful he’d been last night.

You slowly, carefully turned away, trying not to disturb him as you pulled yourself out of his arms. The bed dipped lightly as you shifted, but he didn’t stir.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you saw a message from Steve, letting you know where to meet. You typed back a quick reply, and just as you hit send, you heard movement behind you. Bucky stirred, shifting slightly on the bed. When you glanced over, his eyes were fluttering open.

“Hey,” you said softly, offering a small smile. “Good morning.”

He blinked a few times before nodding. “Morning.”

You stretched a bit, then added, “Steve texted. We’ll leave as soon as we’re both ready.”

He gave another quiet nod.

You stood and made your way to the bathroom, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, and tying your hair back before changing into your clothes from yesterday.

When you came back out, you paused in the doorway.

Bucky was making the bed.

He’d already straightened the blanket and was adjusting the pillows with slow, deliberate movements, like he was concentrating on doing it exactly right. Like it mattered.

A soft smile tugged at your lips.

“Thank you,” you said gently.

He looked over his shoulder at you, gave a small nod, then stepped around the bed and headed into the bathroom to get ready himself.

You watched him go, heart tugging again.

A few minutes later, you were putting the charger back in the drawer when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned around and saw Bucky walking back into the bedroom.

He had changed back into the clothes from the day before, but his hair was still a complete mess – sticking up in the back and flattened on one side from sleeping. You couldn’t help it, you let out a quiet laugh.

“Your hair’s still a mess.”

He paused, looking at you for a second before raising his hand and running it through his hair like he could fix it with one swipe.

You just smiled. “Do you want me to brush it again?”

He looked at you for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “Yes.”

You stepped past him into the hallway. “Come on.”

He followed you into the bathroom, and you held up the brush from last night. “Can you kneel down again?”

Without hesitation this time, he did.

You gently ran the brush through his hair, taking your time. He stayed still, his eyes closed this time as if he trusted you completely. It was quiet again, but not uncomfortable. Just calm.

When you were done, you gave one last soft brush through the ends and said, “All done.”

He stood slowly and looked at you. “Thank you Любимая (darling).”

You smiled and nodded, keeping the brush in your hand as you led the way back into the bedroom. You crossed over to the closet and pulled down a worn book bag from the top shelf, unzipping it and carefully placing the brush inside along with the clothes you both wore last night. Once it was zipped, you slung it over your shoulder and turned toward him.

“You ready to go?”

“Yes.”

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, gave him a quick smile, and headed for the door, grabbing your jacket on the way with him right behind you.

He slid onto the motorcycle first, settling in as he started the engine. You climbed on behind him, wrapping your arms around his middle without hesitation. He glanced back once, as if to check you were ready, then pulled out of the driveway.

The road ahead was quiet, long stretches of forest blurring past as you rode. After everything the last day had thrown at you both, it felt…peaceful. You didn’t say much – just held on, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your arms.

Eventually, you met back up with Steve and Sam, just before leaving to meet Sharon so they could get their suits back. It wasn’t long before the four of you loaded into a small getaway car, the tight space forcing a slightly awkward arrangement.

When you got there, Steve got out to talk to Sharon, leaving you, Bucky, and Sam in the car.

Sam was in the passenger seat, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Bucky was right behind him in the back seat, and you were on the other side.

Bucky stared out the window for a moment, clearly irritated by something. Then he glanced forward.

“Can you move your seat up?” he asked Sam flatly.

“No,” Sam replied, just as flat.

You tried not to smirk. The tension between them was almost comical at this point.

Without another word, Bucky shifted over toward the center seat – right next to you. The car wasn’t exactly spacious, so as soon as he moved, his leg pressed against yours.

He didn’t shift away.

And neither did you.

Your eyes flicked down briefly at the contact. It wasn’t exactly intentional, but it also didn’t feel accidental. You glanced up at him. He was still staring forward, impassive, but his jaw wasn’t quite as tight as before.

The warmth from where his leg touched yours lingered, feeling almost comforting.

You didn’t say anything. Just let it stay that way.

Before you knew it, you arrived at the airport, pulling up beside Clint and Wanda before they opened the back door for Scott. He greeted everyone, then when he got to you, standing behind the car with Bucky, he paused. “Uhh, I don’t know who you are but…hi.”

You gave him a smile before everyone started to suit up, preparing for the fight to come.

After some fighting and a weird encounter with the new spider-kid, you, Steve, and Bucky were finally making a run for it toward the jet. Wanda was holding the debris up so you could get inside, but it came crashing down as soon as you were running in.

Something slammed down behind you, grazing your back and knocking you to the ground with a grunt.

From in front of you, you heard Bucky call out to you. “Любимая (darling)!”

He was beside you in an instant, arms already reaching out to you.

“I’m okay,” you managed, breathless but unhurt. “Just got clipped – didn’t crush me.”

He helped you up quickly, his metal hand firm around your waist as he checked you over with his eyes, panic still evident in his face until he saw you truly were okay.

You got up and continued into the hangar, but Natasha stood in front of you, blocking your path to the jet with a sharp look in her eye. But there was something else flickering there. Amusement?

She tilted her head. “What did you just call her?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Did he just call you Любимая (darling),” Nat repeated, arching a brow.

You glanced sideways at Bucky, confused. “Uhh, yeah? He said that’s my name in Russian.”

Nat smirked. “Uhh, no. That means darling.”

You stared at her, blinking again. Then slowly turned to look at Bucky.

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even flinch. Just looked back at you with a calm, almost gentle expression, like he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it.

Nat let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re something else.”

Then, she turned toward Steve with a more serious expression.

“You’re not gonna stop?”

Steve’s voice was calm, steady. “You know I can’t.”

Nat just shook her head. “I’m gonna regret this,” she muttered, before shooting past you and stopping T’Challa.

She yelled go, so you, Steve, and Bucky bolted past her toward the jet.

Your chest heaved as you reached the ramp, Bucky’s hand catching yours to pull you up the last few steps. He didn’t let go until you were safely inside, then the hatch closed behind you.

The rest of the day passed in a blur – arriving in Siberia, finding Zemo, the fight with Tony. Then, a few days later, you were in Wakanda with Steve and Bucky. Bucky was in the bathroom, changing into something more comfortable before they put him back under.

You were sitting down, talking to Steve about what came next, when the bathroom door opened behind you.

Bucky stepped out in white sweatpants and a white tank top, but what really caught your attention was his hair.

Messy again.

You turned in your chair, unable to help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest. “Your hair,” you said, grinning at him. “It’s all messy again.”

Bucky blinked at you, then gave a small, warm smile like he’d been expecting you to say something. “Yeah?” he said casually. “Think you could brush it for me?”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. “Yeah, I got you.” You reached into the duffel bag you’d packed, then pulled out your brush.

Without hesitation, Bucky stepped over and knelt down in front of you, facing away, relaxed and still, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Uhh…that’s new.”

You laughed, brushing Bucky’s hair carefully and gently. “It’s not the first time.”

Steve blinked. “Obviously,” he muttered, eyes still flicking between the two of you, looking both amused and confused. Then, with a crooked smirk, he said, “Do I wanna know what all happened in that safe house?”

You chuckled under your breath. “Let’s see…I taught him how to use a can opener, how to make soup, washed his hair, brushed his hair–”

Bucky turned his head slightly and cut in smoothly, “–and then she fell asleep on me.”

You froze, mid-stroke, eyes going wide. “Wait – you were awake?”

He turned around enough to look up at you with a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I woke up when you rolled over. I’m a light sleeper, y’know.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry–”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Don’t be. I slept really good.”

Steve snorted, then started laughing. “You two are unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

You just smiled and kept brushing, cheeks warm.

But Steve wasn’t done. “And Bucky,” he said with a knowing look, “can we talk about how you called her darling like it was nothing?”

You paused again, heart doing a little flip as Bucky glanced back at Steve, clearly caught but not really bothered.

“Oh,” he said with a small shrug. “Yeah. I…kind of forgot her name for a second. But she smiled when I said it. So I just…kept calling her that.”

You laughed, a little breathless at how casual he was about it.

Steve, of course, wasn’t letting him off that easy. “Right, forgot her name but remembered ‘darling.’ Classic Barnes move.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just leaned back into your touch, visibly relaxing as you resumed brushing, his eyes slipping shut like the teasing didn’t matter at all.

You didn’t say anything either – just smiled down at him as your fingers moved gently through his hair.

After you finished brushing his hair, you were standing off to the side with Steve, watching as Bucky moved through his final checks. The decision had been made – the safest path forward was for him to go back under, until Wakanda could fully undo what Hydra had done to his mind. You knew it was the right call. But that didn’t make it any easier.

Bucky walked over to Steve first.

They didn’t say much. Steve pulled him in, clapped a hand on his back, and held on a second longer than usual. Bucky returned the gesture silently, with a small nod that said thank you and take care and see you later all at once.

Then he turned to you.

You didn’t expect it, really – not the way his arms wrapped around you the second he reached you, pulling you in tight. Your breath caught, and for a second you just stood there, surprised by the intensity of it. Then your arms found their way around him too, holding him just as tightly.

He didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low beside your ear. “For everything. For taking care of me.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat forming fast. “Of course,” you said softly.

He pulled back just a little, enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your shoulders. His eyes searched your face for a second longer than necessary – like he was trying to memorize it – before he gave you the smallest, softest smile.

“Goodbye, Любимая (darling),” he said gently.

Your heart stuttered.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just returned his smile, warm and a little sad. “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He gave your arms a small squeeze, then turned and walked toward the chamber. You didn’t look away until the glass door closed in front of him.

As Shuri initiated the sequence, you felt the weight of the moment settle into your chest. You’d only known him for a couple of days. Barely long enough to call someone a friend, let alone anything else. But somehow…he’d left a mark already.

And when his eyes fluttered shut, and the lights in the chamber dimmed, the thing that hit you hardest wasn’t the goodbye.

It was the silence that followed.

You already missed him.

And you knew that you were going to miss being called darling, too.

--

Masterlist

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd

[bxtchboy69]

electric touch

summary: You technically aren't a member of the New Avengers, but you live at the Watchtower and help the team out during missions. The most interesting part? Bucky seems to have a crush on you, the quiet, brooding, mysterious woman. word count: 13.9k+ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: one of my fav tropes i've seen with thunderbolts!bucky is the secret wife trope, so here's my take on it :) this is also only my second time writing for bucky, and my first time writing smut for him, so let me know if it's accurate! warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, bamf!reader, grumpy x grumpy (but really bucky is kinda sunshine?), secret relationship/marriage, reader is "brooding" and "cold", bucky is a lover boy, smut, slight sub!bucky, slight dom!reader, unprotected piv, creampie, light violence, mention of injury

The Watchtower had been quiet for exactly six minutes when John's voice shattered the peace. "He's doing it again."

Yelena sighed dramatically, not looking up from her phone. "Who’s doing what again?"

John jerked his chin toward the kitchen counter, where Bucky leaned casually, arms crossed. His eyes were fixed across the common area, following you as you silently poured a mug of coffee.

Ava glanced up from the couch, eyes rolling. "Oh. Barnes."

"Again?" Alexei chuckled from his seat next to Yelena, slapping the table enthusiastically. "He’s staring like sad puppy, no? Maybe we throw him a bone?"

Yelena finally glanced up, smirking. "Careful, Dad. Barnes has super hearing. He might overhear your plans."

Alexei scoffed, shrugging his massive shoulders. "So he hears. I say it to his face: Barnes, ask the scary one out already."

Bucky turned slightly, arching a brow. "I’m good, thanks."

"No, clearly you are not," Alexei persisted, enjoying himself. "All this mooning and sighing and staring. Pathetic."

"I’m not mooning."

John snorted. "You’re definitely mooning."

Bucky glared halfheartedly, shifting uncomfortably as you moved past them silently, mug in hand, offering nothing but a faint nod. Once you vanished back down the hall, the conversation reignited in earnest.

Bob glanced up from his seat nearby, his brow pinched slightly in mild confusion. "Wait—so Bucky likes Y/N?"

"Thank you, Bob," Ava murmured dryly. "Keep up."

"But…" Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "Has he even tried talking to her?"

Yelena smirked at Bucky. "Yeah, Bucky, have you even tried talking?"

Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. "I talk plenty."

Ava laughed softly. "You stare plenty. Talking, not so much."

"Just ask her out," John said, crossing his arms smugly. "Worst she could do is ignore you—like she already does."

The team burst into laughter. Even Bob managed a shy chuckle. Bucky shook his head, smiling faintly as he turned toward the hallway you'd taken moments before.

"Maybe," he muttered dryly, setting down his empty coffee cup. "Someday."

"Maybe someday," Alexei echoed dramatically. "This is tragedy."

Bucky ignored the loud chatter behind him, wandering slowly toward your shared quarters at the far end of the hall.

---

Inside your quiet room, you sat cross-legged on the bed, reading calmly. You didn’t look up when he closed the door behind him.

"Your teammates are idiots," you murmured, turning a page.

Bucky smiled softly, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. He walked toward you, sinking easily onto the bed beside you, immediately leaning his head onto your shoulder. "They just think you're intimidating."

"I am intimidating."

"Yes, sweetheart." He tilted his head slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. "Terrifying."

You hummed quietly, setting your book aside as his metal fingers gently traced over your wrist. You shifted, finally looking directly at him, raising a brow. "They also think you're pining hopelessly."

Bucky laughed, rich and genuine, nudging your shoulder affectionately. "Who says I'm not?"

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved upwards faintly. "James."

He smiled, teasing gently, eyes bright. "What?"

You sighed, feigning irritation, but the softness in your gaze betrayed you. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he agreed easily, leaning closer, lips brushing tenderly along your jawline. "But I'm yours."

You huffed softly, fingers sliding gently into his hair, pulling him closer until your lips met, warm and familiar and private.

"Unfortunately," you teased softly as you parted, foreheads resting together.

He smiled brightly, utterly content. "Someday we should tell them."

"Eventually," you conceded dryly, settling back against his chest comfortably. "But would you really take away my only source of entertainment?"

Bucky chuckled quietly, his fingers brushing lightly along your shoulder. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

You hummed, eyes falling shut as you relaxed against him, the quiet settling around you both.

"I still think we should at least tell Yelena," he mused after a moment. "She’s pretty sharp. Might figure it out on her own."

You scoffed softly. "Please. She thinks you’re pining after me. Clearly, her observational skills aren’t that impressive."

Bucky laughed, pressing another quick kiss against your temple. "Harsh."

"True," you corrected.

He smiled against your skin, his metal arm tightening around you slightly. "Fair enough."

The comfortable silence stretched between you, only broken by your quiet breathing and the distant laughter of the team down the hall. After a moment, you turned slightly, glancing at him with a faint smirk.

"Barnes," you said, voice dry and amused. "Were you really mooning?"

He tilted his head back, groaning dramatically. "Not you too."

You shrugged casually, barely hiding your smile. "I'm just confirming. For clarity."

"Well, I wasn’t," he insisted, eyes sparkling. "I was just... observing."

"Right," you drawled. "Observing."

"Exactly," he nodded solemnly, biting back a smile. "Observing my scary, intimidating, secretly soft-hearted wife."

"Don’t push it," you warned, poking his chest gently. "I’ve got a reputation to uphold."

"Trust me, sweetheart," Bucky teased, voice warm and gentle, "no one's doubting your reputation."

You huffed again, leaning up to kiss him softly, muttering against his lips, "You're lucky you're cute."

"I know," he grinned brightly, eyes crinkling as he drew you closer again. "Very lucky."

You rolled your eyes, hiding your smile against his chest as the comfortable silence returned, content to enjoy each other’s company without interruptions.

---

Two days later, you wandered into the common area, pausing briefly as you spotted the team huddled around the TV, eyes glued to the screen. "What's this?" you asked dryly.

"Movie night," Ava replied, glancing back at you. "Join us?"

You shook your head slightly, making your way toward the kitchen. "I'll pass."

Yelena smirked, not taking her eyes off the TV. "Shocking."

Bucky looked up, catching your gaze. "C’mon, doll. Stay for a little bit."

You paused, arching an eyebrow pointedly at him. "Why would I?"

He shrugged innocently, leaning back into the couch. "For the pleasure of our charming company?"

John snorted. "Real subtle, Barnes."

Alexei chuckled, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "He tries."

You ignored them, continuing your path to the coffee machine. You barely managed to pour yourself a cup before you heard Bucky's quiet footsteps approaching. He leaned casually against the counter beside you, arms folded, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.

"Nice pajamas," he teased quietly, glancing at your oversized sweatshirt and leggings.

"Keep it up," you muttered dryly. "See if you ever get to borrow them again."

He chuckled softly, leaning in slightly closer, voice low and warm. "We’re overdue for date night."

You sipped your coffee, glancing at him sideways. "You’re getting needy."

"Maybe," he admitted shamelessly, nudging you gently. "But I prefer 'romantic.'"

"Gross."

"You love it," he murmured warmly.

"Unfortunately," you agreed softly, finally turning toward him. "Fine. Date night. But I'm picking."

"As long as it’s not another stakeout, sweetheart."

"No promises," you teased, sipping your coffee again as you turned away. "Now go watch your movie."

He chuckled, shaking his head fondly as you disappeared down the hallway. When he turned back toward the couch, he found the entire team staring at him, various expressions of disbelief on their faces. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

Alexei pointed at him accusingly. "You talked. Actual conversation."

Ava raised an eyebrow. "She didn't stab you."

Yelena shook her head, smiling slightly. "Barnes, you might actually have a chance."

"Yeah, maybe in twenty years," John snorted.

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, settling back onto the couch comfortably. "Told you—I talk plenty."

Bob nodded slowly, genuinely impressed. "Good job, Bucky."

"Thanks, Bob." Bucky smiled, eyes flicking briefly toward the hall. "I'm working on it."

---

The following evening, you leaned quietly against the wall, watching with mild interest as Bucky sparred against John on the training mats. The rest of the team lingered around the room, half-training, half-observing the two men in action.

Alexei crossed his arms, grinning broadly. "Come on, Barnes! Use metal arm—show Walker who's boss."

"He's trying to train," Yelena drawled from beside you. "Not murder our teammate."

Alexei shrugged, unconvinced. "Little murder builds character."

You didn't react outwardly, but your lips twitched slightly in amusement.

Across the mats, John ducked away from Bucky’s fist, panting slightly. "You holding back, Barnes?"

Bucky smirked, circling him easily. "Just going easy on you."

John scoffed. "Bullshit. You’re distracted."

"Distracted?" Bucky echoed mildly, his eyes briefly flicking in your direction.

John followed his gaze knowingly, smirking. "Yeah. Distracted."

Bucky sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders as he pretended to think. "Right. Got my mind on other things."

"Or other people," Ava muttered dryly from the punching bag.

Yelena smirked, elbowing you gently. "Look at that. Bucky still pining away."

You kept your expression neutral, voice flat. "Tragic."

On the mat, Bucky caught John's fist in his metal hand, twisting lightly. "Ready to yield yet?"

John grumbled, pulling his hand free. "Fine, fine. Jesus."

Bucky chuckled, stepping back easily, eyes sliding again to you. "Who's next?"

Yelena nudged you lightly. "Why not you, Y/N? Barnes clearly wants your attention."

You exhaled slowly, stepping away from the wall toward the mat. "Fine."

The team fell into immediate silence as you moved toward Bucky, standing opposite him calmly. He raised an eyebrow, his mouth curved into a teasing grin. "Careful, doll. I bruise easily."

"You’ll live," you muttered, stretching your arms briefly.

John backed off the mats, smirking. "This oughta be good."

Bucky circled you slowly, voice low enough only you could hear. "You gonna let me win?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good," he murmured, lunging forward easily, eyes bright with amusement.

You sidestepped him effortlessly, landing a swift blow to his ribs. Bucky laughed softly, twisting away, clearly enjoying himself.

"Think they're flirting?" Alexei loudly whispered to Yelena.

"If by flirting you mean trying to kill each other," Ava remarked dryly, "then yes."

Bucky caught your wrist gently, pulling you slightly toward him. "Having fun yet?"

You rolled your eyes slightly, easily slipping your wrist from his grip. "Always."

"Good," he chuckled, stepping closer, voice dropping softer. "Me too."

"You’re ridiculous," you murmured quietly.

"I know," he agreed cheerfully, just before you swept his leg neatly, sending him sprawling onto the mats with a loud thud.

The team collectively winced.

Bucky blinked up at you, laughing as you offered him your hand to pull him up. "Had enough?" you asked calmly.

He took your hand, pulling himself smoothly to his feet, voice warm and teasing as he leaned close. "Not even close."

"Gross," John muttered.

"Agreed," Ava smirked, returning her attention to her training bag.

Bucky stepped back reluctantly, smiling easily as he rubbed his ribs. "Thanks for the match, doll."

You rolled your eyes, hiding your faint smile. “Just to be clear, I’m still waiting for date night. This doesn’t count.”

Bucky chuckled quietly, running a hand through his slightly mussed hair. “Fair enough. Tomorrow?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Demanding, Barnes.”

He smirked softly. “Consider it enthusiastic.”

“Same difference,” you muttered dryly, turning away. “Tomorrow works.”

You started back toward the edge of the mats, ignoring the curious looks from the team. Ava raised an eyebrow as you passed her.

“You okay, Barnes?” John called out teasingly. “Your ego survive that?”

Bucky snorted, dusting himself off easily. “Think I'll recover.”

Alexei shook his head, looking impressed. “She is formidable opponent. Why you not recruit her officially, Yelena?”

Yelena shrugged lightly, glancing toward you. “Because I value my life.”

Bob smiled faintly, watching Bucky closely. “You sure you’re okay, Bucky?”

Bucky waved him off casually, smirking. “Don’t worry about me, Bob. I've handled worse.”

“You’re sure?” Bob asked again, earnest concern in his voice. “She’s pretty tough.”

Bucky laughed warmly, eyes briefly flicking toward you as you leaned against the wall again. “Trust me—I noticed.”

“Clearly,” John snickered, elbowing Ava gently. “Look at that face. Pure puppy dog.”

Ava rolled her eyes fondly. “Careful, Walker, or he might actually kill you.”

“I might,” Bucky agreed, eyes playful as he reached for a towel, wiping his face casually.

“Why don’t you just ask her out?” Bob wondered quietly, looking genuinely puzzled again.

“Yeah,” Yelena echoed dryly. “Why don’t you, Barnes?”

Bucky sighed dramatically, shaking his head in mock despair. “I told you—I’m working on it.”

You watched quietly from your spot against the wall, expression neutral, coffee mug clasped in your hands. Bucky’s gaze caught yours briefly, warmth flickering across his eyes for just a moment before he turned away.

Yelena sighed dramatically, standing and stretching her arms lazily over her head. “Tragic,” she said flatly. “Come on, let’s wrap up. Alexei promised pizza.”

Alexei beamed proudly. “Extra pineapple for Bob!”

“I don’t actually like pineapple—” Bob started softly, then sighed and smiled. “Never mind.”

John clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “You’ll learn, Bob.”

The team slowly started to file out of the training room, chatting loudly amongst themselves. Bucky lingered behind, waiting until the others had vanished before moving quietly toward you.

“Pizza?” he asked quietly, nudging your shoulder gently.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fine.”

He smiled warmly, leaning closer and murmuring quietly. “You’re secretly excited, admit it.”

You snorted softly, hiding a faint smile behind your mug. “Don’t push it.”

Bucky’s smile widened into a grin as he straightened again, falling easily into step beside you. “Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you muttered dryly, sipping your coffee. “Wouldn’t want to have to hurt you again.”

He laughed warmly, eyes bright with affection as you moved quietly toward the elevator. “You love me too much to hurt me.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping into the elevator beside him, voice calm and casual. “Don’t be so sure.”

He smiled softly, watching you from the corner of his eye, quiet amusement lingering between you both. The elevator doors slid shut quietly, enclosing you both in comfortable silence.

---

You stepped quietly into the common area, where the team had already settled around the table, chatting loudly. Bob smiled at you shyly as he moved over to make space.

Alexei waved enthusiastically. "Y/N! You join us, excellent! Come, come, sit!"

You sank smoothly into the chair next to Bob, giving a faint nod. Across from you, Bucky's eyes lifted briefly, lingering on you with mild curiosity. You met his gaze evenly, then casually unzipped your half-zip pullover just a little bit further, revealing the faintest glimpse of delicate white lace beneath.

Bucky's eyes flicked immediately downward, then shot quickly back up to yours, clearly startled. He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat softly.

"Alright there, Barnes?" John asked casually, reaching for a slice.

"Yeah," Bucky murmured, forcing his gaze down to the pizza. "Fine."

You ate quietly, barely participating in conversation but very aware of Bucky's occasional discreet glances your way. Every subtle movement you made—reaching for a napkin, shifting slightly—gave him brief but intentional glimpses of lace against your skin.

Bucky swallowed hard, eyes narrowing slightly each time he caught sight of you, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

"You’re quiet tonight, Y/N," Ava commented casually, glancing over at you.

"She is always quiet," Alexei scoffed, grinning broadly. "Like silent assassin, no?"

You shrugged slightly, voice low. "Just tired."

"Or plotting," John muttered teasingly.

"Possibly," you agreed blandly, ignoring Bucky's slightly tense posture. After a few more minutes, you rose smoothly from your chair, setting your napkin down quietly. "I'm turning in."

"So soon?" Alexei called, looking disappointed. "Night still young!"

"Goodnight," you replied dryly, heading quietly toward the hallway.

You felt Bucky’s gaze on your back, heavy and heated. You barely made it halfway to the bedroom when you heard his chair scrape back, followed closely by Alexei's loud chuckle and John's amused muttering.

You entered the room first, stepping calmly inside, hearing the door click shut quietly behind Bucky a few moments later. You glanced back at him casually, watching as he leaned heavily against the door, eyes dark.

"You really enjoy torturing me, don't you?" he murmured dryly, his voice low and rough.

You tilted your head slightly, feigning confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He stepped toward you slowly, expression skeptical. "Really?"

You arched an eyebrow innocently. "Problem?"

"Yeah," he muttered softly, his eyes trailing slowly downward, lingering pointedly on the now-visible lace beneath your shirt. "That’s a problem."

You shrugged casually, turning away from him and starting to pull off your pullover, leaving you standing comfortably in leggings and your white lace bra. "Just a bra, Barnes."

He huffed softly, moving closer until he stood right behind you, hands gently settling on your hips. "It’s more than just a bra, doll."

You tilted your head back slightly against his chest, lips twitching faintly. "Punishment for delaying date night."

He groaned softly, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "You’re cruel."

"Maybe," you conceded calmly, turning slowly in his arms to face him. Your eyes softened slightly as you reached up, gently cupping his jaw. "But you deserve it."

He sighed dramatically, but his mouth curved into a faint smirk as his lips brushed lightly against yours. "Fine. Guilty."

Your lips met again slowly, soft and teasing at first, then gradually deeper. You sighed quietly against his mouth, sliding your hands into his hair, tugging gently. He gripped your hips a little tighter, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together firmly.

You pulled away gently after a few more lingering kisses, smiling faintly at his dazed expression. "I'm taking a shower. Alone."

Bucky groaned softly again, giving you something close to a pout as he reluctantly released you. "Really?"

"Really," you replied firmly, stepping back toward the bathroom. "Consider it payback."

"Sweetheart," he started pleadingly, reaching for your hand, eyes wide and hopeful.

You shook your head, lips twitching slightly with amusement. "My decision stands."

He sighed heavily, dramatically collapsing onto the bed, watching you move toward the bathroom door with exaggerated despair. "You're killing me."

"You'll live," you said dryly, shooting him one final teasing glance before disappearing into the bathroom.

You shut the door quietly, smiling faintly to yourself as you heard him mutter a quiet, resigned curse on the other side.

---

You woke slowly the next morning, blinking sleepily in the muted sunlight filtering through the curtains. Bucky’s steady breathing was warm against your neck, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. You shifted slightly, feeling him stir behind you.

"Morning," you murmured softly.

He hummed sleepily, pressing a lazy kiss against your shoulder. "Morning, sweetheart."

"Still pouting?"

"Maybe a little," he admitted, voice thick with sleep as he nuzzled gently against your neck. "You’re mean."

"You deserved it," you murmured quietly, shifting back against him slightly.

He hummed softly, lips brushing warmly against your skin. "Maybe. But you enjoy it way too much."

"Maybe," you echoed dryly, feeling his hand slip from your waist down toward your hip, fingers tracing slowly beneath the edge of your shirt.

Bucky’s lips moved lazily over your shoulder, teeth grazing gently as his leg slid slowly between yours, pressing softly until your breath caught. His metal hand drifted lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of your underwear.

"James," you warned quietly, eyes closing slowly.

"Hm?" he murmured innocently, pressing a warm kiss just below your ear.

You sighed softly, relaxing slightly against him. "We should probably—"

A loud knock at the door shattered the quiet moment. Bucky groaned deeply, dropping his forehead heavily onto your shoulder.

"Barnes!" Yelena’s voice called sharply through the door. "Alexei made pancakes. And he’s offended you’re not here."

Bucky sighed dramatically against your skin, hand withdrawing reluctantly. "Tell him I’m busy."

Yelena paused a moment before knocking again, harder. "No. Get up. He’ll mope."

You rolled your eyes, lightly patting Bucky’s thigh. "Duty calls."

"Don’t care," he muttered petulantly, tightening his arm around your waist again. "I want pancakes with you, not them."

"Barnes!" Yelena snapped again, louder now. "Don’t make me break the door."

"Alright, alright," Bucky called back irritably, sighing heavily as he finally released you, rolling onto his back dramatically. "Be right there."

You turned onto your side, watching him quietly, eyebrow raised faintly. "Tragic."

"Very," he agreed solemnly, glaring half-heartedly at the ceiling.

You leaned over, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to his jawline before standing smoothly from the bed. "I'll make it up to you later."

Bucky’s pout softened into a hopeful smirk. "Promise?"

"Maybe," you said dryly, walking to your dresser. "Now get up, Barnes. Can’t keep the kids waiting."

He sighed loudly, reluctantly dragging himself out of bed as you quietly slipped into your leggings. "You sure you don’t want to stay in bed? I’ll fake an injury."

"You’re pathetic," you murmured, lips twitching faintly as you headed toward the door. "Now move."

He groaned softly again, following you toward the door. "Fine. But I reserve the right to sulk."

"You always do," you muttered, stepping out into the hallway without another glance, leaving him shaking his head fondly behind you.

---

Later in the day, you were leaning against the kitchen counter, eating an apple while reading a book. The rest of the team was scattered around—Yelena, Alexei, and Bob chatting animatedly by the fridge, John and Ava lazily lounging on the couch in the living room, TV quietly droning.

You barely looked up when Bucky approached, quietly leaning next to you, close enough for your shoulders to brush. He crossed his arms casually, eyes fixed on your face with a faint smile.

"Got us reservations at Il Mulino tonight," he murmured softly, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You took another bite of your apple, flipping the page. "I don’t want Italian."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Since when don’t you want Italian?"

"Since now," you replied evenly, eyes not leaving your page. "I want a burger."

Bucky chuckled softly, bumping your shoulder gently with his. "You’re killin’ me, doll. It’s impossible to get into that burger place of yours last minute."

"Red Hook Tavern," you corrected calmly. "And I have faith in you, Barnes."

He sighed dramatically, nudging you again. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll figure something out. But you owe me."

You finally glanced up at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "For what? You owe me."

He smiled sheepishly, ducking his head. "Fair point."

Across the kitchen, Yelena elbowed Bob discreetly, both watching your quiet exchange with curiosity. "Are they… arguing?" Bob whispered uncertainly, brows furrowing.

Alexei snorted, shaking his head confidently. "No, Bob, this is called flirting. Barnes is flirting badly."

John glanced over from the couch, smirking faintly. "Bucky’s gonna strike out again."

Ava rolled her eyes lightly, voice amused. "Poor guy never learns."

Back at the counter, Bucky leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing your ear. "You know I spoil you, doll."

You hummed softly, voice deadpan. "Burger or nothing."

He huffed a laugh, stepping back slightly, smiling affectionately. "Fine. Burger it is."

"Good." You bit your apple again, returning your attention fully to your book. "Glad that's settled."

He lingered for another moment, watching you quietly with a faint, private smile before finally turning away, walking casually toward the elevator.

The second the doors slid shut behind him, Yelena smirked openly at you from across the kitchen. "Y/N, did Barnes finally work up the courage to ask you out?"

You glanced at her briefly, expression unreadable. "No."

Alexei groaned loudly, slapping his palm dramatically against his forehead. "Pathetic!"

Bob looked genuinely confused, tilting his head slightly. "But they talk all the time."

Yelena shook her head, sighing deeply. "It's complicated, Bob. Barnes pines. Y/N tolerates."

You ignored their chatter, turning quietly away to head down the hall toward your rarely-used room, your expression carefully neutral.

"You're all wrong," John drawled loudly from the couch. "She's just plotting how to murder him."

Ava smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Honestly, who could blame her?"

Yelena sighed dramatically again, leaning her hip against the counter. "Tragic."

You didn't bother responding, closing your bedroom door quietly behind you, a faint, hidden smile touching your lips as you reached for your phone to text Bucky a single word: "Burger?"

His response was almost immediate, playful and warm: "Anything for you, sweetheart."

---

A few hours later, you stepped out of the elevator and into the common area, quietly slipping past the team, who were sprawled out comfortably, watching some mindless action movie.

Yelena glanced up, eyebrows rising curiously. "Whoa. Where you going dressed like that?"

"Out," you replied evenly, adjusting the sleeve of your jacket slightly.

"Out?" John echoed suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly. "Since when do you go out?"

You shrugged calmly, heading toward the door without looking back. "Since now."

Alexei squinted suspiciously, nudging Bob hard. "You see, Bob? Very mysterious. This one has secret life, I tell you."

Bob blinked slowly, clearly puzzled. "Really?"

Ava rolled her eyes fondly. "Probably just going to scare people for fun."

You didn't respond, stepping smoothly through the doors and disappearing down the hall.

---

Five minutes later, Bucky emerged casually from his room, wearing a dark jacket and looking unusually put together. He adjusted his collar, glancing casually around the room as he headed for the exit.

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And where exactly are you headed, Barnes?"

"Got some errands to run," Bucky said easily, not breaking his stride.

"Errands?" Yelena repeated skeptically. "At night?"

He shrugged lightly, shooting her a casual smirk. "I like running errands."

Alexei shook his head, sighing loudly. "Two secret lives under one roof. This team falling apart."

Bob glanced uncertainly between the group. "But—"

"Don't hurt yourself thinking, Bob," Ava interrupted dryly.

Bob sighed softly. "Okay."

"Don't wait up," Bucky called over his shoulder, stepping quickly into the elevator and hitting the button for the ground floor, ignoring the curious stares that followed him.

---

Outside, you stood leaning casually against the side of the building, arms crossed loosely as you waited. The busy Manhattan streets hummed with distant traffic, lights casting a soft glow against the pavement.

When the doors finally opened, Bucky stepped out, immediately breaking into a warm smile as he caught sight of you. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmured softly, walking toward you with a playful glint in his eyes. "Fancy meeting you here."

You gave him a deadpan look. "Took you long enough."

He chuckled quietly, leaning down to press a soft, quick kiss against your cheek. "Sorry. Had to shake the interrogation."

You rolled your eyes, stepping smoothly into pace beside him as you both began walking. "They suspicious?"

"Always," he sighed dramatically, sliding an arm comfortably around your waist. "Luckily, they're clueless."

You hummed softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Good."

Bucky nudged you gently, voice teasing. "You look good."

You glanced at him sideways, eyebrow arching faintly. "Better appreciate it. I don't dress up for just anyone."

He laughed quietly, tugging you a bit closer to him as you walked. "Believe me, doll, I'm honored."

"Gross," you muttered lightly, hiding your smile against his shoulder as he laughed again, the two of you disappearing together into the lively Manhattan evening.

---

The two of you settled comfortably into the subway seats, the train gently rumbling beneath you as it moved toward Brooklyn. Bucky sat close, thigh pressed against yours, arm casually draped over the back of your seat.

"You know," he murmured playfully, eyes fixed on the dark windows flashing by, "we could've taken a car."

You scoffed lightly, leaning back. "And miss watching you navigate public transportation? Never."

He laughed softly, nudging your shoulder with his. "I'm not that bad."

"You still stare suspiciously at the turnstiles."

"They beep at me," he muttered defensively. "Makes me nervous."

You hummed dryly. "Super soldier, war hero—intimidated by a turnstile."

He sighed dramatically, squeezing your shoulder lightly. "You’re mean, sweetheart."

"You married me," you pointed out calmly.

"Must've been temporarily insane," he teased, lips brushing your temple softly. "Lucky for me, the condition’s permanent."

You rolled your eyes faintly, though a hidden smile curled your lips. "You realize you're flirting with your own wife, right?"

"Constantly," he admitted shamelessly. "You complaining?"

"No," you murmured softly, leaning your head onto his shoulder. "But don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he chuckled softly, kissing the crown of your head.

The train finally slowed, pulling into your stop. You stood easily, Bucky’s hand sliding naturally into yours as you navigated the crowds, stepping onto the platform and heading up toward the Brooklyn streets.

---

Red Hook Tavern was warm, cozy, bustling comfortably with chatter. A low, mellow soundtrack filled the space, the scent of burgers and fries thick in the air. Bucky guided you gently through the small crowd, settling into a quiet booth toward the back.

You leaned back, breathing in contentedly. "See? Better than pasta."

Bucky rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. "You win. Happy now?"

"Very," you replied dryly, eyes glinting with faint amusement.

He watched you thoughtfully for a moment, his expression softening. "You're cute when you're smug."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Careful, Barnes."

"What?" He smiled innocently, leaning across the table. "Just appreciating my date."

"Again," you muttered fondly, "you're married."

He shrugged casually, glancing down at the menu. "Just means I have exceptional taste."

You hid your smile behind your menu, shaking your head lightly. "Ridiculous."

"You love it."

"Unfortunately," you conceded, setting your menu aside as the waitress approached.

---

An hour later, the two of you wandered quietly through Brooklyn’s quieter streets, fingers intertwined, the glow of streetlights casting soft shadows on the pavement. "Happy?" Bucky asked softly, glancing down at you with a gentle smile.

"Surprisingly," you replied evenly, leaning slightly against his side as you walked.

He nudged you playfully. "I'm sensing a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

He chuckled quietly, voice warm. "Wouldn't dream of it."

You walked in comfortable silence for a few more blocks, the soft hum of distant traffic and nightlife filling the spaces between you.

"You ever gonna let them know?" Bucky finally asked, tone carefully casual. "The team?"

You sighed quietly, eyes flicking up toward him briefly. "Eventually. Just… not yet."

He squeezed your hand lightly, understanding. "Whatever you want, doll."

"Thank you," you murmured softly, leaning your head against his arm as you continued walking.

Bucky smiled warmly down at you, his voice quiet and teasing. "Don't worry. They’re all still convinced you hate me."

You snorted softly. "Good."

"Harsh," he murmured fondly.

"True," you countered dryly.

He laughed softly again, gently guiding you toward the subway entrance, heading back toward the Watchtower.

---

You stepped back into the Watchtower quietly, slipping from Bucky’s side as the elevator doors opened. He lingered behind a minute, watching as you vanished silently into his room, maintaining the illusion carefully.

The common room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city through the large windows and the soft overhead lights from the kitchen. It seemed deserted until Yelena suddenly appeared, leaning casually against the fridge with a glass of water in hand.

"Late errands, Barnes?" she asked pointedly, eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Something like that," Bucky replied easily, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the nearest chair.

She hummed, eyes glinting mischievously. "Interesting. Because Y/N just got back too. Coincidence?"

He rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms comfortably. "It’s Manhattan, Lena. Not exactly a small town."

"Right," she drawled sarcastically. "So just an innocent coincidence."

He tilted his head slightly, smirking faintly. "Why do you care, anyway?"

"I don’t," she said mildly, taking a sip of her water. "But Alexei’s invested. He thinks you’re finally making progress."

"Glad he's entertained," Bucky muttered dryly, pushing away from the counter and heading toward his room. "Night, Lena."

"Goodnight, Barnes," she called after him, amusement still evident in her voice. "Sleep well."

---

Bucky stepped quietly into his room, shutting the door behind him softly. The bathroom door was closed, the lights shining from underneath the door. He sighed comfortably, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it casually onto a nearby chair. Moving toward his dresser, he opened a drawer, sifting lazily through shirts and sweatpants.

The bathroom door clicked softly open behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder absently, then froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed appreciatively, gaze sweeping slowly from head to toe. You leaned casually against the doorframe, completely at ease in a two-piece lingerie set—deep emerald green, his favorite color—with a short black silk robe hanging loosely off your shoulders.

Bucky swallowed hard, momentarily speechless. "Jesus," he muttered faintly under his breath.

You arched a single eyebrow, expression carefully neutral. "See something you like, Barnes?"

"God, yes," he admitted shamelessly, turning fully to face you, eyes lingering appreciatively. "Special occasion?"

You shrugged casually, pushing off from the doorframe and walking slowly toward him. "You finally came through on date night. I figured you deserved a reward."

He chuckled softly, his voice low as his eyes tracked every subtle movement. "Remind me to always give you exactly what you want."

You hummed quietly, stopping mere inches from him, tilting your head slightly upward. "Smart man."

He reached out carefully, fingers grazing softly along the smooth silk fabric of your robe. His gaze flicked warmly to yours, playful and heated. "How long have you been hiding this?"

You met his stare evenly, unbothered. "Long enough."

He smiled faintly, tugging you gently closer by the ties of your robe. "Tease."

"Maybe," you conceded quietly, not resisting as he slowly pulled you closer, lips hovering just above yours. "But you're into it."

"Very," he murmured softly, finally capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His hand slipped beneath your robe, gently sliding along your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You sighed softly, pressing closer, fingers tangling lazily into his hair. "Told you I’d make it up to you."

He hummed appreciatively against your lips. "You're definitely forgiven."

"Good," you replied dryly, guiding him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sank easily onto it, hands settling firmly on your hips. You stood comfortably between his knees, looking down at him calmly, your fingers drifting slowly along his jawline.

"You’re staring," he teased softly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You love it," you murmured bluntly.

He chuckled warmly, tilting his head up to kiss your fingertips softly. "Unfortunately."

"Thought so," you replied evenly, finally sliding onto his lap, knees settling easily on either side of him.

His eyes fluttered briefly shut, breath hitching as your weight settled comfortably over him. "You're killing me."

"You’ll live," you said flatly, fingers slowly trailing down his chest, teasing the edges of his shirt. "Now take this off."

He obeyed quickly, tugging his shirt easily over his head, tossing it aside without a glance. His hands returned immediately to your waist, sliding slowly upward, fingertips grazing gently along the lace covering your ribs.

"Beautiful," he murmured softly, eyes warm as he leaned forward, lips brushing gently against your collarbone.

You tilted your head slightly back, eyes closing softly. "I know."

Bucky laughed quietly against your skin, warm breath ghosting along your neck. "And humble."

"Shut up, Barnes," you muttered quietly, pulling his face back up to yours, capturing his lips firmly.

He smiled into the kiss, deepening it slowly, hands tightening gently on your hips, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. Your breath hitched, body flush to his, silk brushing skin with every shift. You tugged his bottom lip with your teeth before pulling back just enough to murmur:

“Move up.”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard, then smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

He shifted up the bed without argument, head brushing the headboard, arms propped behind him. You stayed on his lap the entire time, thighs bracketing his, your robe sliding further open with every slight movement, the soft lace of your bra brushing against his bare chest.

You rolled your hips forward, slow, just enough friction to make his hands fly to your waist again. His breath stuttered.

“Fuck, doll…”

“You’re still overdressed,” you muttered, fingers already working his belt loose, eyes fixed on the buckle like it offended you.

He chuckled low. “Can’t say no when you look at me like that.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you replied flatly, shoving his pants and briefs down far enough to free him, eyes flicking up to catch the way his jaw tensed.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, gaze locked on the way you curled your fingers around him, stroking just enough to make him hiss.

You didn’t waste time. Just shifted your weight, pushed your underwear to the side, lined him up, and sank down in one slow, steady motion. His head thudded softly against the wall behind him.

“Goddamn—” he hissed between his teeth, hands gripping your hips hard. “You feel—fuck, doll—perfect.”

Your brows knit briefly, jaw clenching as you adjusted to the stretch, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. You lowered until he was fully inside, buried to the hilt, and only then did you pause—just to make sure he felt every inch of you around him.

He reached up, brushing your cheek with one hand, voice low. “You okay?”

You met his gaze, flat and unreadable, but your voice was rough when you replied. “Yeah. Shut up.”

Bucky just laughed, breathless. “Knew you loved me.”

You started to move—slow, controlled rolls of your hips that had him swearing under his breath, fingers twitching against your waist like he was trying not to force your pace. He didn’t have to. You had a rhythm, deliberate and maddening.

“You're tryin’ to kill me,” he groaned, head tilted back.

You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on his chest, spine arching as you rocked against him again. “If I wanted you dead, Barnes, you'd already be a corpse.”

“Shit, that’s hot,” he muttered, grip tightening again.

You smirked faintly, then leaned in, lips brushing his. “Told you I don’t dress up for just anyone.”

“And I told you,” he growled, sitting up to meet you halfway, “I’m honored.”

You reached between you and yanked on his dog tags, jerking him into a hard kiss. He groaned into it, mouth slanted against yours as his hands slid down, one settling firmly on your ass, the other at the small of your back, guiding your rhythm now, hips rising to meet yours on every downstroke.

Your breath hitched when he hit that spot—again. Again. Your fingers twisted tighter in the chain around his neck.

“Fuuuck,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip. “Keep clenching like that and this is gonna be over real fast, sweetheart.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you panted against his mouth, forehead pressed to his. “You’ll last.”

He grinned, voice wrecked. “Bossy. Love that.”

You rocked harder, pace picking up now, sweat starting to bead at your temples. Your robe slid entirely off your shoulders, forgotten.

Bucky looked up at you like you hung the moon. Like the way your brow furrowed in pleasure was something sacred. He reached up, thumb brushing along your jaw, voice barely audible over the wet slap of skin on skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, utterly gone. “My fuckin’ wife.”

You kissed him again, rougher this time, teeth clacking for a second, neither of you caring. You moaned low in your throat, the sound dragging from your chest when he shifted just slightly and—

“Ohhh—fuck,” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as you chased it, that tight pull in your stomach threatening to snap. “Right there.”

Bucky grunted, hips snapping up to meet yours harder. “Come on, doll. Let go for me. You’ve been so fuckin’ good.”

You curled your fingers into his shoulder blades and dropped your head to his neck, teeth scraping skin as your entire body shuddered.

He felt it—your pulse pounding where your mouth met his throat, the way you clenched down so tight around him he nearly lost it on the spot.

“That’s it,” he growled, biting back a moan. “That’s my girl.”

You rode it out with a broken gasp, voice cracking on a low, “Shit—fuck—Bucky—”

He thrust up hard twice more and then stilled, buried deep, arms crushing you to his chest as he came with a sharp exhale against your ear, voice rough as gravel.

“Fuck, doll, fuck—you drive me fuckin’ insane—”

You both breathed heavy, bodies slick and tangled, still flush together. You stayed straddled over him, his arms still locked tight around your waist.

Eventually, he muttered against your throat, voice raspy, “am I forgiven?”

You huffed softly, fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest. "Provisionally."

"Provisionally?" he echoed, pulling back slightly to give you a playful, offended look. "Sweetheart, after that?"

"Especially after that," you drawled dryly, leaning forward again to kiss him softly. "You delayed date night."

"I got you your burger," he argued lightly, kissing your jaw. "And fries."

"You delayed," you repeated evenly, shifting slightly, making him groan quietly.

He exhaled slowly, leaning his forehead gently against yours. "Fine. How do I make it up to you?"

"Breakfast in bed."

He chuckled softly, tightening his arms gently around your waist. "Done. Anything else?"

"Coffee. Good coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain," he murmured, lips brushing softly against your temple.

You pulled back, leveling him with a serious look. "And you're still talking."

Bucky laughed quietly, eyes bright with affection. "Harsh."

You hummed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. "True."

He gently stroked your back, the silence settling comfortably around you both for a moment before he spoke again, voice soft. "You planning on staying tonight?"

You tilted your head slightly, arching a brow. "I always stay."

He smiled warmly, pressing a kiss lightly to your forehead. "Just checking."

You rolled your eyes faintly, voice low. "Barnes, you're needy."

"Only with you," he teased gently, fingers tracing softly along your spine. "Don’t tell anyone."

"Trust me," you muttered dryly, closing your eyes comfortably, "not an issue."

He chuckled quietly again, shifting slightly until you both lay comfortably tangled together, blankets pulled loosely around you. You sighed softly, feeling your body finally relax fully against his.

"Wake me up early and you're dead," you warned softly.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," he murmured, lips pressing gently to the crown of your head. "Sleep well."

You hummed softly, already half asleep. "You too."

He tightened his hold slightly, breathing slowly evening out as the two of you drifted comfortably into sleep.

---

You stepped quietly into the training room, finding the team already deep into sparring practice. Alexei and John were loudly wrestling on one side, Ava was rhythmically hammering into a punching bag, and Yelena stood by Bob, calmly instructing him through basic defensive stances.

You slipped past them, silently observing from your usual place against the wall.

“Decided to show after all?” Ava asked dryly, pausing briefly to glance at you.

You gave a faint nod, not responding verbally. She shrugged slightly, returning to her bag.

Moments later, Bucky stepped in, quietly catching your eye across the room. He offered you a small, playful smirk. You raised an eyebrow in silent acknowledgment.

John immediately spotted him, stepping away from Alexei with a wide grin. "Hey Barnes, you gonna spar today or you too busy humming?"

Bucky sighed heavily, stepping onto the mats casually. "You really don't let anything go, do you?"

Alexei chuckled, slapping Bucky’s shoulder enthusiastically. "Of course not! Team bonding means constant harassment. Builds character."

"Thanks, Alexei," Bucky muttered sarcastically. He looked around the room, glancing pointedly at John. "Fine. Let's go."

You settled more comfortably against the wall, watching calmly as Bucky circled John easily. He moved fluidly, clearly holding back slightly, amused as John struggled to land any hits.

Across the room, Yelena stepped quietly to your side, voice low. "Barnes is unusually smug today."

You tilted your head slightly, eyes not leaving the match. "He looks the same to me."

Yelena smirked, eyes narrowing slightly. "He’s glancing over here. A lot."

You shrugged lightly. "Maybe he's worried you’ll interrogate him again."

She huffed quietly, eyes fixed suspiciously on your neutral expression. "Or maybe he's trying to impress someone."

You glanced at her calmly, voice flat. "You think Barnes needs to impress anyone?"

She paused, considering, then sighed irritably. "You’re annoyingly good at not answering."

"Thanks," you replied dryly, returning your attention to the mats as John landed heavily on his back, groaning.

Bucky offered him a hand up, smirking faintly. "You good?"

John rolled his eyes, wincing as he stood. "Peachy."

Alexei laughed loudly, clapping dramatically. "Barnes is champion again! Who wants next?"

Bucky glanced briefly your way, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge. You calmly ignored him, sipping water from a nearby bottle.

"Y/N!" Alexei suddenly called cheerfully. "Come, come! You fight Barnes, yes?"

You sighed softly, setting your bottle aside. "Fine."

Bucky smiled slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Try not to hurt me too bad, doll."

Yelena raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "You two seem friendly all of a sudden."

Bucky shrugged easily, eyes fixed calmly on you. "She tolerates me."

You stepped onto the mats smoothly, circling slowly. "Barely."

"Careful," he teased gently, lunging forward suddenly. You sidestepped effortlessly, eyes coolly amused as you avoided him again.

"You’re slow today," you murmured dryly, watching his careful movements.

He chuckled softly, voice low. "Maybe I’m distracted."

You scoffed quietly, easily dodging his grasp again. "Focus."

He feigned a pout, attempting to catch your wrist. "Maybe you’re my focus."

Across the room, John glanced skeptically at Yelena. "Are they flirting again?"

Yelena sighed deeply. "Probably. Barnes never learns."

You neatly twisted, ducking beneath Bucky’s arm, and landed a precise hit to his ribs. He laughed softly, barely flinching as he circled you again. "You’re enjoying this too much."

"Maybe," you replied evenly, stepping closer, eyes narrowed playfully. "But you clearly like it."

"Very," he admitted shamelessly, voice low enough only you could hear. "But maybe take it easy—I bruise easily."

"Liar," you muttered softly, moving swiftly again, barely missing him as he slipped neatly out of reach.

He grinned faintly, teasing openly now. "Maybe I just like when you play rough."

"Gross," John muttered dryly from the sidelines.

Alexei nodded gravely. "Agreed."

You finally caught Bucky’s wrist smoothly, twisting lightly until he laughed, yielding dramatically. "Fine, fine, you win."

You released him, stepping calmly back, expression neutral. "Again."

He smiled faintly, shaking his head affectionately. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

Yelena rolled her eyes, sighing dramatically. "You two are exhausting."

Bob tilted his head uncertainly. "Why?"

She shook her head slowly. "Trust me, Bob. Don't worry about it."

You ignored them all, eyes fixed calmly on Bucky as you circled again, the quiet amusement between you both carefully hidden beneath calm, unreadable expressions.

---

A week later, you were quietly pouring yourself coffee when Bob spoke up from the table, his voice uncertain.

"Hey, um... has anyone ever noticed Y/N's room is always spotless?"

John glanced up skeptically. "Why are you even looking at Y/N's room?"

Bob flushed slightly. "I'm not—I just noticed the door's always closed, and... the lights are never on."

Alexei immediately perked up, delighted. "Aha! Suspicious! Perhaps she is vampire. No sleep, no mess."

Yelena rolled her eyes, but her curiosity was clearly piqued. "Bob has a point, though. Have any of you ever actually seen her go into her room?"

The team fell silent, all of them exchanging curious glances. Ava finally shrugged. "Maybe she just likes things clean."

Bob shook his head. "No, like—really clean. Hotel-room clean."

Alexei slammed his hand on the table dramatically, making Bob jump. "Exactly! Vampire. Or spy. Or spy vampire."

Bucky, leaning casually against the counter, swallowed his coffee a little too quickly, coughing quietly.

"You alright, Barnes?" John asked suspiciously.

Bucky nodded, voice rough. "Fine."

Yelena stood suddenly, chair scraping softly against the floor. "I'm checking it out."

"You can't just invade someone's room, Lena," Ava said dryly.

"Watch me," Yelena said easily, already heading down the hall.

Bucky's eyes widened slightly. He glanced quickly toward you, but you merely sipped your coffee calmly, expression utterly neutral.

John watched Yelena go, snorting softly. "She's definitely gonna get herself killed."

Alexei chuckled deeply, clearly entertained. "If vampire Y/N doesn't get her first."

---

Five minutes later, Yelena returned looking oddly disappointed. She dropped back into her chair with a huff, crossing her arms irritably.

"Well?" Alexei demanded eagerly. "Did you find coffin?"

"No coffin," she muttered bitterly. "Just a very boring, very unused bed."

Bob blinked slowly. "Unused?"

"Perfectly made," Yelena confirmed, glaring pointedly at Bucky. "Not a wrinkle. It's like she never sleeps there."

Bucky shrugged lightly, avoiding her stare. "Maybe she just makes the bed."

"Or," John drawled thoughtfully, "she sleeps hanging upside down from the ceiling. Alexei's vampire theory holds up."

Bob furrowed his brow deeply. "Can people actually do that?"

"Bob," Ava sighed gently, "please don’t hurt yourself."

You calmly finished your coffee, setting your mug quietly in the sink. "This is a fascinating discussion."

Yelena turned her sharp gaze directly onto you. "Care to explain your oddly pristine bedroom?"

You raised a single brow calmly, leaning back against the counter. "Not really."

Alexei laughed heartily, slapping the table enthusiastically. "I told you! Vampire!"

Bucky coughed again, barely hiding his smile behind his coffee cup. "Right. Vampire."

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously at you, arms folded. "You realize I’ll figure it out eventually."

"Good luck," you murmured dryly, moving toward the hallway. "Have fun with your theories."

As you disappeared down the hall, Alexei beamed cheerfully, gesturing toward Bucky. "Barnes! You watch your back tonight. Our scary friend might come for your neck!"

Bucky snorted quietly, setting his mug down. "Pretty sure I can handle her."

"Good luck," Ava muttered, eyes amused. "If anyone's a vampire, it's her."

Bucky smiled faintly, following you down the hall calmly, ignoring the curious, skeptical gazes burning into his back.

---

It was past midnight when a sharp knock jolted Bucky awake. He sat up abruptly, eyes immediately darting to you beside him. You were still fast asleep, breathing steady, face relaxed into the pillow.

Another sharp knock came, followed by Yelena’s irritated voice. "Y/N. You awake?"

Bucky muttered a curse under his breath, gently sliding from beneath the covers, careful not to wake you. He pulled on a shirt quickly, quietly stepping into the hallway and closing the bedroom door behind him before Yelena knocked again.

"What the hell, Lena?" he whispered harshly.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Barnes. What are you doing here?"

He gestured vaguely down the hall, trying to look casual. "I was—getting water. What's your excuse?"

She narrowed her eyes skeptically. "I needed Y/N."

"At midnight?" he hissed.

She shrugged unapologetically. "Couldn't sleep. Thought she might be up. Her lights are always off anyway."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing softly. "She’s not in there."

Yelena folded her arms, suspicion spiking immediately. "And how would you know?"

He paused, scrambling for a believable lie. "I saw her leave earlier. Said something about going for a run."

"A run," Yelena echoed flatly. "At midnight."

"Yeah," Bucky muttered, attempting to sound confident. "She does that sometimes."

Yelena stared at him, completely unconvinced. "Really."

"Really," Bucky said firmly, meeting her gaze evenly.

She eyed him carefully, suspicion heavy in her stare. "You’re acting weird, Barnes."

He forced a casual shrug. "You're knocking on people’s doors at midnight. Who's weird?"

Yelena narrowed her eyes further, voice dry. "I’m watching you."

"Great," he muttered sarcastically, stepping past her toward the kitchen. "Have fun with that."

She remained standing by your unused door, eyes tracking him as he moved down the hallway. Eventually, she shook her head, irritation clear, and turned back toward her own room. "Ridiculous," she mumbled softly. "Everyone in this place is losing their minds."

Once the hallway was finally quiet again, Bucky returned quickly to his room, slipping silently inside. He exhaled slowly, relieved, as he quietly shut the door behind him. He turned back toward the bed—and found you wide awake, watching him with a faint, amused expression.

"Enjoy your midnight chat?" you asked dryly.

He sighed heavily, climbing back into bed beside you. "Your friend is getting suspicious."

You rolled your eyes slightly, shifting closer to him again. "She’s your friend."

"Not tonight," he muttered, tugging you gently into his arms. "Tonight she’s a nuisance."

You hummed softly, settling comfortably against his chest. "You handled it?"

"For now," he admitted reluctantly. "Barely."

You smirked faintly, tilting your head up slightly to kiss his jaw. "Good."

Bucky tightened his hold around your waist, dropping a soft kiss onto your forehead. "Next time she knocks, you're answering."

"No," you murmured firmly, eyes already drifting closed again. "You're better at lying."

He chuckled softly, voice warm. "Fair enough."

You settled into silence again, listening to his heartbeat slowly ease back into a calm rhythm. After a moment, you murmured softly, "You're still awake."

He sighed, voice dry with mild irritation. "Yeah. Someone knocking at midnight does that."

You smiled faintly, turning your head gently into his shoulder. "You'll live."

"Maybe," he teased quietly, fingers trailing softly along your spine. "If your friend doesn't kill me first."

"Sleep, Barnes," you murmured flatly.

He chuckled softly, finally relaxing fully into the mattress, eyes slowly closing. "Yes, ma'am."

---

Two days later, you were leaning against the kitchen counter, quietly observing as Ava scrolled through her phone, Yelena perched eagerly next to her.

“No,” Ava muttered. “Not her. Too cheerful.”

John peered over her shoulder skeptically. “Cheerful’s good. Maybe it’ll rub off on him.”

“What are you idiots doing?” Bucky asked warily, pouring himself coffee and shooting a confused glance in their direction.

Ava looked up casually, voice deadpan. “Finding you a date.”

Bucky nearly choked on his coffee. “A what?”

Alexei nodded enthusiastically, grinning. “Yes! Barnes, you mope too much. Need romantic distraction.”

Bucky raised a skeptical brow. “I’m fine.”

“You’re absolutely not fine,” Yelena countered, voice dry. “You need help.”

You remained perfectly silent, casually sipping your own coffee, your expression blank as Bucky shot you a subtle, desperate glance.

“Ah!” Ava suddenly exclaimed triumphantly. “Got it. My friend’s a barista. Cute, funny, tolerates annoying customers. She’s perfect.”

“Perfect!” Alexei echoed loudly, slapping the table with excitement.

Bucky looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Really not necessary.”

Ava ignored him, already texting rapidly. “Too late. It’s done.”

“Fantastic,” Bucky muttered flatly, stealing another quick, pleading glance toward you. You met his gaze evenly, taking another calm sip of coffee. “You could at least pretend to help,” he murmured irritably, just loud enough for you to hear.

You raised a single eyebrow, voice flat. “Looks like you’ve got it covered.”

Ava looked up again, smiling smugly. “Tomorrow night, seven sharp.”

Bucky sighed heavily, clearly defeated. “Great.”

---

Later that evening, Bucky leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching you quietly as you calmly flipped through a book. His arms were crossed over his chest, an amused, questioning expression on his face.

“You jealous, sweetheart?” he finally teased softly.

You didn’t look up from your page, voice utterly flat. “Of watching you struggle to make small talk? No.”

He laughed softly, pushing away from the doorway to step toward you, gently tugging the book from your hands. “So you don’t care if I go?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, voice deceptively casual. “You’re allowed to have friends.”

He smirked faintly, leaning closer until his lips brushed your jaw. “It’s a date, doll. Not a friend.”

You turned slightly, raising a challenging eyebrow. “You’re awfully smug for someone sleeping alone tonight.”

He chuckled softly, gently gripping your chin, tilting your face to his. “You’re awfully possessive for someone who ‘doesn’t care.’”

You sighed deeply, voice low and even. “Barnes.”

“Yes, sweetheart?” he murmured teasingly, lips brushing yours softly.

“Go on your stupid date,” you muttered flatly, pulling back slightly. “Smile at her once and I’ll murder you.”

He laughed warmly, clearly delighted. “Understood.”

You took your book back from his hand calmly, settling against the pillows again. “Glad we’re clear.”

Bucky shook his head fondly, climbing onto the bed beside you, settling comfortably close. “You know, if you don’t want me to go, you could just say so.”

You turned the page calmly, eyes on the text again. “Go.”

“Right,” he teased softly, lips brushing your shoulder. “But no smiling.”

“No smiling,” you confirmed flatly, finally glancing toward him, a faint, hidden smile tugging at your lips. “At least not nicely.”

He chuckled again, relaxing fully beside you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re needy,” you murmured calmly, gently resting your head against his shoulder.

“Only with you,” he reminded you softly, pressing a tender kiss against your temple.

“Good,” you muttered dryly. “Keep it that way.”

---

You walked into the bedroom as Bucky left the bathroom, freshly showered getting ready for his date. “I changed my mind,” you said firmly, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed.

Bucky turned to face you, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh?”

“Don’t get smug, Barnes.”

He held his hands up innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” you shot back, eyes narrowed slightly.

He stepped closer, clearly enjoying this. “So you don’t want me to go now?”

“No,” you admitted bluntly, jaw tight.

“Is this you being jealous again?” he teased lightly, stepping even closer until there was barely any space between you.

“No,” you repeated flatly. “This is me deciding I don’t feel like hiding your body.”

He laughed quietly, eyes bright. “Sweetheart, it’s just dinner.”

“With another woman.”

“A dinner you approved,” he reminded you playfully.

“I changed my mind,” you said again, voice colder this time. “Cancel it.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll stab you,” you said, deadpan. “And that’ll solve the problem anyway.”

He laughed softly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your temple. “God, you’re hot when you’re threatening my life.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing gently against his chest. “Shut up, Barnes. Cancel the date.”

He chuckled again, pulling his phone from his pocket without hesitation, typing quickly. “Fine, fine. It’s canceled.”

“Good.”

“Happy now?” he teased softly.

“Ecstatic,” you muttered sarcastically, turning away and heading toward the bathroom. You paused at the doorway, glancing back briefly. “And wipe that smug look off your face, Barnes.”

Bucky grinned broadly, eyes gleaming. “Yes, ma’am.”

---

Ten minutes later, Bucky wandered casually into the common room, dropping onto the couch beside John. Yelena glanced up from her phone immediately, brows raised. “Shouldn’t you be gone already?” she asked suspiciously.

Bucky shrugged casually, grabbing the remote. “Canceled.”

John snorted. “Got stood up already?”

“Something like that,” Bucky replied mildly.

Alexei shook his head dramatically. “Barnes, terrible luck with romance. Maybe you should become monk.”

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Bucky muttered dryly. “I’ll think about it.”

Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. “She canceled or you?”

“It was mutual,” Bucky lied smoothly, flipping through the channels casually.

Across the room, Bob glanced uncertainly toward your closed bedroom door. “Where’s Y/N?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “No idea.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Bucky, clearly unconvinced. “Very convenient timing.”

He met her gaze evenly, unbothered. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Alexei laughed heartily. “Yes, very lucky! Lucky you get rejected!”

“Right,” Bucky sighed flatly. “Thanks.”

John elbowed him lightly. “Want me to text Ava’s friend for you? Try again?”

“Absolutely not,” Bucky replied firmly. “I’m good.”

Yelena frowned thoughtfully, still skeptical. “I’m watching you, Barnes.”

Bucky smiled faintly, unfazed. “You’ve mentioned.”

“You’re suspicious,” she muttered quietly, eyes narrowed. “You’re both suspicious.”

“You’re paranoid,” Bucky countered dryly, turning back to the TV.

Ava sighed heavily, glancing up briefly. “Both can be true.”

Alexei nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely both!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, ignoring their pointed stares. “Whatever you say.”

Across the room, Bob glanced around again uncertainly. “But really, has anyone seen Y/N?”

“She’s probably plotting someone’s murder,” John replied calmly.

Alexei chuckled heartily, nodding. “Likely.”

Bucky fought a faint smile, eyes staying carefully fixed on the screen. “Sounds about right.”

---

The common area was unusually quiet as the team lounged about lazily. Alexei was mindlessly flipping channels, Ava texting on her phone, and Yelena and John bickering quietly over breakfast.

Bob glanced up first, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "Hey, uh... is Bucky wearing green?"

Yelena's head whipped around immediately, eyes widening dramatically as Bucky entered the kitchen, completely unbothered, in a dark green Henley and grey sweats.

"Whoa," John muttered, mid-bite, clearly shocked. "Did someone die?"

Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Barnes, did you hit your head?"

Bucky sighed deeply, pouring coffee calmly. "What now?"

"Your clothes," Alexei said gravely, as though discussing a great tragedy. "They have color."

Bucky looked down casually, shrugging. "It's just green."

"Exactly," Yelena agreed, nodding sharply. "That's the point. You don't wear green."

"I can wear green," Bucky replied dryly. "There's no rule against green."

John shook his head, feigning seriousness. "Yeah, but you're usually like... Batman."

"Batman?" Bucky echoed flatly, brows rising.

"All black, all brooding," John clarified. "It's your vibe."

Alexei clapped loudly, enthusiastically agreeing. "Yes! Like angry shadow! Very broody!"

Bucky rolled his eyes, clearly amused, but said nothing.

"Maybe he's finally cracking," Ava teased lightly, still focused on her phone.

"Maybe," Yelena muttered suspiciously, eyes narrowed as she watched him carefully. "Or someone's influencing him."

"Conspiracy theory, Lena?" Bucky asked mildly, sipping his coffee.

"Yes," she said immediately, completely serious. "I suspect foul play."

Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "But he looks good."

Bucky pointed at him appreciatively. "Thank you, Bob."

Bob smiled shyly, clearly pleased with himself. "You're welcome."

The conversation continued, dissolving into pointless bickering. You chose that exact moment to enter quietly, moving casually toward the coffee machine. As you passed behind Bucky, you swiftly and casually slapped his ass, hiding your smirk as he jolted slightly.

His eyes immediately shot to yours, wide and startled.

"Nice color, Barnes," you murmured evenly, calmly grabbing a coffee mug. You moved away without another glance, expression utterly neutral, even as his cheeks reddened faintly. Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly, quickly turning back to his coffee.

"Barnes?" Yelena asked sharply, catching the awkward shift. "You good?"

"Fine," he muttered quickly, eyes fixed pointedly on his mug.

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Something's up."

"Nothing's up," Bucky replied a little too quickly, clearing his throat again.

Alexei chuckled deeply, nodding knowingly. "Very suspicious."

Ava sighed deeply. "Oh, please don't start another conspiracy theory."

You smirked faintly behind your mug, eyes briefly meeting Bucky's again from across the room. He shot you a small, playful glare, barely suppressing his smile.

Yelena leaned forward, watching him carefully. "Barnes, you're acting weird again."

Bucky huffed quietly, sipping his coffee and trying to look unbothered. "It's literally just a shirt, Lena."

You moved quietly toward the exit, tossing a casual comment over your shoulder. "I think it's his color." The entire room fell silent as you disappeared down the hall, all eyes immediately flicking back to Bucky.

John raised an eyebrow slowly. "Did she just give you a compliment?"

Bucky shrugged lightly, fighting a smirk as he avoided everyone's suspicious gaze. "Guess so."

"She definitely did," Ava confirmed flatly, clearly amused.

Alexei chuckled knowingly, slapping the table enthusiastically. "Ah-ha! Progress!"

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously, leaning back in her chair thoughtfully. "I still don't trust it."

"You trust nothing," John pointed out dryly.

"True," she conceded evenly. "But especially not Barnes and Y/N."

Bucky shook his head, sighing dramatically as he headed for the elevator. "You're all ridiculous."

Bob looked around uncertainly. "But he does look good in green."

"Yes, Bob," Yelena sighed heavily. "That's the problem."

---

You walked quietly into the training room, finding the team spread out, already deep into their routines. John was spotting Bob at the bench press, Ava stretched by the punching bags, and Alexei lounged against the wall, offering unhelpful commentary. You silently moved toward the mats, your necklace catching briefly in the overhead lights.

Yelena immediately paused mid-stretch, staring openly. "You're wearing a necklace."

"So?" you replied evenly, stretching casually.

"So," Yelena echoed slowly, suspiciously. "You don't usually wear accessories."

You raised an eyebrow calmly. "You're paying attention to my jewelry habits now?"

"Someone has to," she muttered flatly. "Something's definitely up."

Across the room, Bucky entered casually, eyes briefly locking onto the necklace, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He hid it quickly, grabbing a water bottle instead.

Alexei pointed enthusiastically toward you. "Barnes! Our scary friend wears mystery necklace."

Bucky feigned mild disinterest. "Good for her."

"You don't care?" Yelena asked skeptically, eyeing him suspiciously. "You’re usually pretty invested.”

"That’s you," he reminded her dryly, calmly taking a sip of water. "I'm fine with it."

"Hmm," she murmured, clearly unconvinced.

You ignored them all, beginning your warm-up calmly, your necklace gleaming softly beneath the lights.

Bob watched curiously, his voice quiet. "Maybe it's important to her."

Alexei chuckled loudly. "Important like secret admirer!"

You exhaled slowly, voice flat. "Maybe it is."

The room fell immediately quiet. Yelena's eyes narrowed sharply, suspicion spiking. "Did you just admit you have a secret admirer?"

You didn't reply, calmly continuing your stretches. Bucky turned his back quickly, clearly trying to hide his faint smirk behind his water bottle.

John shook his head slowly. "There's no way."

Alexei clapped loudly. "There is way! Romance in the tower, very exciting!"

Ava sighed deeply, clearly bored. "Not everything's a conspiracy."

"This definitely is," Yelena muttered darkly, still glaring pointedly at you.

"Leave her alone," Bucky said lightly, stepping calmly onto the mats. "If she wants to keep secrets, let her."

Yelena raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You're suspiciously supportive."

"I'm supportive of privacy," Bucky replied evenly. "Especially when it means fewer interrogations from you."

You stepped forward, tilting your head slightly, eyes coolly amused. "Barnes. Are we talking or training?"

He smirked faintly, eyes glinting with amusement as he dropped into a defensive stance. "Training."

"Good," you murmured flatly, moving fluidly toward him. "Less talking."

"She really scares me," John muttered from the side, watching warily.

Alexei laughed heartily, delighted. "Yes, very terrifying! Especially with jewelry."

You ignored them, focused solely on Bucky as you sparred, both of you carefully hiding your faint smiles each time you moved closer, your necklace gleaming softly between you.

“I swear to God, Barnes. If you grope me, I’ll kill you.”

Bucky chuckled quietly, moving around you smoothly on the mats. “You’re wearing my favorite. Can’t blame a guy for being distracted.”

“You can,” you countered flatly, dodging easily as he reached for your wrist again. “Focus.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your necklace, lips quirking slightly. “And my necklace? You’re spoiling me.”

You sighed softly, carefully shifting your weight to block his next move. “You’re hopeless.”

“Only for you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice teasingly warm. His eyes glinted playfully. “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Barnes,” you muttered quietly, tone sharp. “We’re training.”

He smirked faintly, leaning in closer as he passed you again. “You weren’t complaining when you were hogging the sheets.”

Your eyes narrowed, voice dropping lower. “I’ll smother you with those sheets.”

“Promises, promises,” he teased lightly, moving smoothly behind you again. “Maybe later.”

Across the room, Yelena watched suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “Are they arguing again?”

“Probably,” Ava muttered absently, eyes still on her phone.

John shook his head slowly. “It looks kinda… intense.”

Alexei shrugged cheerfully. “They always intense. Like dramatic spy movie.”

Back on the mats, Bucky’s gaze flicked appreciatively again to your bralette, a faint, smug smile appearing. “Seriously, doll, it’s distracting.”

“Good,” you said flatly, quickly twisting your wrist from his grasp. “Means you’ll lose faster.”

He laughed softly, circling you again, eyes playful. “Harsh.”

“True.”

He lunged suddenly, grabbing your waist firmly, pulling you flush against him. You froze briefly, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Barnes,” you growled softly, warning clear. “What did I say?”

He smiled innocently, leaning closer. “I forgot.”

“I’ll remind you later,” you muttered darkly, elbowing him swiftly in the ribs and stepping neatly away.

He winced, laughing quietly, voice low. “Worth it.”

“Gross,” John muttered, shaking his head. “They’re definitely flirting.”

Ava rolled her eyes slightly. “And yet she hasn’t killed him.”

Yelena sighed deeply, irritated. “Yet.”

Bob looked uncertainly toward the mats. “But they fight all the time.”

Alexei chuckled heartily. “Exactly! This called sexual tension, Bob. Very intense.”

You finally stepped back, exhaling slowly, eyes calmly meeting Bucky’s amused gaze. “You’re lucky we have an audience.”

He smiled warmly, eyes softening just for a moment. “I know.”

“Good,” you murmured evenly, stepping smoothly off the mats. “Keep that in mind tonight when you’re begging for mercy.”

Bucky grinned widely, completely unfazed, following casually behind you. “Looking forward to it, sweetheart.”

Yelena glared suspiciously as the two of you passed. “You two have fun?”

You shot her a bland look. “Define fun.”

“Did Barnes survive?”

“For now,” you said flatly, not breaking stride.

Bucky chuckled quietly, nudging you gently. “She’s secretly soft on me.”

“Delusional,” you corrected dryly.

“Right,” Yelena muttered skeptically as you both disappeared down the hall. “Definitely flirting.”

---

“Is that a skirt?” Yelena asked, as you walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

You raised the skirt to reveal the shorts connected underneath. "It's a skort."

Yelena raised her eyebrows, nodding thoughtfully. "Cute."

"Didn't ask," you replied flatly, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

Behind you, John snorted quietly. "Friendly as always."

"Careful," Ava murmured absently. "She might actually kill you this time."

You ignored them, leaning against the counter casually as Bucky stepped quietly into the kitchen, eyes quickly flicking to your skort. He paused briefly, lips curving into a small, smug smile. "Nice outfit," he teased lightly.

You tilted your head calmly, voice utterly neutral. "It was a gift."

Yelena's head whipped toward you suspiciously. "From who?"

You took a sip of water, expression unreadable. "A friend."

"Friend?" John echoed skeptically. "You don't have friends."

"True," Alexei agreed cheerfully. "Scary friend has no friends, only victims."

Bucky chuckled softly, stepping past you and casually leaning in to grab a coffee mug. "Maybe she made an exception."

You glanced sideways at him, voice low. "Don't push it, Barnes."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured softly, barely audible.

Bob furrowed his brow slightly. "Why does Bucky always tease Y/N?"

"Because he has a death wish," Ava replied absently.

"Or," Yelena mused suspiciously, eyes narrowed at you both, "he likes living dangerously."

"Definitely dangerous," Alexei nodded seriously. "Y/N will kill Barnes soon."

"Looking forward to it," you muttered dryly, pushing off from the counter and heading toward the hall. You barely managed two steps before you felt Bucky subtly slide his hand under the skirt, squeezing your ass firmly, hidden perfectly from the team's view.

You shot him a sharp, dangerous glare over your shoulder, voice cold and low. "Barnes."

He grinned smugly, completely unbothered. "Careful, sweetheart."

You huffed irritably, storming away without another word, hearing the team snicker quietly behind you.

"What was that?" Yelena immediately demanded suspiciously.

Bucky shrugged casually, pouring coffee calmly. "No idea."

"She looked pissed," John noted dryly.

"When doesn't she?" Ava muttered flatly.

Alexei laughed cheerfully, shaking his head. "Barnes, one day she'll kill you. Very messy."

Bucky smiled faintly, eyes glinting. "Probably."

Bob tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe you should apologize?"

"I'm good," Bucky said lightly, sipping his coffee, smirk still firmly in place.

Yelena sighed dramatically, clearly irritated. "You two are exhausting."

---

Bucky stepped quietly into the bedroom a short while later, closing the door behind him softly. You immediately shot him a sharp look from your spot on the bed, book in hand.

"You're lucky I didn't stab you," you muttered flatly.

He chuckled softly, moving toward you calmly, eyes warm and amused. "Worth the risk."

"Barnes," you warned quietly, gaze narrowed.

He grinned playfully, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "You slapped my ass in front of everyone. Payback was fair."

You scoffed softly, reluctantly relaxing slightly as he settled comfortably beside you. "Barely."

He nudged your shoulder gently, voice teasingly soft. "Admit it. You liked it."

"Keep dreaming," you murmured dryly, turning the page calmly.

Bucky chuckled again, gently pulling your book down to catch your eyes. "Love you too, sweetheart."

"Gross," you muttered quietly, but your voice softened, and your lips twitched faintly.

He smiled warmly, leaning closer to brush his lips against your jawline. "Thanks for wearing the skort."

"You bought it," you reminded him evenly, though your voice lacked its usual edge.

"And it looks perfect," he murmured softly, lips tracing gently along your neck. "Especially on you."

"Bucky," you sighed, eyes falling shut briefly. "Stop."

"You sure?" he teased softly, breath warm against your skin.

You exhaled slowly, head tilting slightly to grant him better access. "No."

He smiled against your skin, fingers sliding gently beneath the hem of the skort again, voice teasing and affectionate. "Didn't think so."

---

The comms crackled softly in your ear as you moved silently through the tree line, keeping low, eyes trained on the compound just up ahead. You and Ava were positioned to sweep the south perimeter while the others flanked the north and secured the intel inside.

"East clear," Yelena’s voice came through. "No movement."

"North entrance is covered," John added. "Alexei’s being loud as usual."

"Strategic loud," Alexei corrected proudly.

“South perimeter’s clear,” Ava said, glancing briefly toward you. “Y/N, you good?”

You gave a silent nod, pressing your back against the stone wall as you signaled for her to hold position. Then the line crackled again—Bucky’s voice came through, strained but still steady. “Contact in the west corridor. I’m good—just grazed.”

There was a pause. Then: “repeat, Barnes is hit,” John confirmed. “Not bad. Just a graze on his side.”

You were already moving. You didn’t say anything—not to Ava, not to the comms. You just moved.

Through the trees, across the clearing, slipping like a shadow through the half-ruined side entrance. You moved fast, but quiet, eyes scanning rapidly for any sign of him.

Behind you, Ava’s voice came faintly through the earpiece. “...Y/N? Where the hell— Y/N, you were supposed to hold south!”

"She’s gone," Yelena muttered over comms. "Of course she’s gone."

Alexei chuckled into the line. "Perhaps vampire instincts. She senses blood."

You ignored them all.

The compound’s west wing was dim and empty, light filtering in through broken windows and high beams. You rounded a corner and spotted him almost immediately—leaning heavily against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, blood staining the fabric of his black combat shirt.

His head snapped up when he saw you. “What are you—?” You crossed the space in seconds, grabbing his wrist and yanking it away to inspect the wound. “It’s fine,” he started.

You pulled a cloth from your pocket, pressing it against the wound firmly, your movements efficient and practiced. “You didn’t call it in yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow, breath shallow. “Because it’s not a big deal.”

"Wrong," you said flatly, pulling out a small field med kit.

He chuckled quietly, grimacing slightly as you cleaned the wound. “You ditched your post for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

His eyes softened slightly, voice dropping. “You worried?” You didn’t answer, just wrapped the bandage tight and clean, your jaw tense. He tilted his head slightly, voice lower now, just for you. “You know you’re supposed to act normal in front of the others, not go rogue.”

“You got hit,” you muttered, standing and pulling him up carefully. “Don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

He smirked, even as he winced. “That’s my girl.”

"Shut up, Barnes," you muttered, hooking an arm under his. "You’re limping."

He leaned into you slightly, lips brushing your ear. “You know I like it when you go feral for me.”

“Keep talking and I’ll reopen the wound.”

He grinned, despite the pain. “Totally worth it.”

“Let’s go,” you muttered, guiding him back toward the rendezvous point. “Before someone sees.”

Bucky smirked. “Married life suits you.”

“Don’t push it, Barnes.”

He smiled wider. “Love you too.”

---

Back at the Watchtower, the common area was thick with tension. John paced irritably, gesturing wildly as the rest of the team lounged around the room, silently watching the spectacle unfold. "You can't just leave your position, Y/N," John snapped, frustration clear. "You compromised the whole operation!"

You stood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, your gaze coldly indifferent.

Ava sighed softly. "Walker, it wasn't that serious—"

"It was reckless," John interrupted sharply. "She ran off like some amateur because Barnes got a scratch!"

Alexei chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe scratch was deeper than we think."

Yelena's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Still weird for her to lose control like that."

You stayed quiet, expression unchanging.

"Seriously, Y/N," John pressed irritably. "I know you're protective of Barnes for some weird reason, but you can't put the rest of us in danger."

Bucky shifted slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but you shot him a brief, silent look—he shut it again immediately.

Bob blinked, genuinely confused. "Wait, what happened?"

"Y/N ran off," Ava clarified dryly. "Apparently, Barnes got grazed, and she just abandoned everything."

Bob's brow furrowed deeper. "Is that... bad?"

"Yes, Bob," John said flatly. "It's very bad."

Alexei grinned, nudging Bob cheerfully. "Perhaps vampire protective of favorite victim."

Bob's eyes widened uncertainly. "Barnes is a victim?"

Yelena sighed deeply. "Focus, Bob."

"Look," John snapped, turning back toward you again, clearly determined. "All I'm saying is—"

You finally moved—quickly, fluidly—crossing the space between you and Bucky before anyone could even register what was happening. You grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s shirt, yanking him roughly forward. His eyes widened briefly in surprise—then quickly darkened in amusement as your lips crashed firmly onto his.

The room fell utterly silent.

Bucky didn't hesitate, melting immediately into the kiss, his metal hand gently gripping your waist. He smiled faintly against your lips, clearly pleased.

When you finally pulled back, you released him casually, stepping back to your previous spot against the wall. Your expression was cool and completely neutral as your eyes calmly flicked over the stunned faces of the entire team.

"Shit," Alexei finally breathed, breaking the silence. "Did not see that coming."

John just stared, speechless.

Yelena blinked, then slowly nodded. "Okay. That explains... a lot."

Bob smiled faintly, clearly pleased. "That's nice."

Ava raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely impressed. "Well, that’s one way to shut everyone up."

You said nothing, arms crossing again as you leaned back against the wall, expression perfectly indifferent.

Bucky cleared his throat softly, lips curving into a smug grin as he glanced around the room. "Any other questions?"

John opened his mouth—then closed it again, shaking his head. "Nope."

Yelena sighed dramatically. "Finally. About damn time."

Bob glanced around uncertainly. "So... they're dating?"

Alexei chuckled loudly, clearly entertained. "Apparently, Bob."

You sighed quietly, eyes narrowing slightly. "We're married, actually."

Another stunned silence filled the room. Bucky smiled brightly, clearly amused by everyone's shocked expressions. "Surprise."

John rubbed his face tiredly. "You've got to be kidding me."

Alexei beamed proudly. "Knew it. Romance always wins."

Yelena glared pointedly at Bucky. "Barnes. You realize you could've told us earlier, right?"

Bucky shrugged casually, eyes sparkling. "Where's the fun in that?"

You rolled your eyes faintly, settling comfortably next to him, arms still crossed.

Bob smiled again, more warmly this time. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Bob," Bucky replied cheerfully, sliding an arm comfortably around your waist. "At least someone here is supportive."

Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. "How long exactly?"

You sighed quietly, voice flat. "Long enough."

John shook his head again, clearly irritated. "You're both impossible."

Bucky laughed softly, pulling you a bit closer. "And you’re welcome."

Alexei clapped enthusiastically. "Tonight, we celebrate! For secret marriage and vampire love story!"

"Please don't," you muttered dryly.

Bucky chuckled warmly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Too late, doll." You shot him a warning glance, but your lips twitched faintly into a hidden smile.

The team was quiet again, watching you both thoughtfully. Finally, Yelena spoke again, voice resigned. "Well," she sighed dramatically, glancing at John. "Guess we were wrong."

"Painfully wrong," John muttered irritably.

You raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Satisfied now?"

John sighed heavily, eyes rolling upward. "Fine. You win."

You relaxed slightly against Bucky’s side, voice calm. "Good."

Bucky leaned in slightly, lips brushing your ear gently. "That was hot."

You glared sideways at him, voice low. "Behave."

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured softly, grinning widely.

Across the room, Alexei chuckled again, clearly delighted. "I told you all. Always romance. Very predictable."

Ava shook her head slowly, smiling faintly. "Congratulations, I guess."

Yelena narrowed her eyes at you again, voice dry. "You realize we’ll still tease you mercilessly, right?"

Bucky smiled warmly, completely unbothered. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

You sighed softly, settling more comfortably against him, clearly resigned. "Great."

Bob looked genuinely pleased, smiling warmly at you both. "You guys look good together."

"Thanks, Bob," you muttered dryly, shooting Bucky another pointed look. "At least someone's happy."

"I'm ecstatic," Bucky teased lightly, squeezing your waist affectionately.

You rolled your eyes faintly, but leaned comfortably against his side, silently content.

Yelena sighed dramatically again, leaning back heavily into her chair. "Finally, we can move on with our lives."

Alexei clapped cheerfully again, utterly delighted. "Yes! Celebrate tonight!"

John crossed his arms, staring pointedly at you as he sat down on the chair. “You’re both very annoying.”

You shrugged slightly, unbothered. “And?”

He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. “Just don’t do anything disgusting in the common areas.”

You stared at him, eyes blinking slowly before you pushed yourself off the wall. “Might not want to sit on that chair then.”

John’s eyes widened dramatically as he immediately stood up, practically leaping from the chair. "Oh, come on!"

Yelena snorted, looking both amused and disgusted. "Please tell me that’s a joke."

You shrugged calmly, expression entirely unreadable. "Believe whatever you want."

Bucky’s lips twitched slightly into a smirk. "She warned you."

Alexei chuckled loudly, clearly delighted. "I told you all—secret romance always most exciting."

Bob glanced uncertainly toward John, clearly confused. "Is the chair dangerous now?"

John shuddered slightly. "You really don’t wanna know, Bob."

Ava shook her head slowly, muttering quietly. "I regret everything."

You turned toward the hall, clearly done with the conversation. "I’m going to my room."

Yelena’s voice called after you suspiciously. "Which room is yours exactly, Y/N?"

You paused briefly, glancing over your shoulder calmly. "The one I sleep in."

John crossed his arms irritably. "So, Barnes’ room."

Bucky smiled brightly, clearly amused. "My door is always open."

"Gross," Yelena muttered flatly.

Alexei laughed loudly, utterly entertained. "Barnes, I like your style."

Bucky gave an exaggerated bow, playful smirk firmly in place. "Appreciate it, Alexei."

You sighed quietly, clearly irritated. "Barnes. Let’s go."

He followed immediately, falling easily into step beside you. As you both disappeared down the hallway, Yelena’s voice carried after you. "You’re welcome for finally outing you, by the way!"

Bucky chuckled quietly, glancing toward you affectionately. "That went well."

"Shut up," you muttered dryly.

"You’re cute when you’re annoyed."

You stopped briefly, leveling him with a cool stare. "You realize I could still stab you?"

Bucky smiled fondly, completely unbothered. "You wouldn’t. You like me too much."

You sighed softly, reluctantly relaxing. "Unfortunately."

He grinned widely, gently nudging you forward again. "Come on, doll. Your room awaits."

"Our room," you corrected flatly.

"Right," he said warmly, clearly pleased. "Our room."

Behind you, the distant sound of Alexei loudly celebrating echoed down the hall.

just a little thing to say: i wrote bob with the intention of him actually knowing they were married, and all the questions he was asking was him trying to get the team to also question bucky and reader's relationship.

i also have a part two in the works!

[bxtchboy69]

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 7709

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter One | Next Chapter

The hallway reeks of metal and blood scrubbed too clean.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses down on you, thick and heavy, until even your own breathing feels like a violation. Overhead lights flicker with a dull hum, casting a sterile white glow that drains every shadow of warmth. You walk barefoot. The concrete floor bites at your skin with every step.

You don’t remember much anymore.

Not your name. Not where you came from. Just scattered pieces — the way sunlight used to feel on your skin. A voice calling you something soft. A memory of warmth. It all slips away when you try to grab it. Hydra made sure of that.

Now, you’re just a number. A subject. A tool. A thing.

Two guards flank you, their boots echoing alongside yours. You can feel them watching you, not with interest, but suspicion — like you’re a bomb that hasn’t gone off yet. Their fear is sour, thick like rot in the air. You feel it pressing against your skin. Your abilities hum at the edges of your nerves, always waiting, always restrained. You’ve learned to keep them quiet. Hidden.

At the end of the hall waits a door. Heavy steel. No window.

They key in the code. The lock hisses open.

And then — they push you inside.

The cell is dim and cold. Shadows stretch long across the floor. You don’t see him at first, not clearly. But you feel him — that looming, quiet pressure of someone who doesn’t just take up space… someone who dominates it.

The Winter Soldier sits in the corner, chained, silent. His hands rest on his knees. One flesh, one metal. The restraints attached to the floor look thick enough to hold a monster, not a man. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

Your breath catches. He’s still. Too still. Like a statue. Like death itself, waiting.

The door seals behind you with a mechanical clang. You don’t bother trying it. You know better.

You’re locked in. Alone. With him.

They didn’t give you a name. Not for him. They just said: “Calm him. Please him. Be useful.”

You inch forward. Not because you want to — your body screams to run — but because that’s what they trained you to do. That’s what keeps you alive.

When your eyes finally adjust, you see his face.

He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t make sense. All sharp edges and silence. Cheekbones like carved stone, a scar cutting across his jaw. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s caught mid-breath. But it’s his eyes that stop you — dark, distant, unreadable.

You meet them.

And for a moment, nothing else exists.

There’s no heat in his stare. No hunger. Just… observation. He watches you like you’re something foreign. Not a woman. Not a threat. Not prey. Just something strange and quiet.

Your heart pounds.

Your powers shift inside you, stirring without permission. You feel it — the heaviness radiating off him like gravity. Pain. Loneliness. A dull, aching emptiness buried beneath cold steel and tighter programming.

Your chest tightens.

Is that… him?

Is that what he feels?

A voice crackles over the speaker embedded in the wall.

“Subject 09. Proceed with Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t move.

“Proceed.”

You swallow hard.

Every part of you wants to scream. To lash out. But you kneel instead — slowly, careful not to appear like a threat. You lower yourself in front of him, your knees hitting the cold floor.

You’re wearing only the white shift they gave you. Thin. Useless. It barely covers your thighs. You hate it. You hate that they make you wear it. You hate how small it makes you feel.

But he doesn’t look at you like the guards do.

He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t reach for you. He just… watches.

You reach out slowly, your hand hovering over his — not the metal one, the human one. The skin there is rough. Calloused. Real. You hesitate, breath trembling.

He tenses.

Not a lot. Just the smallest shift in his posture. But you feel it. Like a ripple through still water. He’s waiting. Watching.

And then, he speaks — voice rough, low, like it hasn’t been used in days.

“…Don’t.”

It’s not a threat. It sounds almost… tired.

Your hand falls back to your lap. You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You don’t touch him again.

But you stay. You sit there on the cold floor, knees burning, pulse thudding in your ears.

And he doesn’t look away. He just… watches you. Like he’s trying to remember something.

You don’t know why you speak. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you — not like an enemy, not like a target, but like something foreign. A strange shape in his world of chains and blood. Whatever the reason, your voice leaves you before you can stop it. Barely a whisper. Scraping at the edges of your throat like it forgot how to be used.

“They think I can calm you.”

He doesn’t move. The words feel too loud in the stillness, like they don’t belong here. You drop your gaze, ashamed, fingers tightening in the folds of your shift like they might anchor you to something real.

“They didn’t tell me much. Just… that I’m different. That I feel things I shouldn’t.”

You pause, trying to find the right words. They never come out right. Hydra never gave you language for what you are, what your powers are — there were only orders, injections, silence.

“It’s not just emotions. It’s deeper than that. When someone’s near, I feel everything. Fear. Pain. Anger. It crawls under my skin like static. Loud. Constant. Sometimes I can push back. Soothe it. Dull the sharp edges.” You hesitate. “It makes people easier to control.”

He’s still watching you. But his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s parsing your words. Measuring them.

You shift on the floor, your knees sore against the concrete. It’s freezing. But the cold is nothing compared to the way his presence settles around you. Heavy. Unmovable. Like gravity itself has chosen him as its anchor.

“They said if you ever lost control again… I could stop it. That I could make you come back.” Your voice falters. “That if your memories returned, and you remembered things you weren’t supposed to, you’d still come back. For me.”

You don’t say what they really meant. You don’t need to. You’re not here to comfort him. You’re not here to heal. You’re here to bind him. To become his chain.

A new silence falls. It’s different now — heavier, coiled. Not quite threatening. Not safe either. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. But the shift is undeniable. Like a breath held too long. Like a storm poised on the edge of the horizon.

And then his jaw tightens. Barely. A flicker of tension across his face, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking right at him.

You feel it before you see it. The emotion that pulses beneath the surface. Fury.

Not at you. At them.

And buried deeper still — like something lost in a cave of ice — is a quieter, colder thought. One that brushes against your mind with the gentlest ache:

I don’t want to hurt her.

The realization settles over you like a shiver. You hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected anything beyond blankness. You’d been told he was a machine in a man’s body. Programmed to kill. Nothing else.

But machines don’t feel lonely.

And they don’t try to protect things.

You meet his eyes again, slower this time.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say quietly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. But they think… I’m the key to you.”

That lands.

Not visibly. He doesn’t lurch forward or speak or flinch. But something changes. A thread of something unspoken, strung tight between the two of you. Not trust. Not yet.

But not nothing.

There’s a shift in the air — slight, barely perceptible. Not warmth. Not invitation. Just the barest flicker of something that isn’t rejection.

You exhale, slow.

For the first time since they locked the door, your limbs start to unclench. Not because you feel safe. Just… less cornered. The danger is still here, still heavy in the room — but it’s no longer aimed at you.

You watch him. Not like the scientists do. Not like the guards. You’re not measuring him. You’re listening.

His head is tilted slightly, his eyes lowered now, the long shadows from the overhead light cutting across his face like prison bars. The metal of his arm reflects just enough to catch your attention — stark against his skin, against the concrete, against you.

He hasn’t said anything else. But his silence isn’t empty.

There’s thought behind it. Tension.

You wonder what they took from him. What they left behind.

And without meaning to, you open your mind to the weight of him — that fractured storm you felt earlier, still coiled tight in the pit of his chest. There’s no invitation. No trust. But emotions bleed even through walls when they’re strong enough.

And his are screaming.

Pain. Rage. Regret. A low, smoldering grief that hasn’t gone out in years. It lingers at the edge of your senses like smoke in your lungs.

Your mouth goes dry.

You don’t know what they’ve done to him. But whatever he used to be… it’s still in there. Deep. Buried. Gasping for air.

He doesn’t meet your eyes again, but his jaw tenses.

He knows you felt it. For a flicker of a second, you’re afraid he’ll shut down. Close himself off. But he doesn’t. He just… breathes.

And you realize this is the only thing you’ve both been allowed to do without permission.

Breathe.

You shift slightly on the cold floor. Your knees ache. The concrete has started to burn into your skin, but you don’t move far. Just enough that your shoulder touches the wall, spine curling, chin dropping to your chest.

A whisper escapes you before you can stop it. “I don’t think they know what they’ve locked in here with me.”

Still no response.

But the quiet deepens. Less hollow now. Almost like he’s listening.

You don’t need him to speak. You just need him not to leave you alone in this silence.

And he doesn’t.

You sit together in that strange, fragile stillness — not allies, not enemies. Just two ruined things in a room built for ghosts.

It isn’t peace.

But it’s something.

———

The door hisses open again.

Same hallway. Same guards. Same cold bite of the floor under your bare feet… But this time, your hands are trembling. You hate that.

You hate how they shake, how the silence between the guards feels sharper than it did before, how one of them keeps glancing at you like he’s hoping you won’t come back out. Like he already knows the Winter Soldier might snap your neck this time. Or worse.

You try not to think about it. Instead, you focus on your breathing. One inhale. One exhale. Keep your heart steady. Keep your power quiet. You know what they want from you. You know the routine. Be soft. Be calm. Be useful.

Be what he needs. Not what you are.

The steel door seals behind you before you can change your mind.

He’s already watching you.

You feel it before you see him — that cold, oppressive weight in the air, like the temperature has dropped just because he’s breathing it. He’s seated in the same corner. Shackled. Still. But his eyes are locked on you this time.

Last time, he didn’t move until you were in front of him.

This time, he was waiting.

Your stomach tightens. You take one step. Then another. The light above flickers, humming quietly.

He’s expressionless, unreadable — the same carved face, the same ghostlike silence. But his gaze doesn’t slide off you. It lingers. Follows.

There’s something new in his eyes. Barely there. A flicker. Recognition.

It hits you in a strange way. Not comfort. Not hope. Something sharper. Something heavier. Because if he remembers you — even just your presence — then it means something stayed. Something got through.

And if something got through… they’ll notice. They always notice.

You stop a few feet away.

He’s still watching.

You lower yourself again, carefully. Knees to concrete. Hands in your lap. Not too fast. Not too slow. Everything you do has to be measured in here — every movement choreographed like a dance you weren’t taught properly but still expected to survive.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches long between you. Not hostile, but not easy either. Just… thick.

You press your palms into your thighs to stop the shaking. It’s colder this time. Or maybe you’re just colder. More hollow.

He shifts. It’s so small, so subtle — a tilt of the head, a change in the rhythm of his breathing — but you catch it.

You don’t look at his metal hand, not yet. You don’t reach for him. But your powers stretch — gently, invisibly — reaching without permission toward that emotional gravity he carries like a second skin.

And this time, it’s different. There’s still pain. Still loneliness. But buried beneath the weight of programming and silence… is hesitation. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why you’re here. Why you’re not afraid of him.

You exhale slowly.

“Do… do you remember me from yesterday?” you ask quietly. “I told you how I feel… things. How they sent me here, do you remember that?”

His eyes don’t change. But he blinks. Once. A long silence follows. You don’t expect an answer. You don’t even know if he’s allowed to speak without orders. You’ve never seen him talk to anyone else. Just you, just once, just one word.

You shift slightly on your knees, the concrete unforgiving beneath you.

“They don’t know everything though,” you whisper. “They don’t know I can feel when you’re not angry. When you’re just… tired.”

His jaw clenches — almost imperceptibly. And for a second, you swear his gaze softens. Not much. Not warmth. Just… less frost.

But not nothing.

It’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not invisible to him anymore.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there, eyes on his, breathing the same still air, and wait.

Your knees start to ache.

The cold from the floor seeps into your bones, and still, you don’t move. You don’t dare. Movement feels like it might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

There’s no warmth in it — not yet. But there’s no command, either. No dismissal. Just that same silent pressure, like he’s trying to figure you out molecule by molecule. And beneath that, something raw. Ancient. Exhausted.

The kind of tired that lives in the marrow.

You lower your head, just slightly — not in submission, not entirely. More like… reverence. Or maybe you’re just trying not to cry. It’s hard to tell the difference these days.

You try explaining once more, “They think I can fix you,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “That I can get inside your head. Soften you. Make you easier to control.”

You don’t say again. But it hangs there. Between you. They’ve tried this before. You’re just the newest tool.

You lift your eyes, searching his face. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Mercy? Recognition? Maybe just proof that he’s still human under all that steel.

“But you don’t feel broken,” you add. “You feel… caged.”

His brow twitches — so small it could be imagined. But you don’t think it is.

The chains at his wrists groan as he moves, just barely, shifting his weight. He leans forward — not much, not enough to be threatening. But enough to remind you what he is.

Powerful.

Lethal.

Close.

Your heart skitters in your chest, too fast. He must hear it — you’re sure he can. But he doesn’t react.

Instead, he breathes in — deep and slow, like he’s pulling you into his lungs, dissecting you with every breath. His eyes scan your face, not with hunger, not even with hostility. Just a kind of quiet, deliberate observation.

Finally, he speaks. “…They sent others.” The words are gravel, unused and dry.

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. That his voice — low and rough and scarred — is meant for you.

“They didn’t last.”

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, hard. You nod, slowly. “I know.”

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances away. Just slightly. As if even that costs something.

You follow his gaze. It doesn’t land on anything in particular — just the far wall, the flicker of the light above, the slow drip of a pipe you hadn’t noticed before. But the shift in focus speaks volumes.

He doesn’t want to remember them. And maybe he doesn’t want to remember you, either.

But he does.

Something stirs in your chest. It’s not hope. Hope is too dangerous. Too delicate. You don’t let yourself have it anymore.

But it’s something close.

You fold your legs beneath you, careful, quiet. Not because you’re relaxing — you’re not. You never are in here. But because the kneeling was starting to feel too much like worship.

And he doesn’t want that.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches so long, you start to think he won’t.

Then, finally — softly, without looking:

“…No.”

One word. Small. But not nothing.

Your breath catches at his answer. You don’t know what you expected — silence, maybe. Indifference. But not that. Not no.

You sit with it for a moment, staring at the floor between you, watching how the shadows stretch and shift with the flickering light.

“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s not defiance. Just… curiosity. Raw and unfiltered.

His eyes snap back to you. Not harsh, but sharp — a warning in their depth. Like you’ve stepped somewhere you shouldn’t.

But you don’t flinch. You hold his gaze, even though your pulse is skittering against your ribs.

“I mean,” you continue quietly, “you don’t need me here. You didn’t ask for this. And they’re not giving you a choice. So why no?”

Still, he doesn’t speak.

But he watches.

And that says something.

You shift forward slightly, hands on your knees, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it because I didn’t try to touch you today? Because I didn’t follow protocol?”

He doesn’t answer. His expression doesn’t change.

But something… cracks.

Barely.

His jaw flexes again, and he glances away — not toward the door, but toward the floor this time, like the concrete might give him better answers than you.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You could reach for him. You could touch his hand, risk the consequence. But you don’t. Not yet. Not until it means something. Not until he chooses it.

Instead, you lean in — just enough that your voice lowers to something secret.

“I don’t care what they want me to do to you,” you murmur. “I care what you want.”

A silence follows — thicker than the rest. It hangs in the air like a held breath.

You think he won’t answer. You think you pushed too far. Then—

“I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Three words. Bare. Cracked.

And somehow heavier than anything he could have shouted.

Your chest aches. It’s not a confession. Not really. But it’s more than silence. And you can feel the weight behind it — the emptiness of someone who’s spent too long in someone else’s control. Who hasn’t had a choice in so long, he’s forgotten how to make one.

You nod, softly. “That’s okay,” you whisper. “You don’t have to know yet.”

He looks at you again. This time, slower. More deliberate.

You think — just for a second — that he might say something else.

But the speaker crackles above, sharp and sudden. “Subject 09. Session complete. Return to holding.”

You don’t move. You glance back at the door, then to him again.

“I’ll come back,” you say, standing carefully. Your knees sting, your body protests. But you force steadiness into your voice. “If they let me. I’ll come back.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t answer… But his eyes follow you to the door.

And just before it seals shut behind you, you see it.

A flicker.

Not warmth.

But not frost, either.

Not indifference.

But not control.

Just… him.

Still buried. Still cold.

But not gone.

———

The room is colder than his cell.

Not physically — but it feels colder. Like something was scraped clean too many times. Like warmth doesn’t belong here.

You sit on a metal chair. No restraints this time — that’s supposed to be a kindness, you think — but the table between you and the door is bolted to the floor. There’s a camera in the corner. Watching. Recording. Always.

Across from you sits Agent Kern.

Late thirties. Clean-cut. Buttoned-up. The kind of man who smells like antiseptic and control. He’s not one of the guards who escorted you. He’s not muscle. He’s something worse.

A voice with authority.

He glances at a tablet. Then at you.

You keep your face blank.

“I’ve reviewed the footage,” he says, voice crisp. Clinical. “The Soldier did not become aggressive.”

You say nothing.

“He spoke to you.”

Still nothing.

He tilts his head, watching you with a kind of sterile curiosity. “Do you know how many personnel have attempted verbal contact with him over the last year?”

You do.

Because they told you.

And you saw the aftermaths.

Kern continues anyway. “Twenty-three. Nineteen are dead. Two were crippled. One remains comatose. The last… was transferred. Quietly.”

You swallow.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So you can understand our interest.”

You nod slightly. “Yes.”

“Good.” He taps something on the tablet. “Describe the interaction. From the moment you entered.”

You hesitate. Not long. But enough.

He notices.

“I sat,” you say quietly. “Same as before. He was watching me already.”

Kern doesn’t interrupt. He waits, stylus poised like he’s sketching your words into the tablet with each movement.

“I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak right away. I just… waited.”

“And then?”

“I asked if he remembered me. From the day before.”

Kern taps the stylus once. “A violation of Contact Protocol One.”

You don’t flinch. “Yes.”

“But he didn’t react violently.”

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You hesitate again. But this time, you answer.

“Because I didn’t treat him like a weapon.”

Kern blinks, expression unreadable. “Interesting.”

He writes that down. You shift in your seat, the metal groaning softly beneath you.

“I told him I could feel when he wasn’t angry. When he was tired,” you add. Quiet. Careful.

“And how did he respond?”

“He didn’t deny it.”

Kern leans back slightly. “He told you to leave.”

“No,” you say, voice firmer than you meant. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted.”

Kern’s eyes narrow. Not cruel. Just… focused. Like he’s trying to pin your soul under a microscope.

“You believe you’re making emotional progress.”

You say nothing.

He continues. “He remembers you. He hasn’t lashed out. He hasn’t shut down. That’s more than we’ve gotten in years. You’re aware of what that makes you.”

A tool.

A trigger.

A leash.

You meet his gaze. “It makes me useful.”

He smiles again. You hate that smile.

“Exactly.”

He taps the tablet again. “You’ll be sent back in tomorrow. Earlier this time. No medication. We want to see if the absence of suppressants alters your dynamic.”

You don’t move.

“Is that understood, Subject 09?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, already standing.

You clench your jaw. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

The door hisses open. Two guards step in.

Interview over.

———

You returned to your cell.

Your door slides open with its usual hiss — but tonight, it sounds sharper. Like a blade.

You step inside and don’t bother pretending. Not this time.

The moment it shuts behind you, your back hits the cold metal wall and you sink to the floor. The breath you’ve been holding since the interview comes out in one ragged exhale. Your knees draw up to your chest. Arms wrap tight around them. And for a second — just one — you let yourself feel everything.

Because there’s no one watching now.

Probably.

The cameras hum in the corners, but they don’t care if you break. They don’t care if you fall apart, as long as you’re whole enough to be put back together before morning.

Your fingers shake again. Not from fear. Not entirely.

It’s the feeling. The weight. The constant, crushing hum of emotions that don’t belong to you, pressing under your skin like trapped lightning.

You feel too much.

You always have.

It’s what made you a target. What made you a test subject. What made you useful.

Useful.

You choke on the word.

They don’t see you. Not really. You’re not a girl. Not a person. You’re a pressure valve. A chemical bond. An emotional sedative wrapped in skin. All they want is to know if you can keep him calm — if you can hold the leash without being bitten.

But you’re not a leash.

You’re not.

…Are you?

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until your vision sparks white. You want to scream. To claw at the walls. To tear the shift from your body and burn it. But you don’t.

Because if you scream, someone might come.

And you’re not sure what would be worse — the punishment, or the fact that no one might come at all.

So instead… you whisper to the walls.

Your voice is hoarse. Quiet. But not empty.

“I don’t want to be useful.”

The words taste strange in your mouth. Unpracticed. Dangerous. Like you’re admitting something that was supposed to stay buried.

“I just want to be me again. Whoever that was.”

Silence answers you.

But your eyes drift to the wall behind you. Cold steel. Same as always. But you let your fingers rest on it — just for a second — as if you could feel through it. As if, somewhere on the other side, he’s there. Sitting in his corner. Watching the dark. Remembering you.

You wonder if he’s thinking.

If he’s feeling.

You wonder if he wants to.

A shiver runs through you, not from cold — from the sheer wrongness of this place, the things it turns you into just to survive. You press your forehead against the wall.

“Please don’t forget me,” you whisper.

Not because you’re afraid to disappear.

But because the more he remembers you…

…the more you remember you, too.

———

The guards don’t speak this time.

You almost prefer it that way. Silence is easier than pretending.

But there’s something off today. You feel it the moment you step into the hallway — the air heavier, tighter. Like the walls are listening harder. Like the building itself is holding its breath.

They didn’t give you the suppressant injection.

You noticed right away.

Your nerves are louder. Your power hums closer to the surface, like it’s tasting everything around you — the quiet fear from the new guard on your left, the sharp tension from the veteran on your right. You try to tamp it down, but it flickers regardless. Restless. Alive.

The door hisses open.

And he’s already watching you.

Same corner. Same chains. Same silence. But this time, the moment you step into the room, your skin prickles.

He feels… closer.

No one moves. No one speaks. The door seals shut behind you.

And then — slowly — you walk.

Every step is deliberate. You can feel his eyes on you, not just looking, but registering. Studying you like a puzzle someone threw against a wall and told him to rebuild with bloody hands.

You stop in front of him.

His shoulders are tense. Posture tight. But he isn’t recoiling. He’s not resisting either.

You kneel again, the concrete familiar under your knees now.

“I didn’t get the shot,” you whisper.

His brow barely twitches — the subtlest sign he’s listening. But you feel the flicker of something through him. Uncertainty. Caution.

“And now everything’s louder.”

You don’t mean your voice. He knows that.

“I can feel more of you,” you add, quiet. “Not the programming. Not the violence. Just… you.”

It feels like telling a secret. One you’re not supposed to know.

And still — he doesn’t speak.

But something shifts. You feel it before you see it. The weight inside him — that tangle of pain and silence — it stretches. Brushes up against your power like two ghosts testing the same room.

Your breath catches.

Because for the first time, he feels you back.

Not just your presence. Not just your voice.

You.

Your grief. Your loneliness. Your ache to be seen. It leaks through in threads — not enough to overwhelm, just enough to whisper. You don’t mean to let it out. But you’re raw. Wide open. And the moment your energy brushes against his mind, something inside him slows.

Not calm. Not peace. But stillness. Real stillness.

His head tilts slightly.

Like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling. Like it doesn’t belong to him. And maybe it doesn’t. Not entirely. But you sit with it anyway. Breathing slow. Letting him adjust to the noise of another soul in the room.

Minutes pass.

Then — his voice. Rough. Like gravel scraping through silence. “You’re… different.”

You blink. Stare at him. Your throat tightens. “So are you,” you whisper.

Something flickers in his expression. Not emotion — not quite. But awareness. Like he knows what he just did. Like he knows it matters.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You want to reach out. But you don’t.

Instead, you say the one thing you’ve never had the chance to say out loud — not to anyone in this place, not even yourself.

“I don’t want to be their weapon.”

His jaw tightens. You don’t expect an answer. But after a long moment, you hear him exhale.

Slow. Heavy. Almost human.

You sit with the echo of his words.

You’re different.

They’re not some words he’s spoken — they’re intentional. They’re not a reaction. Not a command. They’re his. Chosen. Given.

It feels like a fragile thing, sitting in the space between you. Not quite trust. Not yet. But maybe something like recognition. Like the first bloom of something trying to grow in soil that’s only ever known blood and control.

You lower your gaze to your hands, folding them in your lap. They’re still trembling slightly, but not from fear this time.

“You said ‘don’t’ the first time I tried to touch you,” you say softly, voice barely above a breath. “Not because you were angry. Not because I scared you.”

You look up at him again.

“You said it like someone who didn’t want to be felt.”

His eyes darken, but not cruelly. Not coldly. Just… deeper. More guarded.

“I get it,” you say, quieter now. “I wouldn’t want someone inside my head either.”

He doesn’t respond, but you feel it again — that shift. That pause. Like your words are brushing up against something sharp inside him, and he doesn’t know if he wants to pull away or lean into the pain.

“I try not to,” you add. “Feel too much. It’s hard, though. Sometimes it’s like standing in a storm with no shelter. Everyone else gets umbrellas, and I’m just there — skin to the sky.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him this. Maybe because no one’s ever let you. Maybe because he’s the only one in this place who looks at you like you’re not some experiment in a dress.

Or maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked away once.

You take a shaky breath.

“I don’t know if you feel anything. Not really. I know they rewired things in your head. I can feel the static where your thoughts should be. But there’s still… something there.”

Your power hums again, subtle, just beneath the surface. You’re not reaching for him — not directly. But your emotions leak regardless, and you know he can feel it too now. The raw edge of your hope. The dull throb of loneliness that never really leaves you. The exhausted ache of wanting something real in a place that’s never allowed it.

“I’m not trying to break you,” you whisper. “I just want to know if there’s still a person under all of it.”

His metal fingers twitch. It’s small — barely more than a flicker of movement — but you see it. You feel it. And when you lift your gaze again, his expression has changed.

It’s not soft. Nothing about him is soft.

But it’s not empty anymore either.

There’s something there. Flickering. Tense. Alive.

“You don’t talk to anyone else, do you?” you ask, quieter now. “Just me.”

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak.

But his silence says enough.

Your throat tightens.

“I think that’s why they keep sending me back.”

He looks away for the first time. Not because he’s retreating — it doesn’t feel like that. It feels more like… shame. Like he doesn’t want to be seen in this moment. Not even by you.

And still — you stay.

You don’t try to move closer. You don’t beg him to meet your eyes again. You just sit there, grounded in your own stillness, and offer him the only thing you have left.

Time.

The silence lingers.

It’s not heavy, not hostile. It’s a watching kind of quiet. Like something is beginning to shift in the spaces between breath and heartbeat, like the air has thickened with something unspoken and uncertain.

He turns back toward you.

His head tilts, just slightly. You can feel his gaze press into you, not cold or clinical — just curious. Quietly human.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

His voice is rough but it’s gentle, too, in a way that surprises you. Not a demand. Not a test. Just a question. A real one.

Your breath catches. No one’s asked you that in… you don’t know how long. Not since they took it from you. Scrubbed it out of your mind like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.

“I… I don’t remember,” you say, and the words sting more than you expect. “They— I think I had one… But now it’s just… gone.”

You don’t realize your fingers are curling into the fabric of your shift until you feel your nails pressing into your palms. Your voice lowers.

“I forget everything, sometimes. Not just my name. Whole days. Faces. Sounds. Like I blink and pieces of me disappear.”

A beat of silence.

And then — he nods.

He doesn’t offer false comfort. Doesn’t pretend it’s okay. But he listens. He hears you. His eyes linger a second longer than they did before.

And something subtle shifts in his expression — just enough for you to catch it. The faintest crease of thought. A flicker of something almost… protective. Like he’s already started turning the idea of you over in his mind. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a person. As someone who needs a name now. Someone he needs to remember.

A soft one.

Small.

Fragile.

Like a dove. Little dove.

He’s thinking it.

He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the way you move — careful, quiet, a ghost in bare feet. Maybe it’s the way you look at him without fear. Maybe it’s because in all this silence and blood and concrete, you’re the only living thing that doesn’t flinch when he breathes.

He doesn’t say it out loud.

But it’s there now. A name. His name for you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

—

Behind reinforced glass, above the cell like a god in a cage — one of the guards — Agent Voss watches the live cameras footage in silence.

He doesn’t blink.

The screen before him flickers with muted color — cold concrete, dull light, two figures seated on the floor like ghosts caught in a snowfall. The Winter Soldier is motionless, as always. But his eyes tell a different story.

They linger.

They watch.

Not with disinterest. Not with mindless submission.

With intent.

Voss leans back in his chair, arms crossed, a fresh page of notes untouched on the desk beside him. His sharp eyes flick between monitors, cataloging every shift in posture, every microscopic glance. He zooms in. Watches your lips move. No audio in this room — only the feed. Hydra didn’t want unnecessary noise interfering with judgment.

But Voss doesn’t need sound to understand what’s changing.

You’re close again. Closer this time. His body is still, but engaged. No tension in the shoulders. No signs of impending violence. And when you lower your head slightly — defeated, perhaps — he doesn’t look away.

That’s new.

“Unscheduled bonding,” he murmurs.

He picks up a pen, jots it down:

Soldier maintains eye contact. No evident resistance. Psychological tether forming.

He taps the screen with the back of the pen, right where your face is frozen.

Always the same posture. Always kneeling.

But he notices something else this time.

Interesting.

“She’s adapting faster than projected,” he says aloud, mostly to himself. “Emotionally reactive. Possibly empathic imprinting.” Another pause. “Still obedient, though. Still compliant. Kern will be pleased.”

He doesn’t say it, but it’s there between the lines:

Useful.

One of the guards near the back shifts uncomfortably. “You think it’s working?”

Voss doesn’t turn around.

“I think he’s starting to recognize her as other. Not target. Not threat. That’s the first fracture. From there… he might begin to protect.”

The guard frowns. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Of course it’s dangerous.” Voss finally looks away from the screen, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But everything worthwhile is.”

He clicks the comms unit off.

“Schedule another session,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Give them twelve hours to reset.”

“And the girl?”

Voss pauses, glancing back at the monitor one last time. “She won’t break,” he says simply. “Not yet.”

He leaves without waiting for an answer.

—

Session ends. They drag you out. Back to your cell. The door hisses shut behind you with a mechanical sigh.

Same concrete. Same flickering light. Same walls that know more about you than you do.

But something’s different now.

You stand in the middle of your cell, barely breathing. Every inch of your body aches — not from injury, not from any visible wound — but from the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones. The kind that crawls under your skin and wraps around your heart like a vice.

You feel everything.

Too much.

You should be used to it by now. The cold. The silence. The forced calm you’ve taught yourself to wear like armor. But tonight, it’s heavy. Suffocating.

You sink to the floor slowly, knees folding beneath you, your arms wrapping tight around your ribs like they might keep you from falling apart.

Your fingers twitch.

There’s a residual hum in your veins — leftover emotion that doesn’t belong to you. It clings to your skin like smoke: the Soldier’s weight, his silence, his eyes on you.

You felt him today.

Not just his pain. Not just his loneliness. But the way he looked at you. Not like a stranger. Not like an object. But like something familiar.

And it rattled you.

It still does.

You press your forehead to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut, willing the feeling away. You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to let him reach you like this. That’s not what Hydra trained you for.

You were meant to calm him. Soften him. Be useful.

Not… curious.

Not afraid.

Not seen.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The worst part is — you’re not even sure if it’s you anymore. These feelings, this softness… is it yours? Or is it something you’re absorbing from him? Did Hydra put this in you when they put you in his room?

Did they make you feel this way on purpose?

Your fists curl in the fabric of your shift. It’s thin. You’re always cold. And no matter how long you sit here, how still you stay, it never feels like you belong to yourself.

You remember what he asked. The way his voice sounded—rough, uncertain.

“Your name.”

But you didn’t have one.

You still don’t.

And now, as the silence wraps around you again, you realize how badly you want one. Something to hold onto. Something that’s yours. Not a number. Not a protocol.

Just… something real.

You lean back against the wall, tilting your head to stare at the flickering light overhead. Your throat feels tight.

You wonder if he’s thinking about you.

You wonder if Hydra saw it. If they noticed the way he looked at you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

You wonder what they’ll do if they did.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you don’t try to forget him.

You try to remember him. Even if it hurts.

———

The door seals shut behind you with the same brutal finality.

But this time, you don’t freeze.

You walk.

Slower than before. More careful. But not afraid.

You don’t know what’s changed. You’re still in the same white shift. Still barefoot. Still a numbered tool in Hydra’s eyes. But something is different. Something in the air. In the way he’s already watching you from his corner like he’s been waiting.

Not out of duty. Not out of protocol.

Out of something else.

You don’t speak. You just lower yourself onto the cold floor again, knees screaming from too many hours on concrete, but you don’t let it show. You fold your hands in your lap and meet his gaze.

His eyes stay on you. Calm. Dark. Almost… alert.

You breathe in, slow. Let your nerves settle. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you whisper.

It’s a stupid thing to say. Of course he’s here. Of course he hasn’t moved. The shackles wouldn’t let him if he tried.

But you say it anyway.

He blinks. One slow movement.

“Where else would I be?” His voice is low — like a drum buried deep in the earth. It rumbles more than it speaks.

You shrug, just a little.

“I don’t know. Thought maybe they’d… move you. Or maybe they’d decide to end our sessions.”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean back slightly, shifting your weight off your knees. The chill of the floor soaks through your skin, but you don’t care. You’re tired. You’re always tired.

You watch his face. Still unreadable. Still stone. But there’s something just beneath it now — a flicker, a twitch of thought behind the eyes. He’s listening.

“They’re watching,” you murmur. “They’re probably expecting me to reach for your hand again. Or… say something sweet. Something useful.”

His jaw tightens.

“They want to see if I can control you.”

Silence. A beat. Then his voice again — quieter this time.

“Can you?”

Your lips twitch — not a smile, exactly. Just a break in the stillness.

“No,” you say simply. “I think they’re hoping you think I can.”

You glance down, fingers ghosting over the floor between you.

“I don’t know what they’re doing to you,” you say softly. “But whatever it is… it isn’t who you are. I can feel that much.”

His breath hitches. It’s small. Barely there. But you feel it. That same emotional current humming underneath his silence — low and bruised and buried under years of reprogramming.

Pain. Loneliness.

But this time — confusion, too.

Like he doesn’t know why he wants to believe you.

You don’t reach for him. You don’t touch him. You just sit there with him, sharing the cold. The silence.

And then — his voice again. Low. Almost a breath. Like it wasn’t meant to be said aloud.

“You can’t know that, little dove.”

Your head lifts slowly.

“What?” you ask, not quite sure you heard him right.

But he doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t clarify. He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze, as if surprised by himself. As if he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

A flicker passes behind his eyes. Regret? Confusion? You can’t tell.

You blink, throat tightening.

He doesn’t call you anything else.

Doesn’t say another word.

But the silence that follows feels different now. Heavier. Like something new has entered the room — not just a nickname, not really. More like a thought given shape. An instinct he didn’t fully understand. A name he gave without knowing he was naming anything at all.

Your heart beats faster. You don’t ask again. You don’t break the moment.

You just let it settle there between you — the weight of it, the meaning of it, the why of it. You don’t know what it means to him yet.

But you know what it means to you. You’re not a ghost to him anymore.

You’re something else now.

Something he sees.

And you have a name.

Next Chapter

[bxtchboy69]

MY BUCKY FIC RECOMMENDATIONS

• ‘come home to me’ - during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows. but almost two years later, when the war is long over and the wounds have scarred over, he comes back through her door, proving that some promises do survive the fire. (14.7k) @danysdaughter

! • ‘promise without ceremony’ - Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process. (3.9k) @cheekybarnes

• ‘lessons in lovemaking’ - You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned. (smut masterlist) @artficlly

• ‘this is (not) fine’ - personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator. (smut - 9.1k) @artficlly

• ‘take me home’ - the team discovers bucky's relationship with you when bucky searches for you in the hospital after hydra attacks new york (secret marriage - 1.7k) @parkers-gal

• ‘jackass’ - Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. (secret marriage - 3k) @aquaticmercy

! • ‘lumberjack!bucky series’ - Roots and Branches is the main story, Hardwood the follow-up, and the rest are one shots that you can read -or not- in the order you desire. (oh my god i love this) @vunblr

• ‘moving in’ - You're moving into your brand new apartment with Bucky. (beefy!bucky smut) @brunchable

• ‘movie night’ - You come home exhausted from another day of work, not expecting Bucky to surprise you with a little heart-warming gesture to show you how much he appreciates you. (fiance) @brunchable

• ‘my neighbour is a p⭐️’ - Things have turned awkward. You and Bucky hasn't spoken with each other for a few days now. But is the much needed space making things better or worse? (part 3/3 - other parts are in their masterlist!) @brunchable

• ‘all the apple cider and no more haunted houses’ - you and bucky barnes have a love-hate relationship—you love him and you believe he hates you—but when your friends insist on going to the scariest haunted house attraction in the area, the experience ends up forcing your real feelings for each other out into light. (smut - 11.1k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the forever third wheels’ - it's the weekend of your town's annual valentine's day carnival and you go with your group of friends, though you can't help but be sad you don't have someone special in your life. your friend, and fellow third wheel, bucky barnes makes it his mission to give you a valentine's day you won't soon forget—and show you how special you are to him. (6.6k) @witchywithwhiskey

• ‘the day after’ - Your new roommate introduces you to her brother, but you met him last night. (implied smut - 2.3k+) @navybrat817

! • ‘like he means it’ - You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you. (oh my god 😭😍 - mentions of sex - 13.6k) @marvelstoriesepic

*! • ‘summer surprise’ - You've been looking forward to kicking off the summer with a week on your dads new boat. You decide to have one last night of fun before committing to a week on the sea with your family. But you're thrown into a world of shock when you realize the older man you slept with, only days prior, is not only friends with your dad, but also joining you for the trip. (age-gap! - 21k) @pome-seed

*! • ‘we couldn’t stop’ - During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together. (Bucky & Steve - 7k) @societyfolklore

* • ‘fractured light’ - In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s. (oh my god - sobbing 😭 - 30k+) @onlyforsebastianstan

*! • ‘captain, stg, grumpy, and their doll!’ - (poly!relationship, Steve x Reader x Bucky | Stucky x Reader - 1.5k) @mercurial-chuckles

WILL KEEP UPDATING!

* means new, ! means personal favourites

MAKE SURE TO FOLLOW AND CHECK OUT ALL THESE AMAZING AUTHOR’S CONTINUED WORKS!

[bxtchboy69]

A Star Without a Sky Masterlist

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Note: Old West Bucky, just because.

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[bxtchboy69]

I'm reading the most beautifully-written- well-developed-smut on tumblr and then suddenly reads “mommy” or "kitten"

[bxtchboy69]

ice ice, baby! the masterlist

the brooklyn thunderbolts and the manhattan avengers are the biggest rival hockey teams. filled with friendships, ex-friendships, relationships, and drama, no one can get enough of the rivalry; including the teams themselves.

warnings: i do not play hockey so there might be some inaccuracies, injuries, graphic language, hockey level violence, inspired by @/loveisstxnge on tiktok pairings: bucky barnes x reader (yelena belova x ava starr, bob reynolds x joaquin torres, steve rogers x natasha romanoff, tony stark x pepper potts)

introduction | chapter one | chapter two

chapter three (out soon!)

[bxtchboy69]

unsolved masterlist

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse.

(Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, horror/paranormal elements

Disclaimer: no plot just vibes <3 it's just another banger dynamic that i loved and therefore had to write a garbage fic about. This is, in no way, a literary masterpiece so just be warned.

Here’s my Ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15