iammightsadyall

[iammightsadyall]

The largest mass shooting in American history was a hate crime against gay people. Don’t ever forget that.

[iammightsadyall]

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

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@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

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@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

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@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder

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ᯓ ✈︎ top gun maverick fic recs

masterlist

robert ‘bob’ floyd

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw

jake ‘hangman’ seresin

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i love this website i just feel at home here you know

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I need an emoji of The Scream by Edvard Munch

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Hey I just crashed out, when do I feel better?

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What does an aphrodisiac do to an asexual person?

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Main Masterlist

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🚨 We Need Your Kindness to Survive 🚨

Hello, My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with my family. Life here has become harder than I ever imagined, and I’m writing this with hope in my heart that you might hear our story.

The ongoing war has devastated my family. We’ve lost 25 family members—each one a beloved part of our lives, taken too soon. I miss them deeply—their laughter, their presence, their love. Every day is a reminder of this unimaginable loss.

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comfort peter parker series! (part 1)

dulcet by @jamespottersdaisy 5 parter, one of my absolute favorites ever ever ever the banter, angst, fluff, confusion of becoming friends with spidey but not peter parker!!! excellent writing and humour and plot it's not only hooking because of the romance but the plot!! (i'm not even being biased bc i love ayla the writing is simply immaculate THE TALENT)

we all wear masks by @stuckonspidey one of my first ever peter series and it stuck with me forever, you're in love with spidey but hate peter parker. enemies to lovers, the ANGST!!!!!! complex characters written so so well i love it

timshel by @angelic-holland reader is from the red room and has to relearn how to live life in the real world. peter helps. i am really terrible at summarising but this one is sooooo good i cried a bunch of times the angst is so so good the fluff and the comfort<3333333

bloom by @duskholland soulmate au where you see colours only after meeting your soulmate, very very fluffy, beautifully written. not a slow burn per se but it talks about falling in love and how it evolves. so so comforting!!

sunburn by @peterpparkerwrites okay so anything they write, i will read a billion times. all their works are so so comforting to me the angst and fluff and emotions are navigated in such a beautiful and simple way i love love love their style so much. this one's a soulmate au where you see colours after touching your soulmate for the first time but gasp it doesn't go well for the reader</3 they have some more series i highly recommend, especially the blackcat!reader soulmate au

where we start again by @waitimcomingtoo if you're in the peter parker fandom waitimcomingtoo fics are staple, classics, etc etc you HAVE to read their fics for their simplicity and ease in understanding while having complex characters and hilarious dialogue with 90s romcom feels to each story. the angst is always done so well, this one is a fake dating trope with popular!reader and i ADORE it so much!!! apart from this please check their masterlist out for other amazing series and oneshots!!

far from you trilogy by @hey-marlie my favourite favourite favourite peter parker series ever i've reread the three connected series over a hundred times and can quote them back to back, a lengthy far from home rewrite, SLOWWWWBURN bestfriends to lovers with stark!reader with so. much. angst. they are so perfect for each other i can go on and on about this series and their dynamic but i'll let you find out why i love it so much by yourself. while you're at it check out their other series if you need me: another CLASSIC i've reread countless times, impeccable characters and storylines!! if i ever lost the ability to reread these i would actually bury myself alive.

rose thorn blues by @helloheyhihowdyheya ENEMIES TO LOVERS!!! 5 parter humorous, thoughtful plot, well written and so so good it had me biting my nails all throughout. their bickering is also top notch i love me a good banter moment. love love love. honorable mention to on a tuesday which is one of my comfortest (not a word ik) fics!!

i want you back by @lousimusician big big fandom classic i used to reread every other day because of my need for good angst. peter's an idiot and realises a little late (?)

slut! by @waitimcomingtoo i've already said it but look. i'm a SLUT FOR THEIR SERIES especially this one. the angst is top notch i fear i will never get over this series

florence by @periprose one of my FAVOURITE pieces of writing on this site. best friends to semi strangers to lovers, realizations during your other bestfriends' wedding, so much banter, well written angst, the mutual pining ugh. so many good things to be said about this series.

it's nice to have a friend by @reidslovely this is such a fucking good series, it's actually like a movie the way you can see things happen and their relationship change as time moves on and their journey from friends to this

note: that's it for now!! i have SO MANY more favourites i will be making more lists like these for sure<333

[iammightsadyall]

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which you become friends with spiderman, but not with peter parker

part 1| part2| part3| part4 | part 5 |4.3k

The shimmering silver that dangles thin between your body and a wall is immaculate. You know you would appreciate it better if it weren't for the fact that the said silver is the only thing making sure you'll be able to walk later.

Would it break if you touched it? You don't know how webs work, and to be honest, this isn't the right time to wonder.

But again, if you don't let your mind wander off to idle things, you might get entrapped in a panic that would surely complicate things for the vigilante.

You close your eyes and fill your lungs with the biggest breath you can, attempting your best to calm yourself before looking around. A funny whimper leaves you as you take pity on yourself, eyes widening in horror when you glance below. You're at the top of an office tower, hanging merely from a spider web. 

From the distressed and cheering crowd voices that echo with ambulance sirens, you figure that the fight must be over. 

So where is that Spider guy?

You look behind your right shoulder and see a large group of people the size of ants gathering to talk about the heroism of Spider-Man, while a crowd behind your left shoulder are stressing over what's next. Every person seems to be busy and safe. You were the only one left at the mercy of a web.

What were you thinking, trusting a word of a stranger just because he saved you from becoming one with the building? If he was that much of a hero, he would've taken his time and placed you on the ground.

'Hold on, I'll be back,' he has yelled before swinging away.

Your hands sweat, and your breathing quickens as you groan. You can't possibly stay here any more.

Just when you avert your eyes back to the sky, instead of the usual blue hues, there's a red and blue masked frame. It's staring at you from the top of the tower, and you are staring back at it. 

Finally.

"Hey, so, remember how I said I'd be back–"

"You forgot about me, didn't you?!" you frown, and he tilts his head.

"Me? Of course not," you feel another web sticking to your torso and pulling you up with a swift movement. "Just wanted to make sure you enjoyed the view."

You yelp when you're finally on the roof instead of on the same level as birds. Only then you feel the shake in your knees and the sweat of panic on your armpits. 

Your eyes look down as if to make sure you are indeed on your feet before they land on the body of a man before you. You take in his height and the faint indication of muscles under the spandex.

"I would if it was a bit safer than your web," you snap, at which he only shakes his head.

"My webs are extremely safe. They held you for ten minutes, didn't they?"

You know he's only giving you time so you can relax a bit before swinging around the city again. However, the thought almost makes you sick.

"You left me hanging for ten minutes."

"Yeah, sorry about that," he steps closer to you, moving his arm an inch. "Where'd you need me to drop you off?"

"Ground would be nice," you murmur, letting him curl his arm around your waist as you hold on to his shoulder. You are not sure you are ready for the adventure, but he must have more important things to do than wait around for you.

"I could fly you to your house as an apology?"

"Ground, Spiderman.” At least the flying distance would be short.

He doesn't waste time; after making sure you're holding on tightly, he's already using the webs. Approximately after three yelps from you, you're on the pavement, sighing in relief. 

It feels nice. Normal. Sometimes normal isn’t boring, but safe.

You promise yourself that you will appreciate the shops in the street more. Hell, you will adore every sign on the road more, too.

The hero waits for you to pull yourself together, his big white eyes attentively watching you for a possible problem. He is not comfortable, people are already ogling him, some wanting to thank him, some wanting to criticise him.

"You good? Do you feel sick? Panic attack?" he asks quickly as if to make sure he's free to go. You don't judge him; you are uncomfortable with the number of civilians watching and slowly walking up to your side, too.

You stare back at him and nod reassuringly. "All good. Thanks."

"Right, I still owe you an apology," he salutes you before floating in the sky. "Take care!"

You don't understand how he plans on paying the debt.

x

The light scent of coffee teases your appetite, sense of grace and comfort fills you as you wait for your order. It's a calm day in which you simply wanted a change of scenery while studying on campus.

Your eyes scan the syllabuses on the paper before you, too lost in the question to mind anything around. You've been working by yourself for almost two hours, finally reading the last question. Your focus is solely fixated on one subject, blocking out any other sound.

Hearing your name being called, you frown and look up.

There he is. The long figure, brown eyes, messy hair and soft yet stern visage. You don’t like that he looks attractive in the most casual clothes. Peter is holding your and his order in both of his hands.

“You are late, Parker. Again,” you say as he settles before you. Sliding your cup close to you, he takes a sip from his.

“Had some errands to run,” he shrugs. “Besides, my part is already done.”

His part is far from done, in your opinion. He may have been a brilliant student–although you’ll never admit this to him willingly– you don’t think he should be this comfortable with his work. You never are with yours. But again, maybe this is what makes you better than him.

“Full of errors. Did you check them?”

You don’t think it was very wise of your professor to partner him with you. Just because you two are the top students in class, it doesn’t mean you’ll automatically get along well. On the contrary, you constantly taunt and deride.

“I did,” he nods, eyes on your papers. “Waste of time. No single mistake.”

There. This is what you dislike. You have seen him act awkward in social gatherings, smile and nod, not sure what to say when it is expected of him to shut up or stay silent when it is expected of him to reply. But never once in your life you have seen him unsure of himself regarding science. 

He doesn’t socialise that much. He doesn’t take pleasure in it. But he never lets a person best him at what he is good at. Except you, of course. You are a good sport, a nice distraction, and a stubborn opponent enough to keep him on his toes, remind him not to relax, and never get too comfortable.

“I’ll go over your part tonight before submitting the paper.”

He hums. “Need a hand?”

You notice he is pointing to the last question before you, which you wouldn’t mind a bit of help. Still, wouldn’t it be nice if you did it on your own? Not that your pride wouldn’t simply accept his help.

“No,” you say. “All good.”

You can see a tiny shadow of a smirk on his lips as he nods. 

You return to your question, and he takes out his laptop. Your phone buzzes with an email notification. In the next thirty minutes, you’ll crack your head on the quiz before you and Peter will check your part of the paper. 

“You are literally stuck,” he says after half an hour. 

There is no point in denying it.

“I’m working on it.”

Peter moves his chair close to yours, and you let him tug the paper near. His eyes read the words quickly, his brows furrowing slightly as calculations emerge inside his brain. Then, he observes your own calculations, and after a tormenting minute, he nods two times. 

When he beckons at you to come closer, you comply. 

“You don’t need the coefficient,” he reminds you, the pen between his fingers giving the greater part of the explanation. 

You don’t irk him, patiently giving your best to understand. In the end, you are surprised at how easy it was to handle the problem. Maybe you were just tired after hours of study.

“Got it?” he asks, finally moving his head so he can look at you. 

You heed the brown haze around the black of his eye and nod. 

He grabs his laptop and waves his hand towards its screen. Something like ‘you did good’ leaves his lips, his unusual kindness thwarting you from gloating. Of course, you did well. You’ve worked on that paper all night.

x

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it is not. There goes your apology. Kill it.”

You don’t know what kind of face he has pulled under the mask, but it sure is not a happy one. Spiderman is standing a few steps away, having descended from your window facing the fire escape a few minutes ago.

“I’m not going to kill that spider. It’s an insult to my very being.”

“Then take it out.”

You hear him sigh and face the wall.

“You people are cruel,” he mumbles under his breath as he’s palming the creature. “What were you going to do if I wasn’t here?”

You try not to smirk and turn back to your bed. Sitting on it, your eyes watch Spiderman handle the big, black bug on your wall. 

“But you are here.”

“Yeah, because you were intending to burn your room to the ground,” he tilts his head in a hammy way, approaching the window. “And guess whose job it is to help citizens like you.”

“And we are eternally grateful for your services.”

He doesn’t seem to have a riposte, instead, he simply shakes his head. You sigh in relief when the insect is gone while he averts his body back at you, resting his palms on either side of his waist. 

You know he must think that you are crazy for having heebie-jeebies over a spider and not the fire that roared from your room.

“Happy?” His tone is derisive, but you couldn’t care less. At least you’ll be able to sleep in peace tonight.

“Very.”

“Now tell me how that fire happened.”

You glance at the burnt curtains and your ruined shirt near him. The amount of irresponsibility one must possess for this accident to take place is embarrassing.

“I may have left the iron unplugged on my shirt and near the curtain,” you reply sheepishly, as if you were proud.

He almost scoffs but conceals it as a cough. Not every night Spiderman jumps into people’s rooms to put out a fire.

“Doing what?”

“Peeing.”

The silence is loud. For you, the situation is pretty amusing. For him, it’s tiring.

“You are lucky that I was passing by.”

So he keeps reminding you. You throw yourself back on your bed, staring at the ceiling.

“You are lucky that I am the biggest problem tonight. Could’ve been worse.”

“You flatter yourself,” he walks around your room. “I already stopped a robbery on my way here.”

He stares at your messy study table, taking in your notes, scribings, failed attempts at drawing, and some other silly ‘artefacts’ like your small toys, bookmarks, and posters.

“So humble,” you say.

“Don’t worry, I may have seen some crazy shit in this city, but you are on a whole new level,” he mumbles, and you can see he is focused on something else. You think maybe the city’s hero is intrigued by your calculus notes.

“Anything in your interest?”

“Haphazard,” he shakes his head, grabbing the papers. “Is this how you take your notes?”

“It indeed is,” you nod absentmindedly for a minute before straightening yourself sharply. “Are you a college student?”

“No. These are just so atrocious that I couldn’t help but peek.”

“They help me stay at the top of the class,” you tilt your head, and he doesn’t conceal his scoff this time.

He drops your notes back to their place.

“All right, trouble,” he walks back to the window. “Try not to kill yourself.”

And with that, he swings away.

x

You and Peter’s paper was laudable, according to your professor. You know it means that you two did the best job. It’s hard not to smile wide, trying to hide that you are full of yourself in this matter. You don’t know how Peter does it. 

“Your cheeks are gonna hurt,” he whispers from near. Only for today, you two are seated close. Thus, his cologne has settled at the tip of your nose long before you two started whispering during the lecture.

“I have the best paper,” you whisper back, trying to keep it quiet.

“Of course you do, I worked on it,” he nods.

“I corrected all of your mistakes, and mind you, they were a lot.”

He snorts, averting a few eyes on you. 

“You just placed commas,” he mutters after mouthing a ‘sorry’ to disturbed students.

“Like I said. A lot.”

“You’ll have to do better than commas next week.” He is talking about the upcoming calculus midterm. You are reminded of Spiderman fumbling through your notes.

“Nervous much?” you retort, and he smiles. You are astonished that it is a genuine one. One that reaches to his eyes and wrinkles its corners, one that brings out his smile lines.

“Nah, not when you take those lousy notes.”

You roll your eyes, albeit you know he is right. While Peter is not an organised person, his notes are never as messy as yours. You know, because you had stolen hungry glances when he was not in the room, the notebook left out in the open.

Maybe he has done the same.

“We’ll come back to this once I beat you.”

He makes a mocking noise, this time minding it to be low. “Make sure to omit the coefficient this time.”

“That was one time!” you snap at him, amusing him furthermore.

“And I’m only warning you so it can stay being one time,” his brown eyes are smiling just like his lips. Much to your irritation, he is enjoying himself. “Although I’d like the second.”

“In your dreams,” you say, even though you make a mental note to tidy up your notes later on.

Back at home, you do. 

You revise and study, and solve problems. From breakfast to dinner, you make sure to repeat formulas and theorems in your mind. When you are feeling particularly sedulous, you write them down to stick to walls.

At some point, you forget to eat. You don’t iron your shirts. You don’t shop for groceries. 

You make the best of the seven days. 

Not certain if it’s for having the best grade or a better grade than Peter Parker, but your enthusiasm is surely a great weapon for academic life.

When you walk to that exam hall, your eyes look for Parker first thing. He is talking to some guy, one that only seems to remember Peter’s existence at exams. His messy hair looks more tousled than normal, letting you deduce that he’s been exhausting himself just like you. 

As you walk to your seat, your eyes lock, and he gives you a sly smirk, one that is charming to the eye but taunting at heart. You scowl in return.

As it is expected of you, you don’t sweat much during the test. However, you do frown at the possibility of Parker being at the top of the class. The possibility that you would much rather prevent. 

From the smug look on his face when he sees you leave the building, you conclude that his exam went well.

“Did you remember to–”

“Yes, Parker, I remembered to omit the coefficient,” you cut him off as he approaches your side. His laugh mingles in the air, mocking your irritation. “Find a new line. This one is getting old.”

“Snappier than usual,” he says, face on the grass. “Harsh exam?”

You roll your eyes at him, albeit you give him a tiny smile afterwards. “Just tired,” you shrug. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he admits, which oddly consoles the irk away. 

You don’t know that his reason for sleep deprivation is different from yours. His eyes are sunken, and his limbs sore, but sure, he burned the candle at both ends for the midterm.

You are not aware of the fact that having Peter around is more fun than you’d like to admit. To have someone banter with you all while pushing you to test your limits is something that invades a great part of your life. Especially if that someone is nice and kind and sometimes willing to help. 

Of course, you never focus on the latter. Whenever you feel yourself flicker, you recall his insufferableness around you when he’s the best at something or your undying hatred towards his mockery when you make trivial mistakes.

You have absolutely no way of appreciating his presence in your life unless it is taken away.

x

The next time you run into the vigilante is not because you had it coming but rather because your luck has grown thin. 

It was a serene evening in which you simply wanted to do your grocery shopping. Maybe it is your fault; if you haven’t been lazy in the morning, you wouldn’t get knocked down by a huge shelf between the angry flames.

At first, you panic. Trying to tug your foot from under the shelf, you graze the skin deep enough for it to bleed. After a few breathing practices, you appreciate the fact that the creature responsible for this insanity is not anywhere near. It could have been worse, after all.

You squirm around in desperation to find a less painful angle for your foot when you feel the pain relieving itself, a dull throb filling its place. The shelf, which you didn’t think of as big before it stumbled upon you, now stands mid-air by a web, presenting you an opportunity to move away. Which you eagerly take.

Spiderman groans loudly, and you only scowl in return. He helps you up, urging you to cling to him so he can swiftly get you out of here. You don’t question.

“Is this also your doing?” he asks, tone higher and stressed than usual.

“No!” you yell back. You may have made some dumb mistakes in the past, but you wouldn’t ignite a supermarket.

“I was joking, trouble, don’t scream into my brain.”

He drops you off in front of the supermarket, hands a bit away from your waist but still there to see if you'll stagger.

His breath is shallow, his chest heaving rapidly. He’s been flying around the place to make sure no one was left behind in the flames, only to see that your foot was stuck under one of the shelves.

“Yeah, well, sorry, I’m not exactly in the mood for jokes,” you hiss when you accidentally shift your weight to your injured foot. 

“Officers will help you,” he says, hastening to get back into action. “I still have to take care of that…thing.”

You can still hear its formidable roars. Officers help you just like Spiderman said, not only because of their jobs but partly for the reverence for the hero. 

Civilians are urged to leave the area as it is perilous for you to stay close.

When you are back home, you find yourself restless, unable to sleep. The image of the beast with ominous eyes and a black, calloused body reminds you of how close you’ve been to getting hurt, even though your mind was foggy with adrenaline. Well, more hurt than you are at the moment.

You know that it’s handled; you have already checked the news multiple times. The city is saved one more time thanks to Spiderman. You don’t know how, but he still managed to defeat the villain with the least damage.

Or at least that’s what you were hoping for.

When he profusely knocks on your window, you falter momentarily. Your eyes widen at the sight of him as you let him in. Statue hunched over like he has broken ribs gashes deep enough around his thigh, bicep and his shoulder to make you wince. Constant curses dancing in your room as he carefully settles on the floor.

“You got your ass handed to you, huh?” you murmur, earning yourself a groan filled with reprimand. Even in a state like this, he is willing to retort. Willing, not able.

“Broken bones?” you ask, and he shakes his head. 

“Just a few…ugly wounds,” he hisses, pressing his hand to his stomach. You guess that he has been kicked. Badly.

You look around thoughtfully. As it was established earlier, you are not that much of a responsible person, so to expect a full first aid kit would be a bit far-fetched. However, surely, you can find bandages and antiseptics around the house. Maybe suture the wounds if you are lucky. More like if he is lucky. 

Limping around, you grab what you need for the first round. 

“How’s your leg?” he asks after seeing your grimace when you absentmindedly put more weight on one leg.

“Better than yours,” you snort. “If you stain the carpet, you’re paying for the cleaning.”

“Not very kind of you.”

You kneel before him, doing your best to clean his wounds as he squirms and curses and hisses under your touch.

"I'm sorry," you murmur with each slide against the gash, wincing when he throws his head back in pain. 

The sight before you is hideous, but you manage to keep a clear head. You attempt small talk for the sake of distraction. "Is the creature gone?"

"Something like that," he forces himself to speak, but his voice echoes rough, hoarse, and weak.

"Who was behind it?"

"I can't tell you that, trouble," he shakes his head in agony. "Do you know how to sew?"

"I'll manage, but shouldn't you see a doctor for this?"

"Defeats the whole anonymous superhero thing."

You get on your feet, dashing from your room to look for a sewing kit. "Don't stain–"

"–the carpet, got it."

The moment you find it, a smile of relief tugs on your lips, and you sprint back to Spiderman, careful not to hurt yourself in the act. 

His slumped-back figure looks both pathetic and vaillant. 

“Okay, Mr Spider, let me save your life real quick,” you start stitching as best of your ability. You don’t see his frail smile under the mask, too weak to voice a laugh.

“Mr Spider,” he repeats, testing the silly sound of the words. 

Humming in agreement, you keep your focus on his wounds, careful not to cause much ache. Silence is ticking like a clock with each movement of the needle. You are much more concentrated than you were in any exam. His heavy breathing is not a good sign.

“Don’t die while I’m working on you.”

He shifts in his place as if he is cumbered by a hefty animal. “Not dead.”

“Don’t fall asleep either.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispers, not so convincingly. 

You ought to be hasty. You don’t want him to fall asleep in your room, on your floor, in blood and wounded. Moreover, you are sure he would like to clean up in his own place. If he has one.

“Talk to me, Spider,” you murmur. “It won’t do any good to us if you fall asleep.”

“How much left?” he huffs, and you are happy that you are almost done. 

“Not much. Keep talking.”

“About what?”

You swallow a groan. “Weather.”

“Rainy.”

What a chatterbox. “Job then, if you have one since you are not in college.”

“Low wage.”

“Romantic life?”

“Non-existent.”

With the last stitch, you finish your handiwork. It’s not perfect, but neat enough to prevent the bleeding.

“Loser,” you lean back with a sigh. “All done”

“Oh, and you have boys wrapped around your pretty little finger?” he mocks after you as you get up, intending to bring him some water while he rests a bit. 

You curse when a sharp pain attacks your ankle but ignore it anyway. “Boys in my college are lame.”

“Surely not all of them?”

“Nope, definitely all of them,” your voice is raised from the kitchen while you pour the liquid into a glass.

“Not a single handsome one?”

You find yourself thinking of an annoying pair of brown eyes and untidy hair. “Handsome ones are insufferable.”

You pad back to your room and offer him the glass. “Very annoying.”

He thanks you as you take the antiseptic, bandage and sewing kit from the floor, turning your back so he can drink. 

“I’m sensing a story.”

You shrug, hearing the hero gulp down the water as if his life depends on it. 

You mention Peter and his smugness in science and complain a bit about how he has the advantage over you because you are taking more courses than him. You even gossip about how his handsome features merit him especially exasperating when he looks down at you for forgetting to ignore a coefficient in a formula.

When you turn back, the wide white eyes are staring at you. "What?"

He doesn't reply for a minute, and you think, what if he died, but then he shakes his head.

"What a jerk."

At that moment, you don't notice that Spiderman has become your friend.

imagine any peter you want but i had tasm!peter in my mind while writing

thank you for reading and please let me know what you think <3

aaand if you want, you can buy me a coffee!!!

[iammightsadyall]

I was gonna bite you but i chose not to, enjoy your peace while you can

[iammightsadyall]

Dont get me wrong, i love top gun even despite its military propaganda, but what i don't get is why instead of going with and air force plot line, they used naval aviators. Why the fuck are naval aviators a thing??? They're in the navy???

[iammightsadyall]

Mr Stark and Captain America did in fact, not work it out on the remix.