nessieart

[nessieart]

“How’s your WIP going?”

"Have you made any progress?”

“How close are you to being done?”

[nessieart]

[nessieart]

Sinnerman

Summary : Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favourite jazz club.

Pairing : Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Jazz singer! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mafia AU. Possessive behaviour. Infatuation. Mentions of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), alcohol consumption, forced engagement, fake death, protective!Bucky, eventual happy ending, lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 7.4k 

Requested by : Ko-fi request from @ruexj283 <3

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

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Masterlist

The club smelled like cigars and sin, just the way Bucky liked it.

It was his haven — his favourite spot to cool down after a long day. He loved the dim red lights, the haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers, bourbon on his tongue, jazz in his eardrums. He came for the music, sure, but more so for the control. He owned this place in all but paperwork — the bartender knew what to pour without asking, the manager nodded whenever he walked in, and the girls didn’t even dare make eye contact with the crime boss, just the way he liked it— he never liked attention that invited further questions about his… business.

Until you.

That night, you stepped onto that stage like the room had been waiting for you.

Oh, Bucky thought. A new singer. 

Fuck, no one warned him about you. Your voice was as thick as honey, your face sweet as sin. You were dressed in a black and slinky dress, your curves caught the light just right, your lips wrapped around the mic like a lover, looking out into the crowd like you weren’t afraid of a damn thing.

Bucky was fucked the second you opened your mouth.

“Won’t you come along with me,” you sang sweetly, “to the Mississippi?”

He whispered a curse to himself, fingers tightening around his glass. You weren’t just singing — you lived the music, bled it out in those sultry notes. You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. But Bucky… you had him by the throat.

“We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams…”

His eyes never left you. Not once. The music slowed, swelled. You held the last note just a little too long, and his mind went places it shouldn't have.

“Steam down the river, down to New Orleans.”

He imagined your lips bruised from his teeth, mascara running as you sobbed out another note for him, only him, somewhere deep in the cabin he had in the woods, where he kept all his most sentimental items. He closed his eyes and imagined no noise but your voice and the creak of the wooden floor under his boots. He’d keep you there — pretty little thing, singing just for him.

God, the things he’d do. The things he wanted to do.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

When your set ended after ten songs and you disappeared backstage, Bucky stayed in his seat, half-hard, half-crazed, drunk on something far more dangerous than the whiskey in his glass. Obsession had a name now. Obsession had a pretty voice and a perfect body he was still dying to feel in his lap.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver money clip — peeled a few hundreds off like dead skin. He gestured to the bartender.

“Send a bottle of Blanton’s and this—” he slid a folded note across the bar “—to her dressing room.” 

The note was simple.

"Sing for me again. -J.B.B."

And then he left, boots echoing in the alley outside, teeth clenched so tight he tasted blood from his gums.

He’d see you again. He had to.

Because Bucky Barnes never left things unfinished — especially not obsessions.

—

Over the next few weeks, the jazz club turned into a shrine.

You were seducing every man and woman in the room, looking right through them all, like they were insects under your heel — and he was no exception.

Oh but he was.

Because unlike the others, Bucky didn’t beg. He didn’t chase. He simply wanted. And when Bucky Barnes wanted something, the world rearranged itself in his favour, right?

Your voice haunted the velvet-lined walls, and Bucky Barnes made sure the goddess on that stage was worshipped properly. He sent everything backstage, from diamonds, to silk, to perfume from Paris, to lipstick in a custom gold case — the exact red shade he imagined smeared on his skin. It always with the same card, always ending in the same initials: — J.B.B.

But you never responded.

No thank you. You didn't even give back coy little notes. You did not even glance his way after the music stopped.

You sang, you smiled, you disappeared behind that red velvet curtain like a mirage. And it was driving him insane.

He watched you from the shadows night after night, never missing a set. A cigarette untouched in his hand, arms tight, eyes following every movement of your hips as you swayed in time with the music. You were wearing them.

The diamond drop earrings.

His diamonds.

They kissed your throat as you sang and caught the stage lights like stars. He’d picked them himself — rare, handcrafted, perfect for your delicate ears. He’d imagined your fingers brushing them, your neck bare save for their shimmer. He wanted to see them on you.

And tonight, he did.

But when you turned, he didn’t see a glance in his direction. You did not say a word, not a word. Not an acknowledgement.

You’d just finished your final number, a slow version of My Funny Valentine that made a grown man at the bar weep into his bourbon. The spotlight dimmed. 

When you stepped into the dressing room, a waiter stepped into your dressing room, clutching his tray nervously. "Miss? Uh, there's a gentleman asking for you."

You tilted your head, smiling like a cat that already knew what was waiting. "Hmm… bring him in."

The door opened.

And in walked Bucky Barnes — tailored to kill in a three-piece midnight suit, eyes like the ocean. You recognized him instantly.

The girls have told you about the mob royalty— the killer who looked like a god who didn’t discriminate against whom he put a bullet through. People disappeared when Bucky Barnes wanted them to. Men with ambition feared him. Women with sense stayed away.

But you just blinked, feigning innocence. You weren’t going to satisfy him like that. 

“Hi,” you greeted, almost amused.

He didn’t answer at first, staring at the curve of your thighs beneath your robe, the sharp point of your stiletto digging into the plush carpet, the glitter of his diamonds in your ears.

“Were the earrings not enough to get your attention, sweets?” he said finally, his voice rough.

You blinked at him, genuinely puzzled. You reached up, brushing your fingertips against one of them.

“Oh,” you said, your voice light. “These were from you?” You gave him a sheepish little smile, like a cat playing with a bird. “Sorry,” you said, and laughed, “I get so many gifts I forget who sent what.”

That shattered something in him.

And all those notes, all those boxes, all the hours he spent picking out the perfect shade of red, the perfect scent, the softest lace for your skin — all of it just ended up buried under gifts from other men.

That little ottoman in the corner — he’d heard about it in the last few days— a joke among the staff. Your gift box, they’d say, the graveyard of failed suitors.

That was when you cocked your head and said, “Wait. Who are you, exactly?”

God.

Bucky took a slow step forward. His teeth clenched so hard he could feel the pressure in his jaw. Still, his voice came out calm.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Is that what we are?” You raised a brow, “Friends?”

He gave a smirk. “We will be.”

You hummed, looking him over like he was a piece of art you hadn’t quite decided on. “Didn’t expect a man like you to send me diamonds.”

Whatever that meant. For all he knew, you were just trying to get under his skin.

“I sent more than diamonds,” he said, stepping even closer. “You never answered.”

You shrugged. “I don’t usually respond to men who try to buy me.”

“You wear the earrings.”

“Because they’re pretty,” you said innocently.

You walked across the room, as if knowing exactly what was on his mind, and popped open the ottoman.

Bucky’s blood went cold.

Inside were jewelry boxes, perfume bottles, lingerie, notes.

So many fucking notes.

“That’s where all the gifts go. I don’t have time to sort them all. There’s just… so many.” You turned back to him, smiling like sin. “It’s sweet, though,” you added lightly. “All these men trying to impress me.”

A nerve twitched in his cheek.

He wanted to burn the whole pile. He wanted to take the earrings off your ears gently and push the pin through the eyeballs of all these men. He wanted you marked by him — in bruises, in scent, in his name whispered into your skin until there was no room for anyone else.

He wanted to destroy it.

To flip the ottoman, scatter everything, scream mine like a fucking animal.

Instead, he walked toward you. When he stopped, he was close enough to feel the warmth of your body, to smell your perfume. Your breath hitched — just slightly — and he caught it.

But instead, he took a slow, calculated step toward you.

“None of those men matter,” he said slowly.

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “No?”

“They don’t even know how to touch a woman like you.”

You gave a little laugh “And you do?”

“I’d learn you,” he said, taking another step. “Every sound. Every look. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

You pretended to be amused, but your breath was already shallower. He could tell. 

“So dramatic,” you teased, stepping back toward the mirror, deliberately putting distance between you. “All this because I didn’t say thank you?”

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said.

“Don’t I?” you whispered, sweetly mocking. “You look like you want to strangle me and kiss me at the same time.”

He looked down. “Something like that.”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “And what exactly do you want, Bucky?”

“I want you to look at me when you sing,” he said darkly. “I want you to wear those diamonds and know they’re from me. I want you to stop letting a dozen pathetic men think they’ve got a chance.”

“Get in line,” you whispered.

My fucking god.

But still — you leaned in close. So close your lips almost touched his jaw. 

“What,” he asked through gritted teeth, “do I have to do to get your attention?”

Your lips brushed his ear. “Try harder.”

Then you pulled away with a soft, smug smile and turned back to your mirror, reaching for your lipstick— the one he gave you.

It was pretty clear�� he was dismissed.

Bucky stood behind you, breathing shallow, watching the way your hand trembled just a little as you uncapped the lipstick.

So… you weren’t entirely immune.

Good.

—

He became impossible to ignore.

His attention became more deliberate. More romantic, possessive in a way that felt carved into the bones of the earth. Bucky Barnes didn’t just want you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on. He moved heaven, hell, and every dollar in between to make sure you knew it.

And he did it beautifully.

Every night, your dressing room transformed.

Fresh roses, red as blood, climbed the walls like ivy. You tried to count them once, just for curiosity. You gave up somewhere around two hundred. Their sweet scent wrapped around your throat every time you stepped inside. Even when you went home, it lingered in your hair, on your sheets. 

This was Bucky’s scent. This was Bucky’s intention.

Then came more gifts. Not tokens — treasures. You’d find them tucked into satin-lined drawers you had in your dressing room. Designer gowns in every shade he’d ever seen you in, stitched to fit your curves like a second skin. He bought out the entire fall collection of a Parisian house you once mentioned in passing. You opened the boxes one by one, gowns tumbling out.

There were perfumes — rare, discontinued blends that couldn’t be found in stores. He must’ve hunted down perfumers in underground auctions to get them. Each bottle had the same engraving:

Don’t want you wearing anything that’s not mine. — J.B.B.

Oh, did he keep his promise. 

He upgraded your shoes. Italian leather stilettos, and then ballet flats for after your set. 

And the jewelry — Christ, the jewelry.

The diamond earrings were just a start. He gave you a delicate bracelet that you’d worn every night since. He gave you a choker of black opals that complimented your eyes. A silver anklet with sapphires so dark they looked black in the shadows. Each piece came in velvet boxes with his handwriting tucked neatly inside.

There were nights you tried to reject it all. You’d say to the staff and band backstage, “He’s insane. Who needs this much lace?” but even they noticed the way your voice faltered when you said it.

See, you used to throw out letters from men after one read — now, you hid his in a drawer. You kept every one. You read them when you couldn’t sleep. You memorised the way he described you.

And you did crave it. 

You loved it.

You loved how he knew you preferred gin over bourbon, so he sent crates of imported gin from Belgium. He knew your feet ached after sets, so a footstool appeared beneath your vanity, carved with roses. He bought the painting that hung in the corner of your dressing room— the one you said reminded you of your childhood— and replaced it with the original, pulled from a gallery in Rome.

And then the world started changing around you.

The other admirers you had vanished. Gifts started dwindling from everyone else. You didn’t know where they went, and you were too scared to ask. The banker, the actor, the smarmy rich boy with a champagne smile, the countess who offered you a villa in Sicily — all gone. One left town. One was caught in a scandal. One had a car accident. One ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw and no memory of how it happened.

Bucky never brought them up.

And though part of you resented that you couldn’t toy with your audience anymore — couldn’t keep them orbiting you like moths — another part of you… loved it. You loved his singular obsession on you, loved the tunnel vision he got when he looked at you.

Still, when the curtain fell and the stage lights went out, you packed your things and went home to your father and told him everything. 

—

You’d just finished your set tonight, when a waitress leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Barnes is waiting for you in his booth.”

You knew which one she meant.

The private one, high above the main floor. Bucky rarely let anyone join him there — just his tight-lipped entourage. But tonight, as you approached, he barely glanced up before giving a command, “Leave us.”

His men didn’t argue.

You slipped into the booth as they filtered out, leaning in just enough to tease. “Fancy seat for a man who claims he doesn’t chase,” you teased, lips curled into a sweet smile. 

Bucky didn’t smile — but there was something in the way his eyes flicked up that made you feel seen. “I don’t chase,” he insisted. “I watch. Different thing entirely.”

You leaned back, kicking one heel off lazily. “Mmm. Well, while you’ve been watching, I’ve noticed I’ve lost a few admirers lately.” You pouted, dragging the tip of your finger around the rim of his half-drunk glass. “One used to bring me opera tickets. Another had a private jet. I was building a little collection. And now they’re all…” — you fluttered your fingers — “poof.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

“Tell me, Bucky.” You leaned closer, teasing. “Did you kill them?” 

He didn’t answer at first. He just hummed, then he reached for his bourbon. He sipped, and finally — infuriatingly — shrugged. “Define kill.”

“Jesus,” you shook your head.

“Or maybe I just gave them… a little nudge.” He tilted his head, looking at you from beneath his lashes.

You batted your lashes. “So you just threaten them until they cry into their daddy’s wallets?”

“Not exactly,” he said smoothly, twirling the glass between his fingers. “Some people hear a whisper and imagine thunder. I can’t help what they’re afraid of.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, “what does that even mean?”

He just leaned back and gave you a maddeningly unreadable smile. “Some things just… work themselves out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m consistent,” he corrected.

Before you could come up with a snarky comeback, he reached down beside him and produced a slim black box, tied with a red silk ribbon. “Here.”

“What now?” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “The deed to the building?”

“Not yet.” He paused, as if seriously considering it. “Open it.”

Inside was a set of lingerie — deep burgundy silk and delicate black lace, soft as you imagined clouds to be, the kind of thing meant to be seen. It was stitched with your initials on the inside band — not his, like many other men would — and for a moment, you were stunned silent.

This just feels so… intimate.

“Bucky…” you said, quieter now, fingers skimming the lace. “This is… beautiful.”

“All yours,” he smiled. 

You leaned in to kiss his cheek and in the movement, your skirt hitched just enough for the hem to slip high along your thigh.

Just high enough to reveal the faint purple of a bruise.

His eyes dropped, and his body tensed immediately. “What happened?”

You cursed under your breath before feigning innocence. “Oh, that?” You tugged your skirt down quickly. “I’m just clumsy. Slipped on some stairs backstage. You know how I am.”

He said nothing, just stared. His fist clenched slightly.

You kept smiling — too wide to be genuine. “Don’t look at me like that, Bucky. I’m not porcelain.”

“I know,” he said simply, but he didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

Still, he didn’t press. Didn’t raise his voice or question again. Instead, he knocked twice on the side of the booth. A waiter appeared as if summoned.

“Bring me the Cristal,” he said. “The '56 with a bucket of ice.”

Minutes later, a gloved waiter returned with the most expensive bottle of champagne the club had — nestled in crushed ice and frosted glass. Bucky took it without a word and dismissed the server with a glance.

Then, he wrapped the bottle in a linen napkin and gently pressed it to your thigh.

The chill made you hiss through your teeth. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky lulled. “Sit still. This’ll help.”

His touch was careful and never inappropriate. Not once did his fingers stray. Not once did his eyes flick up your clothing. He didn’t try to peel your skirt higher, didn’t crowd your space, didn’t make a single move you didn’t allow.

Still, he sat with you in that shadowed booth, icing your bruise with four-figure champagne, his own glass untouched beside him. For a second, you wondered if he’d burn cities if you asked. Or even if you didn’t.

“Good girl," he murmured under his breath. 

Fuck.

You couldn’t look at him. 

“You didn’t have to…” you muttered, maybe a little embarrassed.

“I wanted to,” he insisted, eyes still on the bruise. 

After a good fifteen minutes, the bruising became more mild and less angry. 

And… you didn't really feel it anymore.

It did help.

He carefully poured two glasses and held on out to you.

You just shook your head, smiling faintly. “Not tonight.” After all, your father probably wanted you home sober.

He nodded, setting it down and turned back to you.

“Need anything else iced?” he asked with dry amusement.

“Depends.” You laughed softly. “You got enough champagne for the rest of my body?”

“I could buy the vineyard,” he said, all too serious. “If that’s what it takes.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding a little too fast.

After that, he didn’t touch you beyond the bottle. He didn’t even lay a hand on your waist, your thigh, your cheek — even though you knew he wanted to. 

—

It was a week later when Bucky Barnes was in his usual place. Not a single night had passed without a gift sent backstage.

But tonight…

Tonight you stepped onto the stage wearing black sheer fabric across your skin, your heels clicking like gunshots. The lights hit you in all the right places, illuminating a shiny something new on your left hand.

Bucky saw it immediately.

A diamond ring.

It was not subtle. Worse yet, it was not his.

The music hadn’t even started yet, and Bucky Barnes was frozen with rage.

You had an engagement ring on your finger. A big one.

His jaw ticked once.

Twice.

You didn’t look his way. Not once. Not even when you adjusted the mic and let your lips linger near it like a kiss. 

Still, he could tell you were wearing the lingerie he gave you — he could see the faint black lace strap peeking out from the deep plunge of your dress. 

But all he could think about was the ring. A fucking ring on your finger.

His fingers curled into fists on the table.

He could barely hear the band start behind you. He couldn’t even taste the drink in front of him. He couldn’t  breathe past the blood pounding in his temples.

You were smiling, singing— your voice as honeyed and sultry as ever — but to him, it was venom. Every time you raised your hand, the diamond caught the light, winking like the devil.

Was this a joke?

A punishment?

He couldn’t even look away. He couldn't think about anything except the fact that someone — some other man — had dared to put that ring on your finger while his lingerie lay against your skin. 

And you… you knew exactly what you were doing.

You sauntered across the stage, hips swaying in rhythm, that ring gleaming like a brand. Bucky could see the faint indentation of the garter belt strap against your hip under the cling of your dress. His teeth clenched so tight, he could feel the ache in his gums.

He wanted to tear the ring off your hand and replace it with diamonds of his own.

It didn’t belong there.

You didn’t belong to someone else.

—

After your set, after the velvet curtain fell and the stage lights dimmed, sweat started pooling down your neck. 

You knew before you even reached your dressing room that he was waiting.

You stepped inside, and there he was.

Bucky Barnes was waiting in the light, suit perfectly pressed, rage rippling beneath his skin like a dog barely leashed. 

He was seething.

His eyes dropped immediately to your left hand— to the glittering ring.

He hated it. He knew the stone was too big for your liking— you liked it small and dainty. That was when you saw the muscles in his forearm twitch.

“Who’s that from, huh?” He asked. 

You let the question hang for a second too long, deliberately pulling the pins from your hair, letting them fall around your shoulders. You walked slowly toward your vanity, knowing he was watching every sway of your hips like a predator tracking prey.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled, fake and honey-sweet.

“Oh, just a fella my daddy wants me to marry,” you said with a lightness that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You reached up to toy with the ring, twisting it idly on your finger. “He’s rich. Handsome, but mean.” You turned. “Not nice, like you.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, stepping forward into a pool of light. “I’m not fucking nice.”

You shivered.

There it was—his truth. He was not nice, but protective. Dangerously, obsessively attentive.

He stalked toward you slowly, like he was trying not to break glass. You could practically feel the tension pouring off of him.

“You wore my lingerie onstage tonight,” he murmured, looking at the strap peeking out.

You bit your lip. “Did I?”

“You wanted me to see it.”

“Maybe.”

You were playing, but he wasn’t. His expression darkened, his eyes dropping again to the ring.

“You don’t love him,” he said. It was a question.

You turned back to the mirror, reaching for the lipstick he gave you. “Who says I don’t?”

He took another step forward. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Because you still wear everything I send you,” he said, looking at the pile of paper on the side. “You read my letters. You haven’t missed a single one.”

You didn’t argue—he was right.

“So tell me…” he continued, “Why the fuck are you wearing another man’s ring?”

You tried to joke again— tried to deflect. “Maybe I like the attention. You boys get all riled up.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. His voice was a growl, “You like me riled up, sweetheart?”

You turned your head, lips inches from his. “I like knowing you’re watching. I like that you’d burn the world if I asked.”

He still didn’t touch you.

But his eyes burned into you, holding himself back like a beast on a leash, and somehow… that made it worse.

“You think I’d still want you with his ring on your hand?” he asked, voice harsh. “You think I’d share you with someone who doesn’t even know what perfume you wear?”

You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry, your knees… shaky.

You turned fully to face him, eyes searching. “Bucky—please.”

Your hand reached up, cradling his cheek gently. 

He breathed out through his nose, like he was trying to smother wildfire in his mind. Still, his hands stayed at his sides. His control was infuriating, and it only made you want him more.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Not unless you take that fucking ring off.”

You stared at him.

And then, with trembling fingers, you slipped the engagement ring from your finger and dropped it onto the vanity with a small, deliberate clink.

“Good girl,” he murmured, dark satisfaction curling into his smile.

His hands reached for you then— fingertips brushing your waist like he was learning you note by note. You felt his breath at your throat before his lips even touched your skin, and when they finally did—

Oh.

He kissed you like he’d waited centuries. His hands cupped your jaw, your back, your hips. The kiss deepened, and your knees buckled, his arms catching you before you fell.

“You don’t want to marry him,” he growled against your mouth.

“No,” you breathed. “I don’t.”

“Say it again.”

“I don’t want him. I want you.”

That was the only permission he needed.

He lifted you up onto the vanity and whispered all the filthy, possessive things he’d been holding back for weeks.

His hands were on either side of your face, holding you. Your thighs parted naturally, your heels slipping against the stool as he stepped between them. His tongue slid against yours and your fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer, closer, until your hips tilted against his and you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.

Your lipstick smeared, your breath came out in whimpers, and still—he never once lost control.

You gasped into his mouth when his hand curled around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your earlobes. 

“Fuck,” you whispered against his lips, “I can’t—can’t think.”

He gave a dangerous chuckle and pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils were blown, his control hanging by a thread.

“Stop thinking, darling,” he whispered against your skin. 

You surged up to kiss him again, and this time it was messy, desperate—your�� body pressing into his, your hands sliding beneath his jacket to feel more of him. He let you, just for a moment. 

Then he pulled back fists clenched tight.

“Enough,” he rasped, eyes blazing.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

His fingers slid to your hips, gripping firmly— as he pulled you forward to the very edge of the vanity. His lips brushed your cheek, down to your ear.

You tried to chase his mouth again but he gently pushed you back with a hand on your thigh, shaking his head.

“I’m not fucking you here,” he growled. “You’re not some backstage fantasy,” he said. With a smooth motion, he helped you down off the vanity, keeping you steady when your legs wobbled. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” you echoed.

“My home,” he clarified, brushing your tangled hair back. “Where you can scream if you want.”

You shivered.

He reached for your coat, draped it over your shoulders, and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me ruin you comfortably.”

—

Bucky's penthouse was exactly what you’d imagined— dark wood, steel, and bulletproof glass. It sat above the city, high enough that the chaos below couldn’t touch him. 

From what you heard, no one ever got this far. No one ever made it inside.

Except you.

No one else was here.

No guards. No staff. No distant footsteps. This was a space no one entered unless they were meant to stay.

He brought you in without a word, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you across marble floors. 

He didn’t offer you a drink or make small talk.

Bucky walked you into his bedroom like he was leading you to a confessional. As if he was finally going to sin the way he’d always wanted with you.

When he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded, heart already in your throat. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all he needed.

He stepped into you and kissed you again. His jacket hit the floor first. Then your coat, your shoes, his tie. The tension between you was molten, almost unbearable. 

He touched you like he’d memorised every curve without ever laying a hand on you.

He laid you down on your bed. His hands skimmed beneath the hem of your dress, and then higher, higher, until—

Fuck. 

His hand was on your hip, and his thumb had just brushed the edge of ink into your skin.

Bucky froze completely.

Then he pulled back and knelt in front of the bed.

You watched the moment realization hit.

His eyes locked on the tattoo on your right hipbone, just beneath the strap of the lace underwear he had bought you. Black ink— a skull with tentacles. 

The mark of a rival, of Alexander Pierce’s syndicate.

“What the fuck…” he rasped, heart caught between betrayal and disbelief. “That’s Pierce’s crest.”

You looked down lazily, like you’d forgotten it was even there, then let out a dry, amused sound.

“Oh,” you said, mock-sweet. “That old thing?”

He looked like he’d been shot.

He stood slowly, hands dropping from your skin. 

Your heart twisted.

“Daddy says hello,” you scoffed, propping yourself on your forearms now.

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t even know your name anymore.

“You…” he breathed, shaking his head. “You’re his daughter?”

You tilted your head in shame, but didn’t deny it. 

His fists clenched at his sides.

Pierce. Fucking Pierce. He knew the man had an apprentice he adopted as his own daughter. He had heard whispers of an heir’s engagement. 

He didn’t realise it would be… you. 

“You’re engaged to Brock Rumlow,” he realised, saying the name through gritted teeth, as if the name burned his tongue. 

“In name only,” you said quickly.

“The son of a bitch torched my cache on 52nd!” he nearly shouted

You bit your lip, hating that you were making excuses. “He didn’t do it personally. Just ordered it.”

“Oh, great,” Bucky snapped, his hands flying up. “Then it’s totally fine.”

You could see it behind his eyes—see the brutal, bloody instincts pulling him in two different directions. 

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if you had the intel.”

“But I didn’t,” he snapped. “Because you kept me distracted.”

You tilted your head, unbothered by his fury, by the way he looked like he might put a bullet in the wall just to bleed off the rage.

He ought to step away and find a less maddening obsession. He ought to send you back to your father in a body bag. Fuck, he had killed people for less. 

But he was in too deep now. 

“Why?” he growled. “You get off on making me want you?”

You sat up now, brushing your fingers down his bare chest. Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“How was I supposed to know,” you said, defensive now. “That I was going to fall in love with the man I’m spying on?”

You loved him?

You—this woman who outsmarted him, danced around him, haunted him—you loved him?

He should’ve grabbed the nearest gun. Should’ve asked you what intel you’d passed on. Should’ve demanded to know how many of his secrets you’d whispered into your father’s ear.

But instead… he smiled.

Just a little. Just for a second.

“You love me,” he said, almost to himself.

“Bucky…” You reached down and hiked your skirt higher, the fabric slipping over your thighs until the black lace revealed more skin marked by bruises. Some were fading, but there. 

One above your hipbone, as if someone had gripped your waist in place, and another over your tummy. 

Bucky's stomach dropped.

Your voice was almost a whisper. “My fiancé,” you said bitterly. “He touches me when I ask him not to. You… always ask.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. He looked at the bruises like they were mortal sins.

“I’ll kill him,” he said to himself, quiet as the grave.

He already suspected it, but he didn’t want to believe it. He just found it so difficult to even think that someone touched you without love. That someone put their hands on your body and didn’t worship it.

Fuck, he hated how much he cared. 

You were supposed to be a spy. A trap. But here you were, with tears clinging to your lashes and bruises blooming like violets and you hadn’t asked him for revenge.

You asked him to understand.

“He’s mean,” you whispered again, “but you… you’d never hurt me.”

You expected him to yell.

You didn’t expect the way he suddenly closed the space between you, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

It was not rough, not bruising. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst and finding water for the first time. 

His hands were everywhere, palms sliding over your ribs, your back, your arms, anchoring you to the bed.

“You love me?” he whispered against your lips, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, breathless and shaking. “I tried not to”

He hoisted you up, pushing you back on the bed until your back hit the headboard. You reached for him, pulling him down with you. His body was all tension, all hunger, but his eyes were tender.

He hovered above you, lips tracing down your neck, your collarbone. You arched into him, gasping his name like a prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me now, sweetheart, or I’m not letting go of you ever again.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then take it off,” he ordered, voice wrecked.

You pulled the dress up and over your head, revealing the bruises, the lace, the curve of your body. He hissed when he saw the full extent of the marks, dragging his fingers along your skin.

“I should’ve known,” he cursed to himself. “I should’ve fucking known.”

He kissed your stomach, slowly dragging your soaked lingerie down your hips, his mouth trailing behind the path of the lace. He reached your hipbone and paused. His lips ghosted over the tattoo. He kissed your thigh, just beside the bruises, and you sobbed.

He kissed every inch of your skin like he was rewriting the damage Rumlow had done. 

Then… he took his time.

He worshipped you.

He dragged your pleasure out until you were sobbing into his neck, clawing at his back, begging him to stop teasing and just take you—until finally, finally, he did.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve been dreaming of you. Every fucking night, princess.”

Tears slid from your eyes. You were overwhelmed by the stretch, the need, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted—not used, not claimed, but desired.

It wasn’t about power, not anymore. It was about need and connection and love so stupidly strong it felt like it could tear the sky apart.

Your fingers clawed into his back, your legs tight around his hips as he fucked ou. He watched every change in your expression. Every gasp, every whimper. He kissed you through every little tremble in your voice.

He grunted your name like a mantra, his hand gripping your throat—not hard, just there—a reminder who your loyalties should lie with.

And you took all of it, screaming his name breaking again and again beneath his hands, his mouth, his body.

And when you came beneath him, he followed you into the abyss.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even move. He held you there, forehead to yours, both of you still shaking.

You were quiet, lips still swollen from his kisses, heart threatening to burst through your ribs.

You touched his face. “You should hate me.”

“I did,” he said, kissing your cheek. “For about five seconds.”

You could only laugh.

Then he pulled back, just enough to see your face, to make sure you heard him.

“I don’t care who your fucking father is,” he said. “I don’t care what deal he made with the Rumlows. No one gets to treat you like a pawn. No one gets to hurt you, okay?”

You nodded, smiling through your tears.

“Okay.”

—

A year later… 

Bucky Barnes finally got his wish.

He got you.

Not just on your knees, not just in his bed, not just in pretty two-pieces — no. 

He got all of you. 

That dark though he had when he first saw you? He got it. 

He got you his cabin surrounded by evergreens, miles from the rest of the world.

Six months ago, Bucky helped fake your death — a fiery car wreck on a rainy night outside of the city. The funeral was closed-casket. Rumlow didn’t even show up. Alexander Pierce wore black and whispered to his men that someone would pay. But no one ever found a body.

And now here you were.

Hidden.

The cabin was tucked into the woods, an hour from anything that mattered, and only 30 minutes from the small town that knew you both as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes — newcomers who only paid in cash and loved black coffee and kept mostly to themselves. 

Bucky bought the land under a different name, of course. It’s untraceable, just to make sure Pierce would never use you as his pawn ever again. To make sure Rumlow would never place a hand on you. 

You spent your time planting vegetables in the garden and singing with the birds every morning. He chopped wood shirtless just to get a reaction out of you.

He married you shortly after your fake death, a private ceremony with only two of his closest men as witnesses. So now, he spent most of his days playing house with you — which is absurd if you think too hard about it.

The infamous James Buchanan Barnes — mob royalty — wiping down countertops and building you a porch swing just because you mentioned it off-handed one day.

He could still snap a man’s neck with one hand. Still has a gun in every drawer. Still keeps a go-bag under the floorboards.

But now, he reads next to you in bed.

He sleeps with his arms around your waist and his nose in your hair.

He does the dishes.

You kept your diamonds — tucked away the ottoman he managed to transport discreetly— but you haven’t worn them in months. You used to live off silk and lace, but now you live in oversized sweaters and cotton panties, lounging across Bucky’s lap with a book while he traces lazy circles on your thigh as he rubbed herbal ointments on the bruises that never quite disappeared.

You still get gifts, of course, because he can’t help himself.

But they’re different now.

He gave you boots for the cold, handmade pottery from a local artist, and a woven scarf in your favorite shade of green. Things that say I see you instead of I own you.

Every once in a while, when he’d go to the city for one of his business trips, he’d still buy you Cartier just for the hell of it. 

In return, you wore his shirts, made him breakfast, smushed his cheek against yours after he shaved. You teased him about the way he always kissed your ring when he thought you weren’t looking.

Today, you were slicing peaches by the sink, the hem of Bucky’s shirt you stole this morning brushing your thighs every time you moved. The cabin windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like pine and rain. His favourite soup simmered on the stove, and the radio played sleepy jazz in the background.

It was the kind of evening you never thought you’d live to have.

And Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, reading a book he’d never admit was romance. 

You glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring.

“Y’know,” you said playfully, flicking a bit of cinnamon onto the peaches, “you’ve been spending less and less time in the city lately.”

He made a low groan in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You licked the cinnamon off your finger, knowing it would drive him crazy. “Almost like your… business is running itself.”

He chuckled — the kind of laugh that always made your toes curl.

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “Just saying, someone’s gotta keep your empire from burning down. And you’ve been out here pretending you’re a farmer.”

Bucky rose from the chair. “Well, now I’m thinking…” He walked and stopped in front of you, crowding into your space, sliding his hands beneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. His thumbs brushed lazy circles just above your hips. “…I might just retire.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Retire?”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, then the corner of your lips.

“Let Steve and Sam run the show,” he said. “They’re ready. Besides—” he leaned in, whispering now, lips brushing your ear— “I’ve got more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, and only one woman I give a damn about sharing it with.”

You melted into him instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, cheek pressed to his warm chest as you swayed to the gentle sound of Nina Simone’s Sinnerman.

“And who might that be, Mr. Barnes?”

He held you tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You, Mrs. Barnes,” he said simply. “Only ever you.”

You listened to the steady thump of his heart and only heard calmness.

“Retirement does sound lovely,” you whispered, letting your hands drift down his back, your fingertips tracing the scars there. “No more blood or deals. Just you, me, and these peaches.”

“And a cat,” he said into your hair.

You looked up, eyes wide. “Are we getting a cat?”

He grinned. “You want a cat?”

“I always want a cat.”

“Then we’re getting a cat,” he said like it was a goddamn decree.

You kissed him, soft and messy, the cutting board and the peaches and the stove completely forgotten.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes a little glassy.

“I’d still kill for you, though,” he added casually. “Just so we’re clear.”

You laughed, sniffling. “You say that so sweetly.”

“Just facts, baby,” he said. “Anyone ever tries to hurt you again—” he kissed your neck, “—I’ll paint the whole fucking forest red.”

“I know.”

See, the obsession never left. 

It lingered, peeking out in the way his eyes tracked your every move, in how he still slept with a knife within reach, in how he looked at you like he wanted to crawl under your skin and live there. 

It should’ve scared you, but goddamn you, a sick, twisted part of you loved that somewhere deep in this domestic life, he was still willing to ruin the world for you.

-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 @natalia42069

[nessieart]

The series that started it all, is 2 years old today! I should revisit Poppy and Tony again. I miss them.

》Teeth

Tony Stark, Peter Parker, a  Shifter!Reader.

WC: about 2.3k

Warnings ⚠️  cursing probably, no y/n used, Canon level violence?, made up fantasy elements probably. image from google.

Summary: It was a nice evening for a walk before some jerk in a metal suit tried to take matters into his own hands.

—**—

Next>>

Keep reading

[nessieart]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[nessieart]

Burning Desire* | Part One

She was chaos incarnate. He was a man carved out of war and worn-down patience. Neither of them knew when it started feeling like more than hate — only that it burned too close to love. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI. Age Gap, Slow Burn, Emotional Tension, mean!Logan(kinda) Pairing: Logan Howlett x reader Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl Part Two Marvel Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The mission had shattered in an instant.

The plan had been simple—nothing complicated, nothing that required more than a standard extraction. A Hydra compound, barely worth a second thought. But then the ambush hit, faster than any of you had expected, and suddenly everything spiraled. Gunfire tore through the air, sharp and unforgiving, and the ground beneath your feet rattled with the weight of an impending collapse. The faint sound of a building giving way—a creak, a groan, then the deafening crash of steel bending in on itself.

Civilians were trapped inside the wreckage. The clock was ticking, and it was the kind of pressure that crushed your lungs, made it hard to think, to breathe, to act. The team had already divided, and the chaos was thick enough that orders blurred into the white noise of battle. You could barely hear Storm yelling into your comms. You could barely hear Scott’s commands to fall back, his voice urgent but calm—always calm—as he moved to shield Jean, who was pinned down by an enemy sniper.

But none of that mattered when you saw Logan.

He was across the battlefield, drenched in blood, his claws flashing as he cut through the Hydra soldiers like they were nothing more than paper. You didn’t even notice the blood on his arms at first, the carnage that followed him, or the way he made the battlefield seem like a personal war ground. All you could focus on was the fact that he was in danger. That every time he swung his claws, he left himself open, exposed to more enemy fire. More. You couldn’t lose him.

You should’ve listened to Jean’s voice in your ear. You should’ve retreated, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t. Not when you saw Jean struggling to hold back the crowd of Hydra agents, not when Scott was trying to protect both of them while keeping you all alive. And certainly not when Logan, the man who had saved you more times than you could count, was fighting like he was out of his mind, like he didn’t care if he lived or died.

It happened faster than thought.

You moved forward into the crossfire without thinking, without asking for permission. A breath. A heartbeat. And then you were past the point of no return.

Something inside you snapped.

It was like a bolt of lightning—shocking, violent, uncontrollable. Power surged up through you in a wild, untamed rush, sending a jolt of pure energy through your veins. You felt it in your teeth, in your bones, a hum deep in your chest that only grew louder, more frantic the further you pushed. Your skin prickled with static, the air around you thick with a sharp, acrid taste of ozone. The ground cracked beneath your boots as if the earth itself recoiled from the storm building inside you.

The world felt too small. Too tight. Too fragile.

And then—then—you raised your hands.

You couldn’t contain it. You couldn’t control it. Not anymore. The power exploded outward in a blinding, jagged burst, so bright and violent that it felt like the sun itself had split open. The force of it sent the ground buckling beneath you. The air ignited with a pop that rang in your ears and burned in your throat, a sickly sweet scent of burning metal and charred ozone hanging heavy in the smoke-filled sky.

Hydra soldiers—people—disintegrated before your eyes, reduced to nothing but ash and smoke. The walls around you cracked and crumbled, entire sections of the building collapsing in on themselves. The air felt like it was vibrating, warping, as though the very fabric of reality itself was stretched too thin by the force of your power.

You felt the burn of it—like your bones were being liquefied from the inside out—but there was no stopping it. You couldn’t stop it.

The destruction rolled out from you like an unstoppable wave. Your hands, glowing with dangerous intensity, were pushing the world apart, and all you could hear was the deafening roar of the energy you unleashed. The screams of the Hydra agents, the crumbling of the building, the rattle of your own breath as you forced yourself to stay conscious.

You weren’t even sure where you were anymore. You weren’t sure if you could breathe. All that existed was you and the force that poured out of you, uncontrolled and violent.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

The light died down, the roar of destruction fading into a haunting silence.

The battlefield was unrecognizable. Smoke curled upward from the shattered remnants of the building, the ground littered with debris and the twisted wreckage of what was left. The world around you was still, as though time itself had held its breath and then exhaled.

And you fell to your knees.

The air was thick in your lungs, and the exhaustion slammed into you like a freight train. Your vision blurred, fading to black at the edges as your knees hit the broken concrete. You tried to move, to make sense of it all, but your body didn’t respond. Your head felt like it was full of cotton, your limbs too heavy to move.

You had given everything. Again.

And when the blackness took you, it was the only mercy your body knew how to give.

✦

Waking up in the jet was like surfacing from the bottom of a lake you’d been drowning in for years.

Your lungs burned. Your body ached in ways that told you you’d gone far past your limits again. The air smelled like antiseptic and sweat, and someone had shoved a blanket over you like that could somehow fix what was broken inside.

Jean was there when you stirred—her brow tight with concern, her voice soft. You could barely register the words as she explained what happened. That your blast had taken out most of the enemy forces. That no civilians had died. That they’d made it out, mostly intact, because of you.

That you could’ve died.

You sat up too fast and your vision spun, black dancing at the edges. Your hands trembled in your lap as you tried to ground yourself, but there was still that humming beneath your skin—the one that never fully went away. The one that made you feel like a bomb that hadn’t stopped ticking.

And then you saw him.

Logan was at the far end of the jet. His back was to you, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched like he was barely holding himself together.

You should’ve stayed quiet. Let it go.

But you never could when it came to him.

“What’s your problem?” you croaked, your voice hoarse.

He turned slowly.

The expression on his face wasn’t one of gratitude. It wasn’t relief, or worry. It was fury.

“My problem?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “My problem is you nearly got yourself killed for the second time this month.”

You scoffed, dragging the blanket off your lap and standing on unsteady legs. “I saved all of you. Or did you forget that part?”

“You damn near flattened a city block doing it!” he barked. “You think that’s heroism? You think just ‘cause you walk away, it means it was the right call?”

“I didn’t walk away,” you snapped. “I passed out in a pile of rubble because I had to save your ass.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” His voice rose like a wildfire catching dry trees. “You don’t control it, kid. You never have. And one of these days, your little meltdowns are gonna get someone killed who isn’t you.”

That one hit too deep. Too raw.

You took a step forward, your voice shaking. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“Kid.” You nearly spat it. “I’m on this team same as you. I bleed like the rest of you. But you still look at me like I’m just some brat who doesn’t belong here.”

“Because you act like one.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten to him. You were standing nose to chest now, staring up into those eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much, like they’d buried every name they ever cared about. And now they were staring at you like you’d added your name to that graveyard.

“Say that again,” you dared him.

“Stop acting like a kid,” he growled, voice low, dangerous. “Start acting like someone who gives a damn whether she lives or dies.”

Something inside you cracked.

“Fuck you, Logan.”

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like he was trying to read something in your face he couldn’t quite make sense of. And maybe he saw it—maybe he saw you, truly saw you, for the first time in months.

But if he did, he turned his back on it anyway.

“Get some rest,” he muttered. “You look like hell.”

And then he was gone.

✦

The mansion never felt louder than when you and Logan weren’t speaking.

It was the kind of silence that pressed down on you, suffocating in its weight. It clung to every corner of the vast halls, curling around your every step like a thick fog. You could feel it in the walls, in the air, in the space between you and the rest of the team. It was a constant, insistent hum—like a broken engine that wouldn’t stop grinding, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

Your powers were always unstable. Everyone knew that. From the moment you’d first joined the X-Men, they’d watched as you struggled to control the volatile energy that surged through you. You’d learned to keep it in check, to hold it down with sheer force of will—except when it slipped through the cracks. The times when you let it out, the way it felt like fire, like the world itself was unraveling under your touch.

But lately, it had gotten worse. The energy that pulsed beneath your skin was no longer something you could ignore, no longer something that could be held back. It was as though you were constantly on the edge of something too big to contain, a force ready to tear you apart if you didn’t let it out. Your powers twitched and sparked, rippling through you like a second heartbeat that you couldn’t outrun, no matter how hard you tried.

It was at its worst during training. The Danger Room, once a place of focus and control, had become a battlefield of its own. Storm had to separate you and Logan during rotations after you’d nearly cracked the wall on the far side of the room when he’d passed by in your peripheral vision. The split-second reaction had been enough to send you into a wild surge of energy—pure instinct, raw and untamed. You’d seen him, and everything inside you had twisted, the power in your chest surging to the surface without warning, making the walls tremble and the ground crack beneath you.

You hadn’t been able to stop it. You never could.

The team hadn’t said anything, but they didn’t have to. You could feel their eyes on you. Jean had caught your gaze once, her expression tight with concern, but there was no judgment. Not from her. Kurt had kept his distance, the way he always did when the air felt too thick to breathe. Even Peter—Peter, who never knew when to shut up—had fallen silent when he passed by you, his usual banter stilled by something unspoken. He’d tried to fill the silence with his usual energy, but there was nothing he could say to break it. Nothing anyone could say.

It was like everyone knew it. They all felt the tension, the electric charge that had started to surround you. It was in the way you moved, in the way your eyes lingered too long on Logan’s back when he wasn’t looking. It was in every step you took in the halls, in every word you didn’t say, in every silence that stretched longer than it should have.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

You told yourself it didn’t matter that Logan hadn’t looked at you since that day on the jet. That he hadn’t spoken a single word to you, hadn’t acknowledged you at all. His silence had become a cold, jagged thing, something that cut deeper than any of the insults or angry words he’d ever thrown at you. You hadn’t expected it to hurt this much—that was the worst part. You’d known he’d been pissed. You’d known he had every right to be. But you hadn’t expected him to ignore you like you didn’t even exist.

He’d always been the kind of man who made his feelings known. He got mad. He got violent. He’d yell, he’d punch walls, he’d storm off, and the next minute, he’d be back in your face like nothing had happened. It was chaotic. It was messy. But it was something. It was alive. And that was something you’d always understood about him. His anger was like fire—it burned hot and fast, but it didn’t last. It didn’t linger.

But this? This wasn’t passing.

This wasn’t something you could fix by storming into his room and demanding answers. This wasn’t something you could fight through. This was silence—the kind of silence that spoke volumes in its absence, the kind that stretched between you like a canyon you couldn’t cross. It was a silence that settled into the space around you, making you feel small, insignificant, and utterly alone.

It was worse than the anger. Worse than the hurt. Because this silence wasn’t about something temporary. It wasn’t about a fight you could work through, a bruise you could heal. This silence felt final. Like Logan had already decided what he thought of you, what you were to him. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even fight against it. You couldn’t even scream at him to make it stop, because there was nothing to yell about. There were no words to argue, no punches to throw. It was just empty.

And somehow, that was worse than anything.

You didn’t know what hurt more—the silence itself or the fact that you wanted to break it. You hated it. You hated the way it twisted your insides, the way it made you feel like you were suffocating in the hollow space between you two. But you also wanted to fill it. You wanted to scream, to make him feel something. You wanted him to see you again, to look at you like he used to. Like you weren’t a stranger.

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t because you knew that doing so would make it worse. It would only drive that silence deeper into your chest. So you stayed quiet. Stayed still. Let it eat you alive from the inside out.

And the worst part was that you weren’t sure if he even noticed.

[nessieart]

[nessieart]

The Way Forward.

The Way Back sequel.

Coming soon

**

"Your shoulder still bothering you?" Tony nods his head towards it. You just shrug. It's fine - really. Though you still feel the pain from the snap from time to time, the ache is dull if you don't think about it too hard.

"It's less when the arm is on. Nothing I can't handle."

Tony sighs, he finishes welding before he hands it back to you. The vibranium arm clicks back into place, gears shifting, mechanisms whirring. You flex your fingers, clench your fist, and curl your arm. It whirs loud, and the blue lights inside shine bright and pulse with the beat of your heart.

"Princess Charlie!" Morgan calls, she launches herself at your legs, your phone in her hand. "Uncle Bugee was calling!"

"Thanks, munchkin," you smile and ruffle her hair. When you go to call Bucky back, your phone's already ringing again. Before you could greet him, a voice is already yelling. You pull the phone from your ear and Tony raises his eyebrows.

"Wait, Sam - hold on - just -" you try to interject.

"Y/N! You better get your ass here, now!" He hangs up before you can say another word.

----

The Way Back tags: @valckenaux ; @yunloyal ; @otterlycanadian ; @frickin-bats ; @leahmck ; @8812-342

[nessieart]

The Way Forward.

The Way Back sequel.

Coming soon

**

"Your shoulder still bothering you?" Tony nods his head towards it. You just shrug. It's fine - really. Though you still feel the pain from the snap from time to time, the ache is dull if you don't think about it too hard.

"It's less when the arm is on. Nothing I can't handle."

Tony sighs, he finishes welding before he hands it back to you. The vibranium arm clicks back into place, gears shifting, mechanisms whirring. You flex your fingers, clench your fist, and curl your arm. It whirs loud, and the blue lights inside shine bright and pulse with the beat of your heart.

"Princess Charlie!" Morgan calls, she launches herself at your legs, your phone in her hand. "Uncle Bugee was calling!"

"Thanks, munchkin," you smile and ruffle her hair. When you go to call Bucky back, your phone's already ringing again. Before you could greet him, a voice is already yelling. You pull the phone from your ear and Tony raises his eyebrows.

"Wait, Sam - hold on - just -" you try to interject.

"Y/N! You better get your ass here, now!" He hangs up before you can say another word.

----

The Way Back tags: @valckenaux ; @yunloyal ; @otterlycanadian ; @frickin-bats ; @leahmck ; @8812-342

[nessieart]

[nessieart]

Thunderbolts* ft. Static (2) | b.b

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: angsty as heck

Summary: So Bucky's wife, Y/n is intent on overhearing every single conversation he has during this stupid gala... Naturally that leads to less than ideal conversation between the married couple.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: MINOR SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS* (nothing you haven't seen in the trailers), Cursing

a/n: TIME SKIP BABYYY

Thunderbolts* ft. Static (1) | Series Masterlist | Static: Get, Set, Glitch | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

“I know how crazy this is gonna sound—”

Bucky nearly jumps out of his damn skin.

Jesus Christ. He will never get used to how quietly she moves. Like a ghost. A gorgeous, terrifying ghost with excellent timing and no mercy.

She steps out from the corner like she’s materializing from the wall itself—shadow-born and smug about it. Clearly pleased with herself, she keeps going like she didn’t just scare the hell out of him: “But when I saw you talking to Valentina’s assistant?” She glides over to the railing, settling in like she owns the place. “Mel, I think her name is?”

Bucky grits his teeth, trying to rearrange his face into something neutral.

No good. She’s already seen the tell.

She leans casually, falsely, like this is just idle party banter. “The only thing going on in my head was—” she lets out a half-laugh. It’s hollow, theatrical. “This is where the crazy comes in—was that, ‘I hope to God my husband was flirting with that girl.’”

Just the sharp glint of something she won’t name.

And then her smile drops, “Imagine my disappointment when I found out he wasn’t?”

The knife slides in clean.

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He glances around, mostly for show. No one’s close enough to overhear—he already knew that—but the delay buys him a few seconds.

See, he also already knows that she heard his entire conversation with Congressman Gary about how he’s planning to get Valentina’s assistant to switch sides and hand them some evidence. He also already knows that she knows that Congressman Gary is too much of a shit to try going that route. And now by the looks of it, he also already knows that she eavesdropped his entire conversation with Mel—the aforementioned assistant. 

So yeah, he tries to buy time. He tries his best to delay this obviously doomed conversation for a few seconds longer to have a better ground to stand on. 

Not enough, apparently. Because what comes out of his mouth is a truly idiotic choice.

“Are you spying on me?” he says, with all the authority of a man asking if his pants are on backwards.

Too casual. Too defensive. Too late.

He’s standing like a guy with something to hide—hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes doing everything but meeting hers. It’s pathetic. If it were anyone else, maybe the bluff would pass. But not her.

Not Y/n.

Her smile sharpens to something almost affectionate in its cruelty. “Kinda part o’ the job profile, dear,” she says, sweet as venom. “Used to be yours too.”

And there’s the hit.

Direct. No blood, but it lands.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let himself.

But she knows.

Of course she does.

“What is your problem?” Bucky snaps, voice low but tight.

Y/n doesn’t even blink. She tilts her head, mouth pulling into a sharp, sweet mockery of a smile. “My problem, Congressman,” she says, like the title is a slur, “is that the job of having a secret little rendezvous to sway the big bad villain’s right-hand man usually belongs to a super spy.” Her eyes narrow, glittering. “Not a government official with a hero complex.”

He steps in—closer, just enough that the air between them crackles. “She works with Valentina, day in and day out,” he explains, hands raised slightly in front of him, not pleading, not exactly, but close. “She would definitely have access to something that we can use as evidence to get Valentina impeached.”

Y/n doesn’t budge. Doesn’t twitch. She stands with the kind of stillness that says she’s two seconds from throwing a punch or walking away forever—either’s on the table. Her face stays unreadable as she says, “If you wanna bullshit me, babe, you’re gonna have to try a lot harder.”

He throws his hands down by his sides with a scoff, pacing now, like a dog in a too-small cage. “I’m not bullshitting anyone! The investigation on Valentina was a bust!” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. “There’s nothing on her. The clock’s ticking—if we don’t find something soon, she stays Director of the CIA. And we both know that’s too much power in the wrong hands.” He turns to face her again, pointing slightly for emphasis. “So we need evidence. Of her illegal operations. At O.X.E. And this—Mel—is the only lead we’ve got.”

Y/n doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“Is that right?” she asks, voice like a challenge tossed across a bar right before a barstool flies.

“Yeah.” He meets it head-on. Chin lifted, shoulders squared.

Then she steps in. Real close. So close he can see the tension in her jaw, the faintest twitch of her left eye—her tell when she’s really mad. And yet, her voice? Smooth. Controlled.

“You know,” she says, almost conversational, “if this actually were just a bit of political sleuthing, I would’ve been real fucking proud.” Her lips curl, a dangerous grin blooming. “Fuck, I might’ve even been a little wet—’cause everyone knows there is nothing hotter than a mid-level government official trying to game the system.”

His heart and brain probably get their signals confused. “Really?” he asks, stupidly, and hates the genuine curiosity that sneaks in.

She stares at him like he just farted in church. “No, Bucky. I’m being sarcastic.”

“Oh.” He tries to recover, straightening, nodding like that somehow smooths over the humiliation.

Let’s move past that, please God. I am begging.

Almost like she reads his mind—because of course she does—she adds, “But I would’ve been proud.”

He freezes.

Just long enough to start letting that warmth creep in.

Then she slices it open. “Except,” she says, stepping just far enough back to twist the knife, “when you gave Mel your card, you weren’t hoping she’d call you with some classified files she stole off Valentina’s desk. No.” Her voice is razor-sharp now. “You were hoping she’d call you with a mission.”

And that? That hits.

Because it may or may not be kinda sorta true.

And it’s not just about the mission.

It’s about what Y/n is really saying.

He misses the game. The danger. The agency.

And maybe—maybe—he misses being the kind of man she would’ve been proud of.

But he can’t say that. Not now.

Motherfucker, he thinks.

Fuck it, he thinks.

If she’s gonna read him like a goddamn paperback, what’s the point in pretending?

So he straightens, pulls his hands out of his pockets like they weigh a thousand pounds. Gathers what little dignity he’s still got left off the floor. 

Breathes once. 

Twice. 

Then swallows.

Audibly.

And says, “And what if I was?” It lands like a grenade tossed under her feet. Her eyes widen, the corner of her mouth twitches—just barely. She wasn’t expecting that. Not from him. “What if I was hoping for her to send me off? What if I was excited about being out on the field?” he shrugs, casual as hell—like it wasn’t a big deal. Who knows? He thinks. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, he thinks as his pulse slams behind his ears. 

Her posture shifts—chin tilted, arms still crossed, but the grip of her fingers tightens against her biceps. “Then that would mean you miss it,” she says, and her voice has lost all the venom.

Now it’s just… quiet. Precise.

“And what if I do?” He says it low, but steady. Steady matters. He’s not even sure what they’re talking about anymore. The old job. The old him. Them.

But he’s not backing down. Not this time.

“Would that be so bad?”

A long pause.

Then— “Yeah,” she says. And it lands just as hard. “’Cause then what the fuck was the point of running for Congress?”

He flinches. Not visibly—he hopes—but inside it’s like something cracks just a little. Still, he fights through it. “I might have been powerful, but I had no power,” he says, jaw tight, eyes locked on hers. “Now—I can make meaningful change.”

She exhales. Loud and annoyed. Like he’s being deliberately stupid. “Only once you have the votes to pass a bill—Yes! Then you can.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “Come on, man. You ran for a seat in the House of Representatives. People voted and you won. So do the job your constituents elected you for. Listen to what Congressman Gary just said—read the damn packets!” She uncrosses her arms now, stepping closer, her voice rising—not in rage, but in urgency. “Sponsor bills. Propose legislation. Oversee the executive branch—and get the Director of the CIA impeached for doing illegal shit—” 

“That is exactly what I was doing—”

“—with due process!” she snaps, voice cracking from the strain. 

She rubs a hand over her face, smoothing her fingers across her brow, like she’s trying to press the tension out of her skull.

He watches her. Watches the exhaustion settle into her shoulders like it lives there.

“You’re supposed to work within the system, Bucky,” she mutters, softer now, but not gentler. Just… tired. “Otherwise, why do it at all?”

That finally tips something in him. Maybe it’s the fatigue. Or the fact that he still hears her voice in his head even when she’s not in the room. 

Frustrated, he closes the distance between them, now face-to-face, toe-to-toe. “If I have the means and the ability to take Valentina down, am I just supposed to ignore it because it aligns with my job description?”

“Yes,” she replies instantly. No hesitation. No compromise.

He blinks. “Why?”

That’s when she laughs.

A full-body thing. She throws her head back like he’s just delivered the punchline to a long-running joke only she and the cosmos understand. Her eyes shut. Her jaw clenches. And then—“God,” she mutters under her breath, “Tony was right.” His gut twists. She opens her eyes, and the heat is gone now. Replaced by something far more vulnerable somehow and yet extremely distant. Something he can’t quite name. “I really do have a type.” 

The words aren’t meant for him, even though he can clearly hear them—no. They aren’t even meant for herself, honestly. He knows her well enough to know that. No. They are meant for her brother… even if he isn’t around to hear them.

She turns her gaze back to him. Steady. Measured. “Democracy isn’t infallible, Bucky. It’s not perfect or absolute. What it is, is a process. And the only way to fix all its flaws is to keep working at it—not ignore it.” She scoffs then, a short exhale through her nose. “But you can’t see that, obviously.”

His brows knit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she says, enunciating each word now, “that you fucking hate institutions, Bucky.” She gestures broadly, like she’s pointing to the air around them. “And hey! I don’t blame you. So do I. Which is why you’re not going to see me running for government anytime soon.”

There’s something bitter in his throat now. He swallows it down like poison. “So what you’re basically saying is that I don’t belong here.”

She looks at him then.

She sighs—not harsh, not heavy. Just a breath between sentences.

“At the risk of sounding like the nagging wife,” she says, tilting her head with a dry little smirk, “you did shoot Kennedy, dear.”

Bucky fucking loses it. “That was not me and you know it! That was the Winter Soldier!”

Y/n loses it just as fast. Her face splits into a wicked grin as she throws her hands up. “Which worked in the focus groups!”

He stares at her, open-mouthed. 

Did she just—?

A callback and a metaphorical punch to the gut? Oh yeah! Assassinations might be the most well-known skillset in her repertoire, but making you sound like the most profound dumbass is her most polished area of expertise.

No matter what he says after this, he’s gonna sound fucking dumb. 

So he says some dumb fucking shit, “That is different, Y/n!”

She cocks her head, arms folding across her chest again. “Really? How?”

“You know how!”

“No, I really don’t,” she replies, flat and smug. “Explain it to me like I’m five.”

He drags a hand down his face, lets out a groan like the words themselves are physically painful. “Jesus Christ.”

The fight that was burning within him just a minute ago is now a singular piss poor flame.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. Not biting now. Just… tired.

She freezes, just for a second.

They’re at opposite ends of the hallway, two balconies flanking them. Music from the fundraiser below wafts up in muffled bursts, but here it’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that used to be filled with the weight of her body pressed into his side.

Now? It's just space.

Which, Bucky thinks, is weird seeing as they aren’t standing all that far away from each other. Really, barely 4 feet between them. But considering that there used to be a time when they were practically stitched together at the ends, this is more than enough. 

She looks stunned right now.

She looks…

Had this been a year ago, he would’ve—

What’s the fucking point now?

“Why are you doing this, Y/n?” He asks again. He exhales hard and leans back, shoulder hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. Hands disappear into his pockets��one of those grounding, practiced stances he’s picked up from her over the years. From watching her lock into her own body before tearing someone else down. He wonders if she notices. 

He tilts his head and half-smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You preach democracy. You practice law. During the Accords, you told Steve you believed in the power of people. You said that even if the System wasn’t flawless, it was put in place after a lot of struggle so it deserved a chance.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, like this hasn’t been burning a hole through his chest for months. “Well… here I am—giving it a chance. So what the hell is your problem with that?”

Her arms drop from where they were crossed, her posture shifting like something’s dislodged inside her.

And when she finally does answer, her voice is quiet. Not weaponized. Just honest. “Because it’s not an honest one.”

“Says who?” he replies evenly. He doesn’t get riled. Doesn’t flare. Just says the thing anyone would say. “You? Why? ‘Cause I’m using the experience that I have from my previous job? Since when is that illegal?”

She grits her teeth. “Since your previous job wasn’t exactly legal?”

His brow rises, just slightly. Not defensive—bemused. “And yet, everyone knew exactly what the fuck I did before they voted. I didn’t hide it. Fuck! It was in the damn campaign slogan—Rebuild with Barnes—and I still got elected.” The hit lands perfectly. He steps toward her—not looming, just closing the gap. Voice calm. Controlled. “Which brings me back to the original question… Why the fuck are you doing this?”

She hesitates.

Just a second too long.

Then—like something snaps inside her ribcage—

“Because you broke us up to do it!”

The words hang there, raw and terrible and so, so human.

He blinks.

All night, Bucky’s been pretending to lose his cool.

Okay—fine. Maybe not entirely pretending. But most of it? It was performance. A bit of theater. Playing the part of the “Unhappy Husband” in their usual tango. Hit your cues, raise your voice, storm off left. It was familiar. A routine they knew by heart.

But this? This isn’t part of the act.

This cuts straight through the armor.

He’s moving before he even knows it, closing the space between them in a few sharp strides. There’s heat in his chest and fire curling up his throat, and yeah, he’s vibrating—he can feel it. With rage, sure, but underneath it… it’s just hurt. Barely controlled. Barely contained. Like he’s a wire stretched too thin and waiting to snap.

His jaw tightens hard enough to ache. When he speaks, his voice is low. Cracked around the edges. “It might have happened around the time the campaign began, and I might have been the one who said it—who officially broke it off.” He exhales—loud, sharp, like it stings just coming out. “But you do not get to stand there and act like we weren’t already broken long before that.” 

He shakes his head, laughing—but it’s not a good laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that’s hollowed out from the inside. The kind you use when you don’t know what else to do with your mouth except let it break. 

“And I’m not talking about Marrakesh,” he says, voice rising. “We survived that. Fuck knows how. And fuck knows why, but we did. We clawed our way through it, shoulder to shoulder. You and me against the goddamn world.” He’s losing hold of the reins now. He can hear it in his own voice—can feel it in the way his body shakes like he’s held together by nothing but thread and willpower. “It hurt, Y/n. Fuck, it hurt. But somehow—somehow—we survived it.” His hand flinches like it wants to grab something—her, maybe—but he tucks it back into his side like it’s something dangerous. “Only for you to—”

He stops. Cuts himself off.

“For me to what?” she asks, slowly.

Her voice is soft, but there’s that familiar spark underneath it—defiance, steady and sure. Like she’s not bracing for the answer. Like she already knows it. He exhales hard through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to scrub the heat out of his skull. Then he steps back, puts some distance between them—not just physically, but so he can collect what little composure he has left. He straightens, squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. When he meets her eyes again, his voice is controlled. Barely.

“Every time you came home from a mission,” he says, “you looked at me like you hated the fact that I was around.” His jaw flexes. “I think you were disgusted with me.”

“Bucky…” Her voice is faint, and her expression says no before the word even forms. But he keeps going. He has to.

“I saw it in your eyes,” he says, cool and certain. He’s not yelling now. Not accusing. Just… laying it down, piece by piece, like a damn autopsy. “I thought maybe it was ‘cause I wasn’t doing enough. Just sitting there, wasting space, moping around the apartment. Every conversation ended with you telling me to get out more. Do something.”

He looks down, shoulders rising and falling in a small shrug. “So I did. I decided to run for Congress.”

When his gaze snaps back up, there’s no hesitation in it. Just memory.

“And when I told you that… you laughed.”

Her grunt is loud and exasperated. “Because I thought you were kidding!”

And damn, that stings more than he expects. Hits right in the ribs.

“Of course you did,” he mutters, the words clipped and quiet through clenched teeth.

Her face falls instantly.

He gives a dry little shake of the head, something between a sigh and a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “How dare I—the Winter Soldier—think I could be anything more, right?” His voice is calm now, deadly calm. “Of course you thought it was a joke.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns on his heel and starts down the stairs, every step punctuated with finality.

But then—

“Did you get a concussion while I was taking a piss?”

Her words are so fucking absurd that Bucky is compelled by some force—resembling God himself—to turn around. Not completely though. No. He turns his head just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, eyes squinting.

“…What?”

“I think you can do anything you want to.” She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact. Like gravity or thermodynamics or the Earth being round. Like him being capable was never even in question. As if unlike the fallible nature of democracy, her words are irrefutable.

“What?” he repeats. God, he’s an idiot.

Now he turns fully.

She’s at the top of the staircase. He’s a few steps below, looking up at her like he does at the moon every time he thinks of her—during the sleepless nights which have begun haunting and taunting him now that she isn’t around. Warm gala light halos around her, but even then, she’s brighter. Has always been.

She sighs. “I think you can do anything you want to,” she says again, word for word, not budging an inch on the certainty. Her hands disappear into the pockets of her suit jacket before she continues. “You wanna start a band? I’ve always had a thing for drummers—I’ll buy you a set. You wanna play baseball? I know the guy who coaches the Yankees. I’ll make the call. You wanna discover a new particle? I’ll dig through Tony’s shit, drag out the particle accelerator.” She throws her hands up slightly. “Fuck, Bucky. You can do anything.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

Then climbs two steps—until they’re eye to eye again.

“There’s just one thing I can’t do, right?” he asks. “This. Just not this?”

She doesn’t flinch. “Even this,” she says. “You could be the goddamn President of the United States if you wanted. A good one, too—one I’d actually want to vote for.”

He stares at her.

Completely, utterly lost.

“I don’t under—”

“But you don’t want to,” she cuts him off. Not unkind, just… blunt. Like a truth she’s been holding in her teeth. “You don’t want to be Congressman Barnes.” 

Her eyes drop to the floor. Her shoulders lower with her. 

“There was a point in our lives,” she continues softly, “where I could say you were my own heart. So I hope you won’t think I’m out of line when I say… I think the reason you’re doing all this,” she gestures vaguely around the room—meaning the suits, the speeches, the job, the gala—“is because you feel like you have something to prove.” 

She finally looks at him again. 

The moment’s long and slow. 

“But it’s been a second, since you’ve been my heart,” she says, gently. “So I don’t know what or who needs this proof.”

He just stares.

What the hell is he even supposed to say to that?

“Y/n—”

“And just so you know?” she says, voice tilting upward into something bitter and brittle and still standing. “I saw the way you looked at me too.” She doesn’t pause. Doesn’t let him cut in. “The resentment. The irritation. The way the sound of my voice grated on you like sandpaper on open skin.” She huffs a laugh. “By the end, I think even my breathing pissed you off.”

His chest aches.

Not in the way that heartbreak cuts clean. In the way that regret festers—slow and ugly.

“Maybe we weren’t meant to survive Marrakesh,” she says, half under her breath. Like the words were waiting for this hallway to finally be spoken.

Then she brushes past him. Her shoulder knocks into his—not harshly, not gently either. Just enough.

And she walks down the stairs without looking back.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t follow.

Can’t.

His fingers twitch at his sides, like they’ve forgotten there’s no hand left to hold.

Like they didn’t get the memo.

A breath. Then another.

God, she’s wrong.

Not all the way. Not completely. Just… where it matters most.

He did have something to prove. Still does, maybe. To the public. To the ghosts. To that version of himself that still wakes up at 3AM choking on gunpowder and guilt.

Of course he wanted to show he could be more than what they made him.

But that wasn’t the whole story.

His jaw tightens as his eyes find the stairwell again, like maybe she’ll reappear. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

What she missed—what maybe she never really let herself see—is that this whole reinvention, this political theater, this slow, painful march into legitimacy… none of it was for them.

It was for her.

Everything Bucky ever does is for her. He’s not entirely sure it’ll ever be otherwise.

Y/n Stark is his axis. The fixed point. The gravity well he’d gladly orbit for the rest of his life.

She might be the moon, but Bucky has never been anything less than enthusiastic about the idea of rewriting the laws of physics to be the one who revolves around her… he still would.

So when things started to shift—when the house got quieter and the silences got longer, when she stopped laughing at his jokes and started sighing like he was another thing to manage—he hadn’t blamed her.

He’d blamed himself.

Because it was his fucking fault.

He hadn’t hated her voice. He missed how it used to sound when she said his name.

He hadn’t resented her presence. He resented how he’d become someone she couldn’t stand to look at.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

More than that maybe, he can't really bring himself to say any of this anymore—not with the distance that they have created now. It would be funny, he thinks—if it weren’t so morbid, because there was a time where it would’ve taken industrial equipment to separate the two of them from each other, like they were glued together—so close that one could hear the other's thoughts. But now the gap between them is so large that Bucky can't even stop her from walking away. 

The space between them isn’t measured in feet or stairs or square footage anymore.

It’s measured in the things they didn’t say.

And it stretches out like a whole other life.

Find the Static Verse Masterlist here.

i am having so much fun with this time skip shit! god I'm an asshole i love it!

@mirandastuckinthe80s @rattyfishrock

[nessieart]

today is the only day you can reblog this

[nessieart]

so true

[nessieart]

Could you reblog this if you enjoy seeing your writer friends ramble about their wips on your dash?

[nessieart]

Are u even having fun on tumblr if u don't gain a slight crush on a mutual. Are u even using it right. Let's be honest

[nessieart]

Thinking of a new fic series this soon after finishing The Way Back...am I crazy?

[nessieart]

Crimson Ties ~ 23

CRIMSON TIES MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,235ish

Summary: The team rushes to rescue Tony.

Warning(s): talk of rape, talk of abuse, torture, death, mental health, violence

Note(s): MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS! This is my third update in the last 24 hours. So make sure you haven't missed anything before you read!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

Rhodey sighed as he watched Happy’s lifeless body get rolled away. He stood on the sidewalk outside of the therapist office, unable to wrap his mind around it all.

“Obadiah knew he couldn’t attack the house,” Natasha said. She was sitting on the curb. Yelena and Bucky were close by getting stitched up. “It didn’t have enough people to do that again… He’s been watching us… watching her.”

“Steve said he got her to the penthouse,” Rhodey stated. “She’s safe.”

“For now,” added Yelena. “We need to end this.”

“We will. But we can’t do anything that could put Tony’s life in danger.”

~~~

The penthouse wasn’t home. It felt cold. You felt trapped. You were curled up on the leather couch in the living room. Your knees were tucked to your chest and Steve had carefully thrown a blanket over your shoulders. Rhodey, Peggy, Natasha, Bucky, and Yelena joined you and Steve there, but you didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge them. They began laying out information on the large dinning table, trying to figure out how to get Tony back. They kept glancing over at you, wondering if you’d ever be okay again. 

They hadn’t told you that Happy was dead. But you knew. You had seen his body laying across the concrete and knew that there was no coming back from that. You could help but imagine all the terrible things your father was doing to Tony. You hated to think of the pain your father could inflict and that you may never see Tony alive again.

“I want to help,” suddenly and quietly slipped from your lips.

The room stilled and everyone turned to face you.

“Y/N… what?” Steve questioned.

You squirmed under their gazes, pulling the blanket around you. “I want to help,” you repeated a little louder. “I want to help find Tony.”

“Sweetie,” Peggy said gently, “you’ve been through—“

“I know what I’ve been through. But I can still help… please.” Everyone remained silent but had eyes on you. You took a shaky breath before continuing. “He’s the only man who ever made me feel like I was more than what happened to me. He’s… the only thing that’s truly felt safe since… well, since ever.”

“Y/N…” Bucky stepped forward.

“He’s my home,” tears gathered in your eyes. “Let me help. I’m not asking to go with you. But my father’s home was once my own. I may know things you don’t.”

The others shared a silent conversation through looks. Rhodey nodded, stepping up.

“Alright, Y/N,” he said. “You’re in.”

~~~

Tony couldn’t remember when they stopped. It was hard to measure time here. No windows, no clocks. Just his pain. His body was slumped sideways in the chair— one arm unshackled, useless at his side, shoulder dislocated from where they’d yanked too hard during the last round. His lip was split. One eye was swollen shut and there was more blood oozing out of him than he cared for. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

He blinked slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus. A flickering light above him buzzed. The hum of the camera’s lens shifting in the corner echoed louder than it should. He hated this silence the most. It gave him too much space to think. And right now, thinking was a battlefield.

“She’s safe. She’s safe. She’s safe,” he kept repeating in his mind.

Tony let his head lol back against the chair, gasping shallow breaths through his clenched teeth. His mind focused on you. He saw your face. Heard your voice.

“Hold on for her. Hold on for her.”

Footsteps outside the door made him tense, every nerve in his broken body flinching. Not again. Please, not again. But they passed and the silence returned. Tony let his head fall forward, hair damp against his forehead. Every breath felt like a fight. But at least he was still breathing. Still here. Still yours. He would make sure to tell you that if— when he got out of here. That he was yours. He would promise to do better. To take you somewhere safer than what he had provided so far. He would move heaven and earth if that’s what it took. Because that’s what you deserved.

~~~

The city buzzed below, but it felt like lightyears away. Everyone decided to call it for the night. It was a hard call, but they had taken a hard hit and everyone needed sleep. You were still fully dressed, curled on the end of the bed. You stared out the tinted window, hating that you couldn’t see any stars. 

The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against you like a ton of bricks. You blinked, swallowing hard. Something wasn’t right. Slowly, you sat up. Your chest was tight. Not with the usual panic. This was different. A deep ache. A throb in your ribs like you’d been bruised from the inside.

“Tony,” you breathed out.

You couldn’t explain it. No alarms had gone off. No update from the team or new intel. But something had shifted, like the thin thread between you and Tony had gone taut. Like he was trying to hold on but slipping. Your hands trembled as you slid off the bed. You stumbled over to the window, like some how but staring out it you could see Tony. Tears welled in your eyes as you pressed your forehead against the glass. 

“Please…” you begged to the universe. To anyone that would listen and grant your request. “Please… don’t let him die.”

You slid down the window, sobbing.

~~~

The dawn broke with you having got no sleep. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Tony was taken and you were already a shell of yourself once again. You sat at the table, the others standing around it. A blueprint of your father’s house was rolled out. You leaned in and looked it over.

“It’s not right,” you mumbled. Your shaky hand reached out and pointed to a blank spot. “He’s office is here. There’s stairs to a basement. Like Tony’s… He’d be kept down there.”

“We need more men,” Rhodey stated. “We’re not going to get him out of there alive without extra help.”

“Then we need them gathered quickly,” Steve said. “We can’t waste another day.”

“I’ll stay with Y/N,” Peggy offered. “I’ll get her back to the house.”

“No,” you shook your head. “Please… I can stay here?” You couldn’t be in that big house without Tony there. 

“Of course,” Yelena said, sensing your growing distress. “This penthouse is probably safer anyways.”

~~~

Obadiah felt like he was winning. He was confident in his plan to gain control of all that Stark had. There was only one more step.

“I need her in our hands tonight,” Obadiah told his men. “She needs to be alive, but you can kill anyone in your path to get to her. My daughter will come home. And she will be the thing that causes Stark to hand everything over. If I put her life in jeopardy, he’ll have no choice but to cave.”

A bomb going off shook the whole house. Before Obadiah could say anything about it, a second bomb went off. This time it was closer, throwing him off to the side with his other men. Obadiah coughed, struggling to get to his feet.

“Secure Stark!” He ordered. “Bring him to me!”

“On it, sir,” his men said, rushing to do as they were told.

~~~

“We’ve breached,” Steve stated over their comms. 

They weren’t stupid. They weren’t going to go into the house, but had formed a plan to blast a hole where the basement was. They knew it was risky, but it was the best plan they could come up with.

“Then go!” Rhodey ordered. “We’ll handle Obadiah!”

Steve and Bucky entered the hole, smoke blinding them. They could hear the gunfire echoing from upstairs. The lights overhead flickered as Steve and Bucky moved swiftly through the hallways, taking out anyone who got in their way. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. 

They moved fast, quickly spotting the only room with a closed door in the hallway.  Steve got there first. He threw the door open. Tony was slumped in the metal chair, no longer cuffed because he was too weak to do anything. His right eye was completely swollen shut. Blood stained his torn clothes and any skin it could latch onto. His breathing was shallow. So shallow that for a terrifying second, Bucky and Steve thought they were too late. But then Tony’s good eye blinked, slowly.

“About damn time,” he rasped, voice like sandpaper.

“Shit, Stark,” Bucky muttered, already at his side.

Steve dropped to one knee. “We’ve got you, Tony,” he said. “We’ve got you.”

Tony let out a broken laugh that turned into a cough. “To—Took you… long enough.”

“We had to be dramatic,” Bucky smirked. “You know how it is.”

“Y/N— Y/N… How is she?”

“She’s safe. She’s waiting for you to come home.”

Tony nodded, sliding off the chair. Steve quickly caught the man.

“Hey, stay with us,” Steve coaxed. “We still have to get out of here.”

“He… He’s going after her,” Tony continued. “Are you sure she’s safe?”

“Peggy’s with her and another group of guards. She’s in the penthouse. They’d be stupid to get her there.”

“Come on,” Bucky urged, helping Steve pick up Tony.

“We have Obadiah cornered,” Rhodey’s voice came through the comms loud enough for Tony to hear. “We’re going to end this.”

“Tell them to wait,” Tony ordered. “I want to end him myself.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. “You need to be looked over. We have Banner outside and—“

“Take me to Stane.”

~~~

Despite the pain, Tony refused to let Steve and Bucky help him into the room Rhodey had Obadiah cornered in. Natasha and Yelena were there too, refusing to point their guns anywhere else but that man. Tony stepped inside the room, limping heavily.

“You look like hell, Stark,” Obadiah taunted. “Did you come all this way to gloat?”

“No,” Tony replied, voice firm. “I cam to make sure you heard me.”

“What could you possibly say that matters now?”

Tony took a step closer. “You lost. You had all the power, all the leverage. And you still lost.” Obadiah glared. “You don’t get to touch her again. You don’t get to inflict pain on her again. Y/N is protected. Always.”

Obadiah scoffed. “You think this is over? She will never escape my pain.”

Tony raised his hand and Rhodey placed his gun in it. “Threaten my wife again. I dare you.”

“You’re wife?” Obadiah cackled. “She’s not wife material. She’s barely anything. You’ll throw her away eventually. And I’ll be there to remind her that she is nothing. She is—”

The shot was quick. The bullet left the barrel and shot through Obadiah’s head quickly, causing the man to slump back, dead. Tony dropped the gun, stumbling back as his adrenaline wore off.

“Take me home,” he muttered as Steve caught him. “Take me to her…”

~~~

The penthouse was too quiet. The only sounds were of your feet as you paced the floor. Peggy stood still, off to the side as she watched you. They hadn’t updated her and she was growing anxious as well. She watched you paced from the window, to the kitchen, back again. Every minute that past felt like it was crushing you. Your whole body was trembling as your thoughts spiraled.

What if they’re too late?

What if he’s dead?

What if your father is on his way right now to you?

A sudden buzz broke the silence— the alert panel by the door flickering on. It turned green as you heard the elevator rising. You froze, not daring to move or even breathe. A chime. The doors slide open and there he was. Tony. Bloodied. Bruised. Injured. But it was him. And he was alive. Your eyes locked with his. Tony tugged away from the others as he staggered forward. You ran, throwing your arms around him without a second thought. Tony caught you, his good arm pulling you in while his whole body practically folded into the embrace like its as the only thing keeping him standing. 

“You’re safe…” you whispered, voice cracking. “You’re safe…”

Tony let out a breath like it had been trapped in his lungs for days. “I did it,” he whispered, voice still rough. “Obadiah. He’s gone. It’s done.”

You pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. “He’s… he’s dead?”

Tony nodded slowly. “I made sure.”

Your tears fell freely. “I’m free?”

“You’re free, Y/N.”

“And you came back…”

He rested his forehead against yours. “I will always come back to you, honey.”

“I… I felt it,” you whispered. “When it got bad… I knew something was wrong.”

Tony’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t get the tears to fall. “I kept seeing your face… Even when I wanted to quit. You were there. Pulling me from the edge.”

The two of you stood there for a long time, wrapped in silence, pain, and relief. With a shaky breath, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, so softly that it was barely felt. Tony let out a pained breath.

“I was so scared,” you admitted.

“I’m here,” Tony said, his good arm tightened around you. “I’m right here.”

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