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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

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The “Shared wife” trope and you’re John Price’s darling little housewife. The light of his life. His precious angel. The home he keeps in his house.

You are truly the best thing that has happened to him; all soft smiles and sweet words, a warm embrace he can melt to and shed all of the sharp edges he must bear whenever he’s deployed and carries the weight of the world across his shoulders.

The same world outside your little home was a cruel one, one where John had made more enemies than he cared to count. Each mission, each order barked into a comms unit, and each bullet fired carried a price- one that weighed on him more heavily than the tactical vest he wore.

But there was you, and he’d do it all again if it means having you safe and sound.

His darling. His beloved. The soft warmth of your hands, the sweetness of your smile. You were his sanctuary, his reprieve from the shadows of his work. And because of that, he could not- would not- allow anything to take you from him.

It wasn’t just him anymore, though. They were always there, watching. Protecting- for you belonged to John, and so did they, but you weren’t sharpened like them and you didn’t have to be; they’d be sharp enough for you, too. Guard dogs, their leashes held by John.

Especially when John tugged on those leashes and had them stay with you while he was away on a different mission. As if he’d ever leave you alone, all by your lonesome.

Kyle was the easiest to adjust, his role almost seamless. He lingered in the background, watchful but not intrusive and never forceful in joining your space, his easy charm disarming to anyone who might venture too close. He’d follow John’s orders without hesitation, his voice steady over the phone and comms after Price sent him to patrol the property’s edges.

“It’s quiet out here,” he’d murmur, voice a low hum in the radio. “No sign of trouble. As it should be.”

Soap, of course, tugged harder on the leash. He had energy to spare, bounding about the property like an overzealous hound. But it wasn’t just his sharp instincts that made him invaluable; it was his ability to diffuse tension with a grin and a joke, to make you feel like the safest person in the world, and coax you back inside while distracting you from whatever lingered outside.

It shouldn’t be for you to worry. All you needed to do was stay your lovely, content self, curled up all warm and cozy in your favorite spots like a particularly cherished kitten.

“Dinnae worry, lass,” he’d say as he hefted a bag of groceries from your car, muscles flexing under his shirt. “Nothin’ gets past us. We’re like the bloody Buckingham Palace guards- but more handsome. What are you making for lunch? How about I show you a family recipe, eh?”

And then there was Simon.

Ghost was quiet, his presence as much a shadow as his name suggested. But you always knew when he was near, the subtle shift in the air around you as his dark eyes followed your every move. He was the one who lingered just a little longer after everyone else had gone to bed, his massive frame nearly invisible against the darkened walls and only showing himself just so you wouldn’t get frightened.

“You don’t have to do that.” You’d tell him softly, catching sight of him through the kitchen window as he circled the house, even though you were so sure John was overreacting and these men needed to calm down. “Si, please. It’s cold tonight, too.”

But he would only shake his head, low and unyielding. “It’s my job to keep you safe. Don’t worry about me. Let’s get you back inside, Price’ll have my head if you catch a cold.”

And John truly kept them in line, orders sharp and precise. It was a dynamic they understood instinctively, honed from years of serving under him. He was their captain, their leader, their handler, and when it came to you, his commands were absolute.

But you were the one who softened them.

It started small: a hand on Kyle’s shoulder when he seemed tense, massaging the knots out, a gentle laugh at one of Soap’s outrageous jokes with his hand on your lower back, a quiet “thank you” murmured to Ghost as he handed you something you hadn’t even asked for yet ended up needing. They responded to you as if they were attuned to you, sharp edges dulling in your presence until they were handing you the leashes themselves.

Soap once joked about it- how they were like a pack of loyal dogs, their ears pricking up whenever you entered the room.

“You’ve got us all wrapped around your little finger, love,” he’d teased, earning a gruff “Shut it, MacTavish” from Price. Because they stayed, even when John returned. Because they belonged.

But it was true.

They followed John’s orders without question, but when you asked something of them, it wasn’t obedience- it was devotion. Ask them for the world, and they will drag it to your doorstep bleeding and heaving. Ask them for the sun, and they will tear it out of the sky to present it to you on burnt palms.

“Simon, will you check the garden gate for me? I think the latch is loose again.” You’d say, and he’d rise without hesitation, broad shoulders brushing the doorway as he left. And then he’d return, and patiently wait until you’d kiss his cheek.

“Kyle, do you mind grabbing the mail? It’s pouring out there.”

“Anything for you, darling.” Gaz would reply, already pulling on his jacket, and when he’d return he’d make sure you wouldn’t get wet while he leaned down and stole a kiss on your forehead.

“Johnny, help me with this jar, will you?”

“Aye, lass, but only if you kiss me.” Soap would tease, though he’d already have the jar in hand, his grin softening when you rolled your eyes. Still, he’d obediently lower his head for you to peck.

And John watched it all with quiet pride. They were his men, and he trusted them with his life. Now, he trusted them with yours. Because they were his, and you were his, and all of you should have been together from the start anyways.

You were worth protecting. Worth loving. Worth the world itself, because you were one and the same to them.

The first time you teased him about it- about how he seemed to have the entire Task Force at his beck and call- he simply pulled you into his arms and kissed you until you were clinging to his shoulders, breathless and warm.

“They’d do anything for you,” he murmured against your hair, then. “Same as me. You’re ours to protect.”

It was possessive, yes, but not in a way that stifled you, not like shackles that bound you to a prison. It wasn’t a cage; it was a fortress, each of them a stone in the walls that kept you safe.

And you, their sweet, lovely little wife, were the center of it all. Safe, cherished, and loved beyond measure.

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lay-z · 15 days ago

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cotton candy clouds | 7

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Despite the already late time on what should be just a lazy Sunday evening, Simon did find Price in his office—working on reports and preparing for the upcoming week, as expected.

A non-existent private life is a common occurrence shared among the squadron, after all.

Another grey plume of cigar smoke curls upwards from the captain’s lips only to dissolve and add to the already thick, hazy air around the office.

“I assume you haven’t read her file, then, like I’d told ya to?”

Simon tightens his fingers around the heavy, black folder on his lap, giving a slow shake of his head. “Didn’t deem it necessary,” he answers curtly. “Didn’t plan to keep ‘er around anyway.”

Price rolls his eyes, crow’s feet appearing in the corners with an amused, tight-lipped smile, and Simon clenches his jaw under the cloth of his mask, biting back a curse while the handlership contract he’d signed just the day before yesterday, rests in front of him on his superior’s desk—practically glowing, though not like a beacon of hope but a great mistake with a spotlight thrown on, here to mock and taunt him for his stupidity in the heat of the moment.

“But she’s yours now, Simon. You’re her handler for the next six months.” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows furrowing in thought as he does notice how his Lieutenant’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “You didn’t read the contract either, did’ya?”

Simon huffs sharply, shifts uncomfortably on the chair in front of the large desk that Price is sitting behind. He shouldn’t have signed it in hindsight—and he curses himself and Johnny for letting the Scotsman agitate him badly enough to sign the bloody contract.

“Six months.” Simon repeats evenly, like an already dead man learning about his death sentence.

“Aye, six months of probation period. There will be an evaluation of you both after that before it’s decided if the… handlership can continue in that constellation.”

There is a moment of silence where Simon is reeling internally—onyx pupils flickering in thought behind a façade of indifference that his Captain can easily see through, despite the balaclava secured in place.

“What about missions?” Christ, Simon bloody hopes he’ll get deployed on an op—a long one at that. “M’ not gonna take ‘er with us. No fuckin’ way.” You’re not made for warzones, not supposed to witness that kind of hardship after what you have already obviously been through. Too bloody soft, too delicate, too bloody precious.

Price shrugs as he sorts through his report papers; his next answer so blatant, it makes Simon’s blood simmer. “She’ll stay in custody of another K9 hybrid handler here on base.”

And that makes him bristle. “Whot?” He raises an eyebrow behind his mask. The thought of one of the K9 unit handlers taking care of you in his absence leaves a strangely tight feeling in his chest. His right leg begins to bounce with queasiness, the urge to pace becomes too real. Negative, he wants to say. Declined.

“Make her stay at the bloody dog compound, tha’it?”

The captain raises a bushy brow, picks up his cigar from the ashtray, and pick up on the sudden restlessness emanating from the man in front of him, too.

“Aye, so? Wouldn’t be wrong for her to be around other dog hybrids, innit?”

Simon snorts humourlessly. Now Price is just taunting him―again. They both know the K9 hybrids; have seen them in action, during training, how they interact with each other. All males, all… bloody starving for action, for something to sink their canines into and rip apart.

Fuck, no! Over my cold, dead body!—is what he wants to say, though “Yes, sir.” is what he replies instead.

“Does she...” Price clears his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the papers and Simon fixes him with a glare, already aware of where the sentence is going. “Negative,” he chimes in curtly, straightening his shoulders as if to brace himself for an argument. “She doesn’t know.”

Price hums, meeting the familiar glare with his own stoic blues. “And you’re not planning to share it with her, I assume? Could be helpful.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, adding: “Eye-opening.”

Simon narrows his eyes at the older male who likes to slip into some father-figure role every chance he gets. “Yeah, right.” He averts his gaze, looks at his hands instead, still clutching your file. “Dunno why I should tell her–”

“Kinship,” Price blurts out, earning a rare, rumbling growl from the man sitting in front of his desk. “Jus’ saying.” The captain shrugs, picks up his cigar from the ashtray; the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

After having the talk with Price, Simon doesn’t steer towards home right away but instead roams the base in the eerie early hours of the night, going through his pack of smokes like a bag of cheap candy until his throat hurts and his coughing breaths fog up the chilly, moist air around him.

And Simon tries to ignore the strange ball of anxiety that has lodged itself hotly into the pit of his stomach when he makes his way back to the private apartment complex eventually—the picture of your sad and fearful face when he’d left you so abruptly is still fresh in his mind, only adding to the immense guilt he’s already feeling.

He finds himself standing stock-still in front of his apartment door for minutes on end like a bloody coward; hands clenching and unclenching at his sides—too empty, too fidgety for a highly-trained and experienced sniper like him and yet he can’t help how nervous he’s feeling. The weight of your file tucked into the inside of his jacket only adds to the tightness inside his chest.

Come on, Simon, you bloody fucking coward. She only knows you had a bloody wank, not that you were thinking of her! It’s natural. It’s nothing. It’s—It’s fucking disgusting! Pathetic! You’re pathetic, mate! Are you fucking daft? What the fuck were you thinking?!

Simon squeezes his eyes shut hard enough until he sees white dots dancing and fluttering in front of his closed eyelids. Holding his breath, he finally shoves the key into the lock and twists it on autopilot before pushing the door open at once.

He’s met with that familiar darkness and quiet he always finds whenever he returns home, though this time it makes him feel anxious rather than welcomed. It shouldn’t be like this, not anymore at least.

Slowly exhaling the breath he’s been holding, Simon closes the door with a quiet click before locking it and toeing his boots off as a precaution to prevent himself from making another quick escape if things get messy again. Coward, he keeps thinking like a mantra, coward coward coward coward—

Consumed by his own dark cloud of thoughts, it takes Simon a moment as he walks further into his apartment before he becomes aware of the soft steady whimpering and sniffles coming from his bedroom, and while his first instinct is to flee, he pushes through his initial reaction, he keeps his balaclava in place and shifts into his perfectly crafted Ghost mindset ―always facing his fears head on.

He’d hoped you would’ve simply gone to bed by now.

The sight that greets him makes his heart drop into a pit in his stomach, makes his breath stutter harshly and his quivering hands clench into tight fists to keep himself grounded.

You’re a wreck. Beautiful, illuminated by the soft yellowy glow of his bedside lamp, but still a mess. Hair as tousled as the fur on your dog ears, pulled flat against your skull in submission, eyes puffy, nose snotty. But you’re not simply sad, no. You’re obviously terrified, and it breaks his heart.

You weep harder when you notice his presence looming in the doorframe, desperately trying to muffle your sounds how he used to do as a child so his father wouldn’t hear him cry, and Simon’s chest heaves with another sharp inhale when you suddenly scramble onto your knees on his bed, dress rucking up to your waist, body trembling as you get into position, presenting your rear to him with your tail tucked between your thighs and your face pressed into the mattress in a way that would most certainly make him blush furiously in any other scenario than this one―until he realizes that you’re awaiting a punishment.

And suddenly, every uncomfortable emotion Simon is currently experiencing turns into something he knows well, something he can handle and function under―blazing wrath.

Not towards you, though. Never directed at you.

He’d gladly kill, no, tear anyone apart whoever caused you such harm and anguish.

With a sudden wave of confidence and a swift motion, Simon pulls off his mask and speaks your name so softly, it borders on a term of endearment that surprises even himself. You flinch as if he’d just smacked you, which makes him flinch in return, so he repeats your name even quieter, like a gentle caress, desperate to coax you out of your fearful state, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief, when your sweet ears do finally twitch and perk up some.

“Whot’re you doin’, lass?” he asks, not knowing what else to say before he takes a cautious step towards his bed. The fact that he must say his next words out loud make him feel like he gurgled acid in his mouth: “Christ, I’m–I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

That makes your tail relax the slightest bit, ears perking up more with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“I’d never hurt you.”

His hand trembles even harder as he reaches out to you tentatively and unsure, fingers hovering over the small of your back while his neck begins to flush and sweat and his heart nearly bursts out of his chest with anxious thuds. It’d be so much easier if you were in danger; perhaps drowning and he could simply pull you above surface―literally―instead of whatever it is he’s trying to achieve now.

He’s saved people before; dragged fellow comrades out of lines of fire and into safety by the scruff of their fatigues, barked words of encouragement at them to snap them out of their shock, or used his sheer size to intimidate some drunk blokes at a pub into submission before they could start any trouble, but this?

This is new. It’s raw and delicate. And utterly terrifying.

When his hand finally connects with your bare skin in what is supposed to be a gesture of comfort and reassurance, you gasp in unison with him, and he swiftly pulls his hand back as if burned.

It’s enough to make you peek at him, though, and Simon marks it down as a success.

“N-No?” You squeak, blinking up at him with those teary doe-eyes of yours. He gives a curt nod, a determined one. “Never.”

Your eyes narrow briefly and there is something in your look that makes Simon aware of a deeper cleverness and suspicion hidden behind your own perfectly crafted mask of bimbofication. You know as well as he does that there are more ways than physical to hurt someone, and he knows that you both know that he’s lying.

“Never intentionally.” He adds, and that he means with all his cold, dead heart.

There’s a tense pause before you finally release a long, shuddering breath and your body seems to melt into the mattress, limbs giving out underneath you while he takes a step backwards to give you both space.

“Sit.” Simon orders eventually, his voice yet firm and carrying a slight tone of reluctance that shows just how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation with you, though he knows it’s necessary at this point forward. “We need to talk,” he makes a vague gesture in the air, “about all o’this.”

Of course, you do as he says, hastily wiping at your puffy eyes and wet cheeks while he waits until you get settled on the bed. Simon remains standing, needing the right stance and high ground to feel in control of himself in this moment, nipping the urge to cradle you up in his arms and never letting go until you’re fine right in the bud.

“I read some of yer file an’… had a talk with Cap’n Price,” he begins, clearing his scratchy throat, “and now I have a couple of things we need to talk about, sweet’art. Think ya can work with me ‘ere?”

“O-Of course, Simon.” Your ears perk up fully as you nod obediently, eyes sparkling with renewed interest as if he just hung the moon for you, and it makes his chest feel all warm and tight in a way he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

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carrierindia · 7 months ago

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carriersingapore · 4 months ago

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malaysiacarrier · 1 year ago

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Tw: cussing, knives, inappropriate physical contact (if you squint)

Part 12

Words of Command - Part 13

Sunlight paints long shadows across the common room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Manhattan skyline, the buzz of the city barely reaching the tower’s polished quiet.

You're curled in a chair, legs tucked under you, reading something on a StarkPad. Bucky’s nearby—as always—standing against the wall like a sentinel, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation.

His long hair falls in his face until he brushes it back absently, metal fingers catching in a few strands.

He doesn’t talk much. But he watches you constantly. Not with suspicion, but with a kind of reverent curiosity.

Then, the quiet shatters.

Tony enters with a flourish, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still on indoors like he’s making a point.

“There she is,” he announces, motioning to you with a dramatic sweep. “Thumbelina, belle of the ball!”

You blink up at him, confused. “Im sorry ... the what now?”

He saunters closer, holding out his tablet like a game show host presenting a prize. “Charity gala. Tonight. Right here in the Tower. Black tie, expensive champagne, morally ambiguous billionaires and their equally suspicious foundations. Great press opportunity.”

You set your pad down slowly. “You want… me to go?”

“Please.” Tony smirks. “You’re more than a receptionist now, sweetheart. You’re RoboCop's handler-slash-life coach-slash-whatever-it-is you do that makes him not kill people on sight.”

Your face warms. “I’ve never been to anything like that…”

“Well, it’s time. Media’s gonna want to know the miracle behind Stark Tower’s latest murder puppet.” He gestures toward Bucky, who stiffens at the sound of his name but doesn’t move.

You shrink a little at the word “murder,” casting a glance toward Bucky. He hasn’t moved. His eyes remain locked. But you see the shift in his shoulders. The twitch of his jaw. As if that word bruises him.

“I’ve never…” you start, voice small. “I don’t really go to events like that.”

Tony waves it off. “You’ll be fine. Wear something sparkly. Nod politely. Drink the champagne. Smile at the cameras. And to make sure you don’t face-plant into the chocolate fountain—”

The elevator dings.

“—And since the Manchurian Candidate here can’t exactly walk a red carpet without someone yelling ‘assassin' ...we’ve arranged you a plus one.”

Agent Collins steps out in a dark suit, sans tie, mousey hair slightly tousled as if he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of being 'fancy'.

His smile is sheepish and nervous, and when his eyes land on you, it softens further, you recognize him from the bookshop.

“Hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I heard you might be going tonight. If you want someone to go with you… I’d be happy to help you through it.”

He’s trying to be casual. He fails.

You feel for the guy, he looks like he might faint. “That’s… kind. I mean, thank you. I—”

You never get to finish.

The air in the room changes.

Bucky turns like gravity shifted. Slow. Deliberate.

His eyes pin Collins in place—not rage, not overt aggression, but a quiet, intense scrutiny. His body language alters subtly—he steps closer to you, standing just slightly in front of your seat, a wall of steel and muscle.

His metal hand flexes at his side.

He says nothing at first.

Then, in that calm, low voice that chills and comforts all at once

“He doesn’t go with you.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, let’s dial it back. This isn’t the ‘glare him into submission’ hour.”

Bucky doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. “No.”

You reach up gently, your fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve. “Soldat…” you whisper.

He immediately lowers his gaze to you. “Doll,” he says softly, almost pleading. “I don’t… I don’t trust him. You don’t know what he’ll do. I should go.”

Tony sighs loudly, stepping between you and Bucky with a practiced “I’m so tired of this” look.

“No can do, Metallica. You’re the literal definition of ‘liability’ right now. You so much as breathe wrong and three headlines read ‘HYDRA Redux.’ Collins here is boring enough to be safe.”

Collins stiffens slightly, half-offended. “Thanks… I think?”

Tony spins back to you. “Look, Thumbelina, the world’s watching. You’re in the room for a reason now. And trust me—press love an underdog. Especially one who managed to tame the Tin Man with tea and bedtime stories.”

You glance over at Bucky. His eyes are on you now—dark and fixed, unreadable—but there’s a slight tilt to his head, like he’s trying to process what just happened.

Agent Collins blinks. “Hey, I was just doing what I was told—”

“She doesn’t need you.”

“Okay—easy there, big guy,” Tony says quickly, stepping between them with a hand out. “You can put the Terminator routine on ice. You're not going.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to Tony with glacial sharpness. The line of his jaw is granite now, his chest rising and falling like he’s restraining something feral.

“She’s not going with him,” he growls, the words clipped.

Tony scoffs. “And you’re not going at all, Terminator. You’re a walking PR nightmare. I’m pretty sure the invite didn’t say, ‘and bring your emotionally repressed Soviet war machine.’”

You step forward quickly, placing a hand on Bucky’s arm. You feel the muscle twitch under your palm—coiled like a spring.

“Soldat,” you whisper, soft but clear.

His breath catches.

His head turns slightly toward you. His expression changes—not softened, but sharpened with focus. That voice—that name—grounds him.

You keep your tone gentle. “it's ok ... Stand down... please”

It takes him a heartbeat.

Then he exhales through his nose and drops his shoulders a fraction. Still stiff. Still fuming. But he listens.

Because it’s you.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Christ. This guy’s like a rescue pit bull. Looks adorable curled up next to you, but God forbid someone tries to touch his leash.”

"Jesus Tony, can you go 5 minutes without a insult please" you say but there’s no real bite in your voice.

Agent Collins backs off a step, hands raised. “Hey, it’s fine. Really. I didn’t mean anything.”

Bucky’s metal fingers twitch again, but he keeps still, eyes locked on you like you're the only thing that matters.

And in his mind? You are.

You gently shift closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “It’s just one night,” you say quietly. “And you’ll be here when I get back.”

That flicker—fear maybe—crosses his face again. Subtle, buried. But you see it. He doesn’t know what he is without you in the room.

He leans down slightly, voice rough and low near your ear. “Doll, he'll keep you safe ?.”

"Yes, so will Steve, Tony and Nat, I promise only a few hours and I wont be alone" You place a hand against his chest. “Help me pick a dress. Please?”

It confuses him. But it also… distracts him. In a good way. He nods once, slow.

The bedroom Stark put you and Nat in is spacious but cold in its luxury—clean lines, chrome details.

You stand before a full-length mirror, barefoot in a silk robe, hair half-done and a knot of anxiety building in your stomach.

On the bed, four dresses are laid out like options in some bizarre game. All elegant. All a little intimidating.

Nat lounges at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a cocktail like she isn’t the deadliest woman in the room.

“You're overthinking it,” she says with a smirk, eyes watching your reflection. “You’ll look good in all of them.”

You chew your lip, tugging your robe tighter. “I don’t know how to be at something like this. What do I even talk about? What if I trip? What if I—”

Nat sets her glass down and rises in one graceful motion. “You walk, you smile, and you keep your answers vague and charming. If you don’t know something, just say it’s classified.”

You blink at her. “Classified ... does that actually work?”

She shrugs, amused. “People love mystery. You already have half of Stark Tower wondering what your deal is these days.”

Your voice softens. “And what about Bucky?”

Nat sighs, her tone changing. “He’s not going, you know that. Too many people, too much noise. But Steve and I will be there. If anyone gives you trouble—and if you wanna check on him just come back up”

“They won’t even see you coming,” Steve’s voice echoes from the hallway, followed by a low whistle. He steps into the doorway with a reassuring smile.

You turn as a low sound draws your attention to the far corner of the room.

Bucky.

He’s been standing silently for the last fifteen minutes. His arms folded, shoulder leaning into the wall. He’s tense—not in a dangerous way, but like someone wound too tight, every inch of him ready to react.

He watches as you hold up a sleek black gown against your body. Natasha raises a brow.

“You like this one, Soldat?”

His eyes narrow. “Too easy to move in.”

You frown. “I thought that was the point.”

He steps forward slowly, his boots heavy on the floor. “Don't want 'em looking at your throat in that"

You laugh under your breath. “It’s just a dress”

He doesn't smile.

You hold up a deep red gown next. Bucky stiffens slightly.

“That one’s…” he tilts his head, metal fingers flexing, eyes fixed on your reflection. “You look like they’d spill blood just to walk next to you in that.”

Natasha grins. “That’s a yes from the Soldier.”

You eyes widen as you look away. “I don’t want to look like—like that.”

He steps closer, dropping his voice, eyes locked on yours. “You look like you.”

You tilt your head. “That a problem?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches. The weight of his stare is tangible.

There’s a knock at the door. Steve answers, but Bucky’s already moved again—this time positioning himself just slightly in front of you.

Agent Collins stands awkwardly in the hallway, wearing a tailored suit and holding a single white flower in his hand. His smile falters the moment he sees Bucky.

“Evening,” he says, offering the flower to you. “Figured, uh, a boutonnière was too much.”

You take the flower gently. “Thanks, that’s sweet.”

Bucky doesn’t move, but his jaw tightens. “You bring a knife?”

Collins blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You’re taking her into a crowd. You better have something besides your weak smile.”

“Soldat,” you warn gently.

His head lowers, eyes meeting yours. “You sure about him, Doll?”

Collins clears his throat. “I’m literally government-trained. I think I can handle—”

Bucky moves so fast no one knows what he's planned until the click echoes through the air—Steve’s combat blade is suddenly off Steve's belt and balanced in Bucky’s metal hand, tip down.

"Jesus ... c'mon pal" Steve mutters, a look of shock on his face.

“Soldat, stop ... please?” you ask softly, stepping closer to him.

He hands the knife back to Steve with a quick flick and mutters, “I was gonna hurt him.”

Nat smirks. “He’s like a cat leaving dead mice on your porch. It’s his way of caring.”

You reach up and gently press your hand to Bucky’s chest again. “It'll be two hours ... three tops?”

His hand—flesh this time—comes up and briefly hovers near your arm. Not touching, but close. “Don’t like not being with you.”

Your breath catches. “I’ll be back up in a few hours, Promise.”

He nods, once.

Bucky stands at the window, arms folded, his silhouette sharp against the glass. Outside, Manhattan glows in gold and steel, a city that doesn’t feel like his.

Behind him, your scent still lingers faintly in the air—soft and clean, like soap and warmth.

Steve stands a few feet away, watching Bucky with the quiet worry of someone who knows exactly how close to the edge he is.

“You don’t have to pace,” Steve says gently, holding out a small device. “Here. It’s a comm.”

Bucky doesn’t turn around. “What is it?”

“You’ll be able to hear her. Talk to her too, if she calls you.” Steve’s voice is calm, measured. “Just keep it in your ear. No one else will hear. I figured… it might help.”

There’s a beat. Then Bucky turns, slow and cautious, like the offer itself might be a trap.

“You’ll stay with her?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. She’s downstairs with Collins.”

That name twists something sharp in Bucky’s chest, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He takes the earpiece in his gloved hand, inspecting it like a weapon.

“You left this for me?” he asks, voice low.

Steve lifts a box and sets it on the table—a plain, scuffed cardboard container. Inside, photos. Dog tags. Cracked gloves.

Bucky doesn’t open it. Just stares.

“I thought you might want it, when you’re ready,” Steve murmurs.

The room sparkles with chandeliers and white marble floors, filled with the sound of glasses clinking and superficial laughter. You feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin in your gown—elegant, beautiful, but too seen.

Your heels click softly against the floor as you cross to the balcony, a little overwhelmed by the crowds and the attention. Tony’s somewhere inside charming a senator.

Natasha is holding court near the bar, and Agent Collins is distracted in conversation with a UN rep.

Then Steve appears beside you, quietly, offering a warm smile.

“Hey. You doing okay?”

You nod, then glance out over the city. “Don’t like crowds"

He reaches into his pocket and hands you a earpiece.

“This is from Bucky. Or rather—for Bucky. I gave him one too. Just press this small button to talk. It’s a secure line. Just you and him.”

Your eyes widen. "Thank you Steve”

You slip the earpiece in, tucking it carefully behind your ear.

“Press it when you’re ready,” Steve says softly, giving your hand a squeeze. “and I’ll be close, if you need anything.”

You step farther onto the balcony, where it’s quieter, and press the small button with trembling fingers.

Your voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Soldat? Can you hear me?”

There’s a pause.

Then, low and rough in your ear

“Doll.”

You smile in relief, the sound of his voice grounding you. “I wanted to check on you. Steve said I could.”

His breath stutters. You can hear it. Like the soft shift of metal against fabric. “You’re too far.”

“I’m still in the building,” you reassure him. “Just downstairs. On the balcony.”

Another pause. “It’s loud.”

“I know. But you’re safe. I’m safe too.”

You can hear the tension unraveling slightly in his shoulders, the metal creaking faintly as he eases back into a chair—or maybe the floor. Wherever he feels most stable.

“Are you sitting down now?”

“Yeah. Got your voice in my ear.” His voice lowers, almost reverent. “Don’t need more than that.”

The night drags on, glittering and exhausting. You sip from a champagne flute more to keep your hands occupied than anything else.

Agent Collins has been at your side most of the night—at first polite, now looser, sloppier.

His shoulders crowd you against a marble pillar as the party noise swells.

His laugh is a little too loud now, his hand brushing your waist like he thinks he's charming.

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up into your throat.

His fingers graze your waist again as he leans in close. “You’re real pretty, Stark’s lucky to have you around…”

You flick your eyes around the room without moving your head.

Nat is at the far end, deep in conversation but watching like a hawk.

Steve, standing near the bar, catches your uncertain glance immediately, posture sharpening.

Sam and Bruce, talking by the grand staircase, straighten subtly, clocking your body language.

But before they can act—you remember the comm tucked into your ear.

You press it lightly, pretending to adjust your hair.

Your voice is feather-soft, almost hoping he can hear it.

“Soldat?”

The answer comes immediately, rough in your ear like gravel softened by velvet.

“Doll.”

Your knees almost buckle in relief.

“Everything’s good upstairs?” you murmur, trying to keep the conversation casual so Collins doesn’t notice.

“Window’s open. No threats.” You can hear the faint mechanical whirr of his metal fingers flexing. “You cold, Doll?”

You smile faintly despite the situation, the smallest tilt of your lips. “A little.”

He’s silent for a moment. You can almost picture him scowling out the window, body taut as a wire.

“Come back up soon. Don’t like you down there.”

His voice is protective but neutral. He doesn’t understand yet that Collins isn’t just background noise.

You shift slightly as Collins’ hand brushes your lower back again, too familiar.

“Soldat…” you whisper under your breath. “Can you just keep talking?”

“Should be with you, Doll,” he rumbles instantly.

You hum softly, pretending you’re still focused on the party as your friends start to converge on you discreetly.

“I wish you were down here with me,” you say, voice so small he almost misses it.

He doesn’t understand the context, not fully. But the possessiveness in his voice is pure instinct—bone-deep and absolute.

You barely shift, instinctively trying to shrink into yourself as Collins' hand drifts too far down your back, his voice low and slurred near your ear. The weight of it makes your skin crawl.

Then—

A shadow crosses the marble floor, boots thudding lightly.

Steve Rogers steps into the space with the ease of a man used to commanding a battlefield.

His hand claps firmly onto Collins' shoulder—friendly enough for appearances, firm enough to jar the agent back a step.

“Son,” Steve says with a smile so mild it’s almost chilling. “Think they need you back at SHEILD.”

Collins stammers something unintelligible, already paling under Steve’s calm, blank-eyed authority. He stumbles off, muttering apologies, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

Before you can catch your breath, Natasha is already there—silent and predatory, like a cat weaving around your side. "You okay?"

You nod once, shaky, feeling your chest finally start to loosen again.

From the far side of the room, Sam breaks away from his conversation with Bruce, eyeing you critically over the crowd.

He approaches with an easy, exaggerated swagger, a crooked grin playing across his lips.

“Well now,” he says loudly enough to draw curious glances but quiet enough to stay lighthearted. “Looks like somebody just survived the Hunger Games over here.”

You blink at him and a breathless laugh bubbles out of you.

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. He offers his hand like a courtly knight from some old movie.

“Come on, Short Stack. You owe me a dance after all that damsel-in-distress action.”

You stare at him, not sure if he’s joking or serious.

Natasha rolls her eyes affectionately and nudges you forward with a smirk.

Steve, standing sentry-like behind Sam, gives you a tiny nod.

The music is slow, dreamy, the kind that swells around the chandeliers and polishes everything with a golden glow.

Sam, despite his usual cocky bluster, is surprisingly gentle as he leads you into a simple sway, he's always been brotherly with you, not to the same extent as Tony but close.

“See? Not so bad,” he says, spinning you lightly so the skirt of your gown flares out. “I mean, you’re no Beyoncé, but you’ll do.”

You giggle, feeling calmer already.

In your ear, the comm crackles to life again.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice, low and questioning.

You lean your head subtly against Sam’s shoulder so no one sees you tapping the comm switch near your ear.

“I’m okay, Soldat,” you whisper. “Sam’s just… making me dance.”

There’s a beat of pure silence on Bucky’s end. You can feel the blank confusion.

“Making you…Is he hurting you, Doll?”

You nearly trip over Sam’s feet trying to smother a laugh.

Sam feels you stumble and grins.

“No, Soldat,” you murmur. “It’s… fun.”

Another heavy pause, like Bucky is trying to compute fun like it’s a foreign word.

Sam notices you biting your lip, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Is that your bionic-boy-toy on the line?” he teases, twirling you again.

“Tell him, you got moves.”

You roll your eyes at Sam, but can feel your cheeks burning even hotter.

“Soldat,” you whisper sweetly into the comm, “Sam says I've got moves."

On the other end, you hear the low, almost imperceptible grind of Bucky’s metal hand tightening into a fist.

“He talks to much,” Bucky growls, clipped and possessive.

Sam, oblivious to the full conversation, keeps up his chatter.

“You know, I know he's seen some shit, but that dude’s basically a cybernetic gorilla.” he says conversationally.

You almost miss a step again, laughing at Sam’s attempt at humor.

Bucky’s voice is still in your ear, low and territorial.

“Say the word Doll, I'll come get you"

"It's ok, Soldat, Im coming home” you whisper—your words settle something volatile inside him.

Sam dips you theatrically just as the song ends, making you squeal.

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