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danysdaughter · 26 days ago

Note

(first off, i adored come home to me so much)

can u pls do one where bucky and the reader knew each other before the hydra thing, but they both ended up in hydra's clutches, and instead of completely dehumanizing the two, zola programmed them to be some form of ally/handler situation, so when they both break out of hydra's clutches it gets very angsty and they argue/hate each other because they don't know if their bond was them or hydra-made. and then the ending's up to you.

no srsly, ur writing is literal art. its like fantastic in ways i cant describe.

i can die happy if u'll take this idea.

did I go a bit overboard? yes. do i have any regrets? no. I really tried to make it as you described, babe, hope you enjoy 💕

The Soldier and The Vixen

pairing | 40s!bucky x fem!reader & winter!soldier x fem!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x reader

word count | 14k words

summary | Once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by Hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred.

Now free but haunted, they struggle to untangle love from programming, grief from guilt, and healing from the wreckage of who they used to be

tags | ANGST! ANGST! and more ANGST! graphic violence, torture, emotional trauma, brainwashing, PTSD, abuse, trauma bonding, psychological manipulation, non-consensual experimentation, abuse, power imbalance, gore, unhealthy attachment, angst/no comfort, miscommunication, mutual destruction (a bit too much?)

a/n | wowww, I am not gonna lie, I actually cried while writing this, also this fic explores dark themes with little to no comfort (we die like men)

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Village Outskirts, France, 1945

The earth was damp beneath your stomach. Rain must’ve come through earlier — you could smell it in the mud, the churned-up grass, the faint rot of old stone and war.

Through your scope, you watched two Hydra guards lounging outside a crumbling checkpoint. They were smoking and laughing about something in German, distracted, backs too often to each other. Sloppy.

You pressed the button on your radio once, holding it close to your mouth. “Movement. Two guards at the eastern entry. Smoking. Lazy. Easy targets.”

There was a short pause.

Then Bucky’s voice crackled through, “Fox, you always know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

You almost smiled. Almost, “Only the ones who talk less than they shoot, Sarge.”

A muffled laugh came through the line. Morita muttered something you didn't quite catch, probably teasing Bucky again. He was an easy target.

“You got him good,” Dum Dum grinned from somewhere behind you.

Steve’s voice cut in — level, steady. “Enough chatter. Fox, take the lead. We move on your signal.”

But you were already moving.

You didn't need backup for this. The hill rolled down into a slope that gave you full cover, and you slipped down it like water over rock. Quiet. Efficient. Knife drawn. You counted your steps with your breath. When the first guard turned his back, you were already there.

One sharp jab under the ribs. Drag him behind a crate.

The second didn't even turn in time.

Ten seconds. Two bodies. No gunfire.

You tapped your radio again.

“Checkpoint clear.”

As you were climbing back up toward the rendezvous, Bucky was waiting at the top of the ridge, crouched behind a low wall. He glanced at you, smirking.

“Miss me?”

You scoffed, brushing dirt from your sleeves. “I was gone ninety seconds.”

“That’s longer than I like you being out of sight.”

You arched a brow. “Is that concern, Sergeant Barnes?”

“It’s tactical observation, doll.”

There it was — the nickname again. You didn't bite. Bucky flirted with anything that had a skirt, and you were the only girl on the team. You’d learned not to take him seriously.

Behind you, Gabe whispered over the comm, “God, just kiss already.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Bucky turned sharply and pretended to check his rifle. He didn't say another word. You frowned, completely missing the flush rising in his cheeks.

You shook your head, then returned to the task. The rest of the unit fellin. You walked point. Bucky took his usual position at your flank, and the rest of the squad fell into formation like a well-oiled machine.

The village ahead was half-destroyed from past shelling. Stone walls broken down to the foundation. Trees blackened by fire. The kind of place where shadows hid snipers and death sat behind every door.

You spotted it first — a tripwire buried in the dirt, nearly invisible. You paused, raised your fist to halt the line, then rerouted them five feet to the left.

Dum Dum muttered, “You’ve got eyes like a hawk.”

“I’ve got better things to do than walk into obvious traps,” you muttered back.

You didn't make it twenty feet past the tripwire before you heard the explosion — further down, where another route would’ve taken you.

“Hydra knows we’re here,” you said into the radio. “Get to cover. Rooftops—snipers at twelve o’clock.”

The first shot cut through the air a moment later.

You hit the ground, narrowly dodging the bullet. Dust sprayed over your face. A hand grabbed your vest — yanked you behind a broken column.

Bucky.

He positioned himself between you and the direction the shot came from, body tense.

“I had it under control,” you whispered.

He didn't even blink. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”

He was still too close. Too steady. His eyes flickered to you, just for a second, like he was making sure you were still in one piece. You didn't notice. You never noticed.

You moved past him before he could say anything else.

Firefight erupted in bursts. The unit scattered into cover, returning fire. You darted through the alleys, knife flashing when you came across two patrols rounding the corner. Your blade slipped beneath ribs and across throats. You didn't flinch. You’ve done worse.

Bucky caught your eye across the street — both of you ducked behind separate walls. You tilted your head. He nodded once. You moved again, clearing a side stairwell while he took the main door.

“Tech’s inside that chapel,” Steve said over the comm. “Fox, Bucky, with me.”

You kicked the door open first. Bucky was right behind you.

He tossed a flash grenade — you shielded your eyes, waiting for the burst, and swept left as soon as it cleared. Two Hydra agents — you took one in the leg, knocked his rifle away, finished it with your knife. The second one came at you with a baton, but Bucky had already taken him down with a clean shot to the chest.

When it was over, the silence was louder than the fight.

The tech was here — something glowing with an unnatural blue pulse. You didn't go near it.

You turned to Bucky instead, breathless. Dust in your hair. Blood on your sleeve.

“Think this’ll finally get me a promotion?”

He was looking at you differently. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Maybe it was the way the light hit your face. Maybe it was the fact you were both still alive.

“You deserve a medal, Fox.”

You grinned, wiping blood from your cheek.

“Only if it’s chocolate.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in the French Countryside, 1945

The mission had been hell, but tonight, the world was quiet.

The campfire crackled in the middle of a half-collapsed barn, broken beams overhead like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Outside, wind stirred through wheat fields. Inside, there was warmth — not from the fire, but from the laughter.

You sat with your knees pulled up, perched on an overturned crate. Your boots were still muddy. Blood on your sleeve had dried to a dark rust. Dum Dum had found a bottle of something vaguely alcoholic, and it’d been passed around in uneven sips.

Morita was telling a story — probably the fifth exaggerated war tale of the night — gesturing wildly with his hands.

“…and then this guy,” he pointed at Bucky with a dramatic flair, “says, ‘I got this,’ climbs onto the back of the Hydra truck barefoot, like a damn lunatic—”

“I didn’t think they’d be hot-wiring it in motion!” Bucky cut in defensively.

“That’s not even the dumbest part,” Gabe added, smirking. “The dumbest part is that he forgot the explosives.”

Laughter broke out around the fire. Bucky groaned and dropped his head back with a loud, sarcastic, “Thanks, fellas.”

You tried to hold in a laugh — and failed. He shot you a look, mock offended.

“You too, Fox?”

You shrugged, biting down on your grin. “Well. I was the one who had to double back and grab the damn charges.”

“She ran through enemy fire like it was a morning jog,” Steve added with a small, proud shake of his head.

Bucky nudged your shoulder with his. “Guess I owe you another one.”

“You’re keeping score now?” you asked, dryly.

He smirked. “Only when I’m losing.”

The fire cracked again, glowing warm across the faces of your brothers-in-arms. Everyone relaxed in a way they rarely could — backs against crates and sandbags, boots kicked off, dog tags clinking faintly as they leaned into one another’s stories.

Gabe tilted his head toward you, half-grinning. “Alright, Fox. What about you?”

You blinked. “What about me?”

“If you weren’t doing all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the barn. “If you weren’t dodging bullets and saving our sorry asses, what would you be doing?”

Immediately, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Cackling broke out around you. Morita leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, come on.”

“Not happening,” you said, waving them off.

“You gotta tell us now,” said Dum Dum. “That reaction alone just guaranteed it’s embarrassing.”

Bucky grinned beside you. “C’mon, Fox. We tell you our secrets. Like how Morita’s terrified of goats—”

“I am not—”

“—and how Dum Dum can’t wink without sneezing—”

“It’s a medical issue—”

“—so it’s only fair we get yours.”

You sighed, shaking your head slowly. “Fine. But if any of you ever breathe a word of this outside this barn, I will personally replace your shaving cream with gun grease.”

They leaned in, like children around a ghost story.

You looked into the fire, picking at the fraying seam of your glove. Then.

“I used to want to be a singer.”

Silence.

Then, chaos.

“No shit?”

“What kind?”

“Like on stage?”

“Do you have a stage name? Wait—please tell me it was Foxy somethin’—”

You groaned again, instantly regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

“It was just something I wanted when I was a kid,” you muttered. “Doesn’t mean I was any good.”

“But like, jazz club singer?” Dum Dum asked. “Torch songs?”

You didn’t answer. The heat in your cheeks did.

And then Gabe — bless him — decided to chime in, puffing his chest out like he had the perfect line.

“I mean… I just can’t picture you doing something that… you know. Girly.”

You turned your head toward him, slow and sharp.

“What?”

The fire seemed to go still.

Gabe blinked. “No—I mean—just like, you’re so good at, you know. The not-girly stuff. Like, killing people—uh—”

You raised a brow, voice flat. “So I’m in the military and that means I’m not allowed to be girly?”

Gabe opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No! That’s not—I didn’t mean—like, you can, obviously—”

The others had lost it by now. Bucky had his head buried in his arm, shaking with silent laughter. Morita was wheezing. Dum Dum was crying.

You nodded slowly, arms crossed. “Uh huh. That all you got?”

Gabe looked around like someone might save him. No one did.

“I just meant… you seem so… sharp! And you don’t… I mean you never… like, dresses—not that I wouldn’t like if you wore one—not that you need to—”

“Dig up, Gabe,” Bucky offered helpfully.

You shook your head and pointed your canteen at Gabe like a knife. “One more word and I swear I will make you run laps in full gear tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Gabe said, finally surrendering to his embarrassment. “Thank you for your service.”

Once the laughter died down, Dum Dum leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

“Alright, Fox. Now sing us something.”

You stared at him.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just a few notes—”

“You’d have to drug me.”

“Well,” Bucky said, elbowing you gently, “I do still have some morphine left in my pack—”

You shoved his arm away with a scoff, but couldn’t help the flicker of a smile.

And as the boys erupted into more teasing, and Gabe tried to crawl under a tarp in embarrassment, you leaned back against the crate, warmed more by the people around you than the fire. You didn’t sing, not that night. But Bucky stayed next to you, quietly.

And he didn’t laugh when you said you used to want to sing.

He just looked at you like he really wanted to hear it.

────────────────────────

Moments After Intercepting Zola's Train— Alpine Forest Edge, 1945

The wind had sharp teeth.

It howled between the trees like it was mourning too. Snow swept across the ground in restless swirls, half-covering the train tracks already. Everything was white and still and wrong.

The wreckage lay behind you, steel twisted into the mountainside, black smoke curling up into the gray sky. Arnim Zola had been secured. Hydra’s tech recovered. It was supposed to be a win.

But Bucky had fallen.

The team stood in the brittle silence of it. Steve was turned half away, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. Morita and Dum Dum said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground. Gabe was pacing, too angry to stop moving, like stillness would make it real.

You stood near the edge of the embankment, where it dropped into a forest of pine and snow. Your lungs burned with cold, but you kept staring down, searching the white for anything — a shape, a shadow, hope.

Finally, you squared your shoulders.

“Cap.”

Steve didn’t answer at first. You stepped closer, louder now.

“Steve.”

His eyes flicked to you, red-rimmed and hollow. “What?”

“I want permission to go after him.”

Silence.

Then a bitter breath of disbelief. “Fox…”

“You know I’m the best tracker we’ve got,” you said, tone steady, firm. “I know how to read the land. If anyone can follow his path through that fall, it’s me.”

“There’s no way he—” Steve cut himself off. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “No one survives a drop like that. And it’s too dangerous. You can’t go alone.”

“I have to go alone,” you insisted. “A squad would slow me down. I’ll move faster on my own, quieter. Look—”

You crouched down in the snow and started sketching with your glove. “That ridge curves around. It’s a drop, yes, but if he hit snow, or an outcrop, or even slid—”

“Even if by some miracle he lived,” Steve said quietly, “he wouldn’t last long. Not in that cold. Not with the injuries he’d have.”

You stood again, breath quickening with urgency. “If he’s alive, he’s got a chance—but not if I waste time arguing.”

“Fox—”

“If I don’t, he dies. Hypothermia will set in fast — minutes, if he’s bleeding. I might not have long, but I might still have enough time. You give me two days. Just two. If he’s alive, I’ll bring him in. If he’s not…” your voice faltered, just for a second, “then I’ll bring his body home.”

No one spoke. The wind did.

You kept your eyes locked on Steve. Pleading without begging. Heart breaking but hands steady.

“I’ve gone on solo missions before. You know I can handle it. The Colonel trained me for it.”

His jaw flexed again. You could see the battle behind his eyes. Orders versus loyalty. Logic versus love.

And then his shoulders dropped.

“Two days,” he said hoarsely.

Relief hit you like a wave. You gave a quick nod, already reaching for your gear.

But Steve stepped closer, and his voice lowered — gentler, just for you.

“Keep safe out there… alright?” he said softly. “Seriously. And if you need backup, you radio. Doesn’t matter what time. Doesn’t matter what. I’ll come running.”

You paused, swallowing hard. The cold stung your eyes, but you didn’t blink.

“Understood, Captain.”

Steve looked at you for a long moment. Then, softer still — your name. Not your call sign.

“Come back.”

You stood at attention, gave a crisp salute.

“I will.”

Then you turned, and vanished into the snow.

────────────────────────

The snow had swallowed your tracks hours ago.

You ran anyway — boots crushing down through the icy crust of the forest floor, slipping sometimes, catching yourself hard against trees. Your lungs burned with each breath, white puffs turning sharp in the frozen air. You followed the slope of the mountain where the train had disappeared from sight — zig-zagging across ridges, checking every ravine, every indentation in the powder.

It was somewhere along a narrow ledge above a frozen stream that you saw it — the faint suggestion of disturbed snow, barely visible unless you were looking for it. A jagged slide mark. Something heavy had fallen.

Your heart slammed in your chest as you scrambled down the embankment, knees hitting ice, hands out to brace yourself. You moved quick, scanning, scanning—

Then you saw red.

You froze.

Blood in the snow — bright, brilliant, and far too much of it.

It streaked in uneven drags from the edge of a rock face down into the brush, and then—

Your breath caught.

Bucky.

He lay sprawled half on his side, unmoving. Snow clung to his lashes, his uniform soaked through. His left arm — what was left of it — hung at an unnatural angle, nearly torn from the shoulder. His mouth was parted like he’d tried to call out and never finished the sound. Blood had soaked the snow beneath him dark and wide.

You were moving before your brain caught up.

“Sarge?” you gasped, skidding to your knees in the snow beside him. “Sarge— Bucky—Bucky, come on—”

Your gloved fingers hovered over him for a split second, terrified to touch, terrified he’d be cold—

But his chest moved.

Faint. Shallow.

You pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, heart pounding as you felt it—

thud.

...thud.

Faint, but there.

Your voice broke with urgency. “Hang on, James. I’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re not gone—”

You dropped your pack, already pulling out your emergency wrap, trying to stem the bleeding. His skin was ice. His lips had gone pale blue. You leaned over him, shielding him from the wind, fumbling for your radio, trying to think past the adrenaline crashing like waves—

Crunch.

Snow behind you shifted.

You didn’t hesitate — one leg snapped out behind you hard, boot slamming into the weight approaching fast from your blind spot. You felt it connect — a grunt, a body collapsing in the snow.

You twisted, low and fast, grabbing your knife from your belt, coming up just in time to block the arm of a Hydra soldier lunging in. Steel clanged against steel. You shoved back with everything you had, pushing the fight away from Bucky’s broken form.

You ducked a strike, twisted the knife out of his hand, and drove your elbow into his face—

But then another set of boots crunched through the trees.

A second soldier tackled you from the side.

You hit the ground hard — snow exploding under you, your knife skidding out of reach. You twisted, managed to throw him off just long enough to scramble back toward Bucky—

Only for a third shadow to emerge from the trees. Then a fourth.

You swung out with your arm, striking one across the temple, disarming another. You were fast—a blur of movement, rage, and desperation—but even you had limits.

A rifle butt slammed into your ribs. You doubled over. Hands grabbed at you. You kicked out, catching one in the knee—

But something cracked against the side of your head.

A sharp, searing light burst across your vision— And then nothing.

Darkness took you.

────────────────────────

Hydra Facility — Undisclosed Location

Consciousness came back like drowning in slow motion.

First, the cold. It bit deep into your skin, sharp and metallic. Then, the ache — deep in your limbs, like your bones were filled with lead. And then the restraints.

Metal bands across your wrists and ankles. Another across your chest. Your head lolled to the side, sluggish from whatever they’d pumped into you — sedatives, maybe. Or worse. You blinked against the blinding fluorescence above, and the white ceiling bled into sterile silver walls.

Then you heard it.

A scream.

Your pulse lurched.

It wasn’t just pain. It was agony. The kind of sound that tore through a person’s throat, primal and ragged. The kind of scream that told you someone was being unmade.

Your neck turned slowly — every muscle protesting — and you saw him.

Bucky.

His body was arched against the restraints on a second slab just feet away from yours, eyes wide, back bowed, mouth open in a raw, broken scream.

There were wires threaded into his temples. Metal rods at his temples, at the base of his skull. Tubes and cables running into his chest. You couldn’t see what they were pumping into him — only that whatever it was, it was wrong.

“Bucky!” your voice cracked out of your throat, hoarse and half-broken. “James—!”

No response. He didn’t hear you. Or he couldn’t. His eyes didn’t see anything.

“Stop it!” you screamed at them instead. Your voice echoed against cold steel walls. “STOP—he’s not a test subject, you bastards, HE’S A PERSON—”

You thrashed, muscles seizing against the restraints, lungs burning, tears springing from your eyes without your permission.

Across the room, a man in a white coat calmly noted something on a clipboard.

A technician adjusted a dial.

Bucky screamed again — hoarse now. And then it broke off into choking. You watched his body convulse against the slab, chest heaving. His face twisted in confusion, pain, terror—like he didn’t know who he was anymore.

You didn’t care what they were doing to you. You didn’t care if your arms were bound or if the sedatives were still in your bloodstream.

You fought.

You fought like hell.

“Let him go!” you shouted, voice nearly gone now. “Let him go, you motherfuckers!”

Someone finally turned toward you — a man with cold eyes behind round spectacles. Calm. Curious.

Zola.

He stepped closer, glancing at your vitals on a nearby monitor. “Interesting,” he murmured in a thick accent, adjusting his gloves. “She is already… aware. So soon.”

“I will kill you,” you spat. “I swear to God—”

“Oh,” Zola said gently, “I think you will be quite useful to each other.”

And then the world tilted again.

Another needle. Another rush of cold in your veins. And the lights above you fractured into fragments.

The last thing you heard before the blackness swallowed you whole… was Bucky sobbing like a child.

────────────────────────

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It could’ve been days. Weeks. Months. You didn’t know.

All you knew was the burn.

Your veins felt like they were filled with acid — crawling fire under your skin, surging in waves that left your limbs trembling, your fingers twitching, your pulse racing like it was trying to outrun death itself. You’d stopped asking what they were putting in you. Every time they came near, you tensed out of instinct. But the sedation would hit before you could do anything.

They never said what it was.

You didn’t know it was the serum.

You only knew that afterward, your body would spasm uncontrollably. Your mind would short-circuit. You’d hear voices that weren’t there. Remember things that hadn’t happened. Feel your strength surge… and then vanish.

But worse than the pain… was him.

Bucky hadn’t spoken in days.

Maybe longer.

He lay still on the other slab, eyes open but unseeing, lips dry and cracked. His breathing was shallow. His face had gone hollow, sunken in the cheeks and under the eyes — like something was draining him from the inside out. They didn’t sedate him anymore. They didn’t need to. Whatever they'd done had left him... vacant.

His new arm — if you could even call it that — sat like a slab of cold iron where his left one had been. Crude stitches and blackened bruises ringed the place it had been fused to bone and muscle. You could see the puckered scars, raw and inflamed, where metal met skin. It looked like it hurt just to exist.

You doubted he could even lift it.

And yet… they’d called it a success.

Whatever that meant.

Now, finally — mercifully — the room had gone still. No needles. No voices over the intercom. No restraints being tightened. Just… stillness.

A few minutes. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Your throat was dry. Your body, sore and exhausted. But you shifted — weakly — on the slab beside him, head tilting just enough to face him. The cold of the metal table seeped into your bones, but you ignored it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, voice rasping out like broken glass. “Sarge… can you hear me?”

He didn’t move. His eyes stared at the ceiling, unfocused.

You didn’t care.

You turned more toward him, trembling slightly as your fingers strained to reach across the few inches of space. You couldn’t touch him — the restraints didn’t let you — but you reached anyway, as if the effort alone could bridge the gap.

“I’m gonna get us out of here,” you murmured, voice cracking. “I swear. You’re not gonna die in here. I won’t let them take you like this.”

Silence.

You kept talking. You had to.

“You remember the fire escape outside our barracks? That stupid thing that barely held two people? You used to sneak up there and fall asleep. Said it was the only place quiet enough to think.”

Your throat tightened.

“You promised me, one day, you’d go back to Brooklyn. Fix that bike of yours. Open a little garage. Said I could come help out if I wanted to. You remember that?”

No response.

You felt your heart break, slow and jagged, like a fault line cracking open.

“Please, Bucky… just—just look at me. Just one sign. I need to know you’re still in there. I need you.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “You saved me. You always did. So let me do it now. Let me get us out. Just hang on. Please.”

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t have the water left in your body to spare. Just dry eyes, raw throat, and a heart held together by frayed sinew and willpower.

Your arm shook from the strain of keeping it extended.

And still, you kept reaching.

Even when he didn’t move.

Even when the silence stretched so long it pressed on your ribs like weight.

Even when your vision started to dim again from the drugs.

“I’m here, Sarge,” you breathed, barely audible now. “You’re not alone.”

The only sound was the soft hiss of the air vents above. The low electric hum from the lights. And the faint, hollow echo of two hearts still beating.

One stronger than the other.

But still alive.

────────────────────────

Hydra Conditioning Chambers – Months Later

You’d lost track of how many times they brought you in.

They stopped asking questions. Stopped pretending it was about compliance. This wasn’t interrogation anymore. It was reshaping.

It started with pain. Always pain. Electric currents through your skull, your spine, the base of your neck. Your nerves became war zones. Your teeth cracked from clenching. You screamed until your throat was raw, until the air itself tasted like metal and blood.

They were trying to make you forget. Rewire your instincts. Strip you of anything you and replace it with something Hydra. Something obedient.

Something empty.

It worked on Bucky.

At first, he resisted. He screamed. Fought. Raged.

But you saw the moment it broke him. You heard it — the silence that followed a round of electroshock so violent it left him convulsing, slack-jawed, frothing at the mouth. His eyes had gone glassy. His lips trembled, whispering things in Russian that made no sense to him — things they had fed into his brain on repeat. Words he didn’t understand but couldn’t stop.

“Зимний Солдат.”

Winter Soldier.

You heard the way they said it. Like it was sacred. Like it was done.

And you—

You were next.

But you wouldn’t break.

Not like him.

You bit down so hard during one session your molar cracked. They doubled the voltage. You passed out and woke up vomiting, body convulsing on the floor, your restraints slick with blood from split wrists. You couldn’t tell if the screaming in your head was yours or theirs.

Still, they failed.

Still, they couldn’t crack you.

You were fire in frostbite. And it drove them mad.

“Too resilient,” one of the German doctors muttered in frustration as he scribbled notes on a clipboard, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Willful,” Zola corrected. “It’s in her nature. A Colonel's daughter. Born to take orders, yet somehow defies.”

“And yet she will yield,” said the Russian operative beside them, arms folded, watching you with reptilian calm. “We will make her. The лисица will hunt for us in time.”

Vixen, they called you.

The name they gave your file: sleek, lethal, deceptive. Born to track. Built to seduce and eliminate. A predator with a soft face.

You were their ghost soldier. Their shadow. Their whisper in the dark.

But only if they broke you first.

That session, they left you strapped to the chair, soaked in your own sweat and blood, nerves twitching like wires cut loose. Alone. Left to steep in the pain. Like Bucky had been.

You lifted your head an inch. Just enough to glance across the room.

He was there.

Sitting still.

Not restrained. Just… motionless. Eyes forward. Breathing shallow.

He didn’t even look at you anymore.

They had him.

And you were next.

Your throat burned. Your eyes felt too dry to cry. You weren’t sure your vocal cords worked. But still, out of nowhere — out of a deep, primitive place inside you that remembered being human — you sang.

Softly. Shakily. Croaky and cracked.

“I’ll be seeing you… in all the old familiar places…”

“…that this heart of mine embraces… all day through.”

It wasn’t a melody anymore. Just broken notes wrapped around splinters of memory.

Home. Whiskey laughs. Bucky smiling sideways when you called him “Sarge.” Steve saluting you for the first time. Dum Dum tipping his hat. Warm fires. Rations shared.

“In that small café… the park across the way…”

Your voice gave out halfway through.

But you kept whispering the words. Just for you. Just to remember.

Because even if they hollowed you out — rewired you, broke you — they couldn’t take that. Not all the way. Not yet.

You were still Fox. Somewhere under the blood and static and numbness.

You had to be.

Because if you weren’t… who would save him?

Years Later

They became Hydra’s ghosts. Whispers in the dark. Proof that monsters weren’t born — they were made.

When the war ended, and the world began to stitch itself back together, Hydra burrowed deeper. Quieter. Smarter. And in the vaults of ice and concrete beneath their hidden facilities, they began sculpting legends.

One of steel.

One of silk.

He was not subtle.

Where silence was needed, he brought screams.

Where compromise existed, he crushed it.

The Winter Soldier was Hydra’s enforcer, the blade they drove into the heart of history. He appeared across decades like a fracture — impossible to trace, impossible to stop. A phantom draped in shadow, eyes like glacier glass, grip like a bear trap.

He assassinated presidents. Ministers. Scientists. He sabotaged governments with the pull of a trigger. One shot — a bullet through a man’s skull, or through the spine of a nation’s future.

His missions were clean. Untraceable.

No witnesses. No evidence.

Only death.

Hydra rewired him with electroshock and Russian syllables. They hollowed out James Buchanan Barnes and replaced him with a weapon that did not question orders, did not feel guilt, did not hesitate. A ghost of a man with a new metal arm and no memory of mercy.

Cryogenic stasis kept him sharp, young, lethal. He lived in decades like they were days. A century’s worth of kill orders etched into his hands.

He never left survivors.

Unless Hydra told him to.

If the Soldier was Hydra’s hammer, the Vixen was their scalpel.

She bled behind enemy lines in silence, slipping through borders and barricades like a breath. She did not wear fear on her face. She did not leave blood in her wake — only secrets gutted open and missions left in ruin.

They called her лисица, the vixen, because she was cunning. Patient. Uncatchable. A whisper with teeth.

But it wasn’t always about killing.

She was Hydra’s infiltrator, a master of mimicry and seduction, of dismantling men without lifting a weapon. Where the Soldier brought force, she brought erosion — crumbling fortresses from within.

And to Hydra, she was a triumph of psychological warfare — what the Red Room would later attempt to replicate in their Widows. But she came first. She was the original phantom siren.

They used her face. Her softness. Her voice — when she remembered to use it — like a lullaby over a knife's edge. Where the Soldier was brute force, the Vixen was infiltration. Persuasion. Seduction when required, annihilation when ordered.

Her body was honed to perfection. Her mind, conditioned for silence and obedience — and yet, it never bent as cleanly as they wanted.

Not completely.

At first, it was small things.

Moments of hesitation. A flicker of something behind her eyes. The way her hands trembled after some kills — not with fear, but memory. Recognition.

She began humming to herself between assignments. Little songs from another life. She’d sit still in her stasis chamber before freezing, humming fragments of a tune they never taught her.

“We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when…”

There were reports she disobeyed a kill order once. Let a target live because he had no evil in his eyes. They punished her for it. Re-conditioned her. Electroshock, isolation, more injections — but the slip had happened, and Hydra never trusted her fully again.

They realized she wasn’t like him.

The Soldier could be overwritten.

The Vixen resisted.

Not in screams or defiance. But in subtle, terrifying cracks.

Hydra scientists began to fear her — not for her violence, but her unpredictability. Her lingering humanity. That sliver of soul they couldn’t seem to carve out.

So they adjusted her protocol.

Where the Winter Soldier was deployed like a machine, again and again, the Vixen was locked away.

Preserved in cryo between missions. Thawed only when absolutely necessary. Only when no one else could do the job.

Only when they were desperate enough to risk the memories bleeding through.

They didn’t trust the leash they’d put on her. They only trusted the chain they wrapped around her throat.

And the serum? The serum wasn’t meant for kindness. It didn’t amplify goodness or nobility.

It magnified potential.

And under Hydra’s hands, that meant war.

The Winter Soldier's muscles knit themselves tighter. Bone density quadrupled. His reflexes reached inhuman speeds. Pain dulled. Healing accelerated. A shot to the chest became a stumble. A shattered femur became a limp for a few hours.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

The serum made sure of that.

And when paired with the metal arm — the marvel of Soviet-German engineering — the Winter Soldier became a force no one could match. Stronger than ten men. Faster than bullets. Unbreakable.

A walking extinction event.

He wasn’t meant to survive.

He was meant to erase.

The Vixen, however… she changed differently.

Hydra never expected the serum to work the same way. She was smaller. Lighter. Delicate in the ways he was brutal. But she was no less a weapon — just… sharper. More precise.

The serum didn’t bulk her up. It refined her.

Her muscles compacted into long, lean coils of strength. She moved like liquid shadow. Fast enough to vanish between blinks. Quiet enough that her footsteps could barely be heard on glass.

But it was her senses that changed the most.

Hydra didn’t know what to make of it at first — the way she would flinch at footsteps down the hall before they ever echoed. She could hear things miles away — the tick of rifle safety on a distant rooftop, the soft breath of a man in a hidden hallway. She could hear heartbeats. Lies. The subtle shift in someone's pulse when they spoke told her more than any interrogation.

They tested her. Over and over.

She could feel sweat in the air.

Taste adrenaline on a man’s breath.

Smelled metal, blood, gunpowder — emotions. Fear had a scent. Anger tasted like copper.

Her eyes could track the fall of a snowflake mid-battle. Her balance was inhuman. Her touch, so precise she could disarm a man without waking him.

Hydra called it a miracle. Zola called it evolution.

She was a new breed of operative — not just fast and strong, but impossibly aware. And that terrified them.

Because if she chose to disobey, to turn on them…

Even the Winter Soldier could not stop her.

They never told her she could overpower him.

They couldn’t risk it.

So instead, they bound her.

Psychologically. Physically. Systematically.

They paired her to the Soldier — not as an equal. As a subordinate. A tool under his control.

Her handler.

Her shadow.

Her leash.

When she failed a mission, when she hesitated, when she lingered too long near a song or a memory — he was the one they sent.

No guards. No scientists.

Just the Winter Soldier.

He’d enter the chamber where she sat — barefoot, arms folded over her knees, breath slow. She never ran. She never fought. Not unless she wanted it to be worse.

And he would carry out the punishment.

His face never changed.

His hands never trembled.

His eyes never closed.

Sometimes it was his fists.

Sometimes it was the silence between them — worse than any bruise.

They trained her to submit to him on instinct. A single word in Russian, a glance, a subtle shift of his body — she would obey.

But it wasn’t fear.

It was conditioning.

They had threaded her loyalty into his silhouette. Turned the man who once bled beside her into a god she knelt for.

The only one who could touch her.

The only one she responded to.

────────────────────────

Hydra’s underground compound groaned with the mechanical cold of concrete and fluorescent hum. Sterile, sharp. The air reeked of antiseptic and gun oil — a scent soaked into every slab of metal, every breath pulled through narrow lungs.

They’d returned just an hour ago from an operation in Prague.

The Soldier had gone first, dragged down the corridor by two guards, silent and compliant. They always processed him first — quick, efficient. He was easy. Slumped shoulders. Dull gaze. Programmed silence. The memory wipe rarely took more than ten minutes anymore.

But she had lingered.

Stripped of her weapons. Her boots left sticky with blood. Hands twitching at her sides like she didn’t trust they were done. Her pupils hadn’t shrunk. Her breathing hadn’t calmed. She stared at the floor like it was moving beneath her.

And when they reached for her—

When gloved hands touched her arm—

She snapped.

No scream. No warning.

The first man’s throat tore open before the others knew her fingers had moved. His blood sprayed up her face — red mist over pale skin — and she didn’t stop to see him fall. She pivoted. Fast. Precise.

A whirlwind of fists and sharp bone and snarled breath. The second scientist’s head slammed into the wall with a crack, spine folded in an unnatural twist as he slumped.

Then the alarms began.

Boots thudded down the hall. Gunfire stuttered from two directions — panicked, wild — and only some of it came from her. The rest came from soldiers firing before they aimed, hands shaking, watching Hydra’s most elegant weapon unspool into a beast.

It was like she could hear the triggers before they clicked.

Bang. Duck. Slide. Elbow to temple. Gun lifted. Two shots — center mass. Next.

She didn’t pause.

Not until there was no one left moving in the corridor but her.

Fifteen seconds of silence.

The floor gleamed with blood.

She stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, smeared head to toe in scarlet. Her jaw twitched. Her eyes — still dilated — flicked up, wide, unblinking. Animal stillness. No longer in a mission. No longer in control.

Something had broken. Fully. Utterly.

In the surveillance room, a handler shouted.

“Отправьте солдата. Положите Виксен. Сделайте это сейчас—”

(Send in the Soldier to put the Vixen down. Do it NOW—)

Metal boots struck the floor.

He came with no hesitation.

The Soldier entered the corridor through the main blast doors, smoke curling from the edges of spent gun barrels. His face was blank. Cold. His metal arm hissed as it flexed, fingers twitching from a reset.

He stopped when he saw her.

Standing there like a revenant. Covered in blood, chin lifted, hair matted and damp. A raw tremble in her shoulders. Eyes glowing with something ancient, something nameless.

She didn't kneel. She didn't bow.

She just watched him.

The room seemed to shrink. Lights buzzed above them like flies. The blood beneath their boots had not yet dried.

His weight shifted. Right foot forward. Arm lowering slightly — coiled, ready.

Their eyes locked.

Like wolves before the first bite. No orders. No speech. No false names. Just… waiting. A battle written in stare alone.

Then he moved.

And so did she.

He lunged — fast, brutal. A fist like steel screaming toward her temple.

She ducked, slid beneath it, spun her heel into his ribs. He grunted, staggered — not from pain, but from surprise. She was faster. Not more powerful — not quite — but she was sharper. Tighter.

They wove through each other like old ghosts dancing.

His hand gripped her wrist mid-blow, twisted. She hissed, kicked at his shin. He blocked, slammed her into the wall. Her breath shot out. His arm pressed at her throat — but she rolled, broke free, slammed her forehead into his chin.

Crack.

He blinked, dazed for half a second.

She struck again.

Hard. Violent. Chest to chest, elbow to his jaw, knee toward his side — he blocked, shoved her back. They breathed in unison, rapid and harsh. His hair clung to his forehead. Her lip bled from the inside out.

Still, no words.

Just eye contact — burning. Challenging. Grieving.

The stalemate lasted three heartbeats.

Then the blast doors behind him hissed open again — dozens of Hydra agents storming the corridor with tranquilizers, guns, electric rods. The spell broke.

He made the decision.

He lunged — again — but this time not to strike.

Her back hit the floor hard, her limbs twisted beneath her, wrists already bruising. He was on top of her, pinning her down with the weight of a machine, his metal hand locked around her throat, thumb pressed against the pulse of her artery.

Her chest heaved, sharp and slow, like breath was foreign now. Like she didn’t care if she took it.

He should’ve done it already.

Should’ve squeezed harder. Should’ve watched her eyes roll back and her body fall limp like the countless others he’d ended. His expression was carved from granite — unreadable. His face spattered with blood that wasn’t his. But inside, something shook.

His fingers trembled.

It was the first warning.

She didn’t resist anymore. No kicks. No sharp elbows or desperate knees. No flash of canines, no snap of a snarl.

Just eyes.

Looking straight into his.

Open. Unblinking. Empty.

As if she wanted this.

As if the idea of dying — under his hands — was better than returning to the dark. To the chair. To the ice. To the silence.

That was the second warning.

A part of him flinched. Something far beneath the code, beneath the frostbite of his brain, beneath the echo of the Winter Soldier. Something warm. Ancient. Like a bone-deep memory of summer.

He tightened his grip.

He really did.

Muscles flexed. Metal joints locked. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

Her skin was warm under his hand. Her pulse soft — waiting.

And she just kept staring.

Her pupils enormous. Dark. Not afraid. Not submissive. Just… ready.

A flicker of her lashes. A twitch in her lip.

And that was when he realized — she didn’t want to fight him anymore.

She didn’t believe he could choose not to kill her.

And she might’ve been right.

Because how many times had his handlers commanded him to hurt her? Punish her? And he had.

With precision. With obedience. With terrifying force.

They’d made him the hand that carved pain into her again and again. Bones broken. Breath taken. Blood spilled — by him.

And yet… she always came back.

Returned to her feet. Returned to him.

The punishments never took her away permanently.

She was still his. Not in name, not in language. But in the way gravity belongs to the planet. She was the only thing he’d ever hurt that didn’t vanish.

And now — he was supposed to end her.

To kill her.

And the Soldier — the one they’d broken, rebuilt, erased a thousand times — felt something crack.

His chest stuttered.

His other hand gripped her forearm like he was trying to tether her to the ground, to him, to something real. His breath began to shake — fast, shallow. His vision swam. He could see nothing but her eyes now. No blood. No ceiling. No walls.

Only her.

Her eyes were the only thing in the world he never forgot.

His fingers began to slip.

His breath rasped in his throat, caught between fury and anguish, and something deeper — something scarier.

His whole body trembled now. His forearm bulged with the strain of holding back. And then — like something finally snapped — he let out a guttural, choked yell, half agony, half animal.

He let go.

His hand released her throat.

He struck the concrete beside her head — hard — the ground splintering with the force, a web of cracks blooming under his fist. The shockwave trembled through her ribs. Dust curled into the air. His breathing was ragged, hoarse, chest rising and falling like a man who’d just outrun death and failed.

He didn’t look away from her.

He leaned down — slow, deliberate — and pressed his forehead to hers.

Not soft. Not tender. But grounded. Desperate.

Like he was anchoring himself to the only thing that still existed in his mind.

His forehead was burning.

Hers was cold.

They stayed like that — a tableau of blood and breath and failure. She didn’t move. He didn’t flinch.

Their foreheads touching.

Their eyes still locked.

Breathing each other in like that was the only way they remembered what it felt like to be human.

And for the first time in all the years Hydra made them into things — weapons, monsters, ghosts — the Soldier’s silence didn’t mean compliance.

It meant defiance.

He would not kill her.

Not her.

Never her.

Even if he didn’t know her name.

Even if he didn’t know his own.

He knew this.

Her eyes.

Her breath.

And her blood beneath his hands.

The blood hadn’t even dried when the reinforced doors slammed shut.

Alarms were finally silenced — but the aftermath echoed louder. Metallic clangs as bodies were dragged. Snapped bones. Severed limbs. The dead Hydra scientists were scattered across the floor like discarded parts. The walls dripped with their arrogance.

She lay on her back, still breathing.

Eyes wide, unblinking, staring at the splintered floor where his fist had broken through. One hand loosely curled at her ribs. The other slick with blood — hers, theirs, it didn’t matter.

He hadn’t killed her.

And that, to the watching Hydra handlers, was the most terrifying detail of all.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just knew she had broken. Completely.

She had killed without permission. Reacted without instruction. Moved through a room of trained guards and armed scientists like they were made of glass.

No trigger words had stopped her.

No handler had calmed her.

Not even him.

Only exhaustion had slowed her.

Only his mercy had spared her.

And that — that was unforgivable.

When they came to sedate her, he was already there. Standing over her like a specter, silent and immovable. The guards hesitated. The doctors murmured. Not a single one would meet his eyes.

His hands remained at his sides, but his presence was a warning.

Don’t hurt her. Don’t kill her.

They could see it in the way his jaw locked, in the way his body coiled like a tripwire. His programming demanded obedience — but something deeper, older, more human, was watching them with predatory stillness.

They kept her sedated through every moment. Through the wipe that never took properly. Through the muttered arguments in clipped Russian and panicked German about what to do with her. Through the decision that the risk was no longer worth the reward.

She wasn’t the Winter Soldier.

She couldn’t be tamed by words and pain.

She was something else. Something worse.

And he watched it all.

Not understanding why his chest hurt.

Not understanding why he remembered her face when everything else turned to static.

When they lowered her into the cryogenic pod, he followed. Shadowed them down the sterile hall without orders. The guards gave him distance — he didn’t look at them, didn’t need to. His eyes were fixed only on her.

She didn’t stir.

The inside of the chamber was lined with reinforced polymer. Her restraints were reinforced. But her expression was blank. Breathing slow. Completely still.

He stood just beyond the edge of the fog as the lid began to lower.

No commands came. He didn’t need any.

He simply stared.

As if some part of him knew that she was the only thing that ever made him hesitate.

The only thing that ever looked back at him — even when he hurt her — and saw him.

And now they were taking her away from him again.

Not killing her. But erasing her again.

He didn’t move until the hiss of the cryo chamber sealed shut. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there as the glass frosted over, her face vanishing into the white.

That was the last time Hydra made use of the Vixen.

1989.

Until they could find a better way to control her —

A better cage.

A better chain.

They put her back to sleep.

And that’s where she stayed — frozen, ghostlike, remembered only by the monster who’d once been ordered to destroy her.

2024

Rain lashed the cracked windows of the safehouse, a forgotten building on the edge of eastern Europe that smelled like rust and damp wood. The small desk lamp on the table buzzed faintly, casting long shadows over the spread of maps, photos, and red string that looked like a conspiracy board torn straight from a nightmare.

In the center of it all stood Bucky Barnes, his metal fingers clenched tight around the edge of the table, knuckles pale against steel.

Sam Wilson stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed, surveying the chaos.

“You really think it’s her?” he asked, voice low and measured.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on a blurred photo — a grainy, static-frozen capture from a destroyed security feed. A woman with a mask over her mouth and nose making her face obscured, walking away from a warehouse swallowed in fire. But her posture, the deliberate stillness of her movements — he knew it.

“I know it is,” he said finally, like a fact carved from stone.

Sam let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Buck, we’ve been chasing shadows for six weeks. People say this is a ghost story. Urban legend. Vengeance incarnate. You sure it’s not just... projection?”

“She’s alive,” Bucky said, without even looking up.

The words fell like weight onto the room, pulling the silence taut. Sam studied his friend’s profile — the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the way his mouth twitched with restraint, with desperation.

“You say that like you’ve seen her,” Sam said gently. “But that pod in Belarus was dead. Power was out for years. She came out confused, probably didn’t even know what year it was. You think she’s operating on logic?”

“No,” Bucky murmured. “She’s not.”

He thumbed through a series of photos on the table — each one more brutal than the last. A scientist dissected in Munich. A financier found hanging upside down in Prague. Every man in the stack had once had ties to Hydra. However minor, however indirect. And each death had been executed with surgical precision. Silent. Clean. Gone.

Sam stepped forward, pointing at a red pin on the map. “Bucharest hit. Three Hydra affiliates. No alarms, no signs of forced entry. Security feed glitched for thirty seconds.”

“She’s learning,” Bucky whispered. There was no pride in it — only awe. And dread.

“She’s not just surviving,” Sam said, his voice edged with something colder. “She’s hunting.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking across the network of red thread. The ghosts of his past. And hers.

Sam hesitated before asking, “What if she’s not just targeting Hydra? What if she’s coming for you too?”

That stopped Bucky cold.

“She has every reason to,” he said after a long moment, the words thick with regret. “I hurt her.”

Sam was quiet. He didn’t need to ask what he meant. The history between them — the conditioning, the missions, the punishments — Bucky had carried them out without mercy. Not because he wanted to, but because they’d made him.

Sam hesitated before asking, “Then why keep looking for her?” His voice was soft, careful.

But something in Bucky snapped at that — not loud or explosive, just sharp. A quiet fracture under pressure.

“Because I have to,” Bucky said, voice low but rough, his hands bracing hard against the table. “Because she’s been frozen for thirty goddamn years, Sam.”

Sam blinked, standing a little straighter.

“I’ve been out for five. Five years free, and that’s not even counting the Blip. Or all the time Hydra dragged me out and used me,” Bucky went on, the words starting to slip faster, heavier. “And during all of that, I was hurting her. Again and again.”

His jaw clenched as he stared down at the mess of papers, eyes tracing her blurry silhouette as if it were some ancient ghost trying to speak back.

“She was always stronger than me,” he said, quieter now, almost like it hurt to admit it. “Mentally. She fought them. She never broke easy.”

He looked at Sam then, eyes rimmed in something not quite anger but something old and burning — a weight that lived in his bones.

“I owe her this,” he said. “I owe her the truth. And if she wants to kill me for it, I’ll let her. But I’m not going to stop until I find her. Even if she wants me to let her go, I will.”

But the truth was carved into his face. He couldn’t. He never would again.

────────────────────────

You sat on the edge of the couch like you didn’t know how to exist in a space this quiet.

Your eyes traced the seams between the floorboards, your hands folded neatly in your lap, unmoving. You hadn’t spoken more than a sentence since Bucky brought you there.

Not when he offered you a glass of water, not when he showed you where the bathroom was, not even when he—hesitantly—told you that you could have his room, while he slept on the couch.

You just nodded.

One, clean nod. Always polite. Always precise.

But not the way you used to be. Not the way he remembered.

In the 40s, you had fire in your voice. You had sharp comebacks, a cheeky grin that curled higher when you got under his skin. You could outrun, outshoot, outthink most of the Howlies, and still managed to hum a tune while cleaning your rifle.

Now, you barely ate. You hadn’t said more than a clipped “fine” or “okay.” You hadn’t looked him in the eye since you stepped inside.

Bucky still didn’t even know how he’d convinced you to come with him as he watched you from the kitchen, leaning his forearms on the counter, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His metal hand creaked quietly against the granite.

“You want me to put something on?” he asked, his voice low, worn. “TV, music… white noise?”

You turned your head slightly, the barest flicker. Your lips parted, like you might speak, then closed again. You shook your head, slowly.

He sighed. Not in frustration. Just... helplessness.

“You used to yell at me for humming off-key,” he said gently, like maybe a memory would draw you closer to the surface. “Said I could scare off birds from miles away.”

No answer.

Just your stillness. Just your silence.

And that ache behind his ribs grew sharper.

He stared at you, at your hunched shoulders and distant eyes, and for the first time, truly wondered if this was how Steve had felt.

Always reaching. Always hoping. Trying to pull someone he cared about out of the fog. Trying to bring Bucky back from the brink, even when Bucky had forgotten who he was. Steve had never stopped. Not when everyone else had written him off as a weapon. Not even when he’d fought against him on a damn helicarrier.

Now here Bucky was—on the other side. And he finally understood just how exhausting, how heartbreaking it had been. Watching someone you knew still existed beneath the wreckage, and not knowing if you’d ever reach them again.

He wanted to say something else, but then your voice cracked the quiet—raw, broken, hesitant.

“I remember… my father’s voice. Not his face. Just… how he said my name.”

Bucky went still.

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Your head tilted slightly toward the window, where the last of the day’s light bled across your cheekbone like gold dust.

“I used to hum while I tracked,” you said. “To stay human.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare move. He just listened.

“I think I forgot how to feel warm,” you murmured. “Even when I’m not in the ice anymore.”

Your fingers twitched once, like your body remembered the motion of a weapon, or maybe a tremor from a distant past. The moment was fragile, stretched thin.

Bucky’s throat tightened. God, he wanted to tell you everything—that you weren’t alone, that he would wait as long as it took.

But he knew better. You weren’t ready for comfort. Not from him. Maybe not from anyone.

────────────────────────

It was a quiet afternoon. The sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains in pale streaks, painting long bars of gold and dust across the wood floor of Bucky’s apartment. The television was on, low volume, something benign playing that neither of you were truly watching. A news segment passed with a fleeting image.

Your eyes tracked the screen, not really watching. But then a flash of red, white, and blue passed across it. A helmet. A shield.

Your voice was flat when you spoke, cutting through the silence between you and Bucky like a knife. “I remember seeing him on TV. Cap.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation more than you could see it. His body shifted from where he sat across from you—still, guarded. You finally turned your head toward him.

“Where is he?”

He ran a hand through his hair, the metal fingers brushing just behind his ear.

“He’s gone,” Bucky said eventually, voice quiet.

You blinked once. Slowly. Processing.

“Gone?”

Bucky sighed through his nose. “Steve went back… after everything. After we won.” He paused. “He went back in time. Lived out his life. Came back… older. Real old. He passed away earlier this year.”

You stared at him. Not blinking now.

“So he left you behind.”

The silence after your words was sharp. Bucky’s brow creased. “No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “He didn’t—he was just—”

“You mean he could’ve taken us both home,” you said, not cruel, just even. Hollow. “Could’ve brought us back. But instead we’re stuck here. In a world that doesn’t know us. Doesn't want us.”

Bucky shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“He gave up.”

“He didn’t give up!” Bucky’s voice rose, sharp with something he hadn’t meant to let out. “He gave everything, you don’t—he did what he thought was right.”

You looked at him, head tilting slightly. That same detached focus, the way your eyes pinned him—not with malice, but with cold fact. You weren’t being emotional. You weren’t attacking. That was what made it worse.

“He was selfish.”

Bucky stood now. Tense. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching by his sides.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered. “You don’t get to say that.”

You stood up too, slow, unhurried. “He left you. After everything you went through. After everything we went through.”

“Stop it.”

“He took peace for himself and left us with the ruins.”

“That’s not what happened—he thought I’d be okay—he trusted that I could—”

“That’s not trust. That’s abandonment.”

“Stop it!” Bucky snapped, voice rough, cracking, fists clenched so tight his knuckles—flesh and metal—strained. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how broken he was. What he lost. He earned that life.”

You didn’t flinch. Just stared at him, eyes dim but focused. “And what about what we lost?”

Bucky started pacing, running a hand through his hair like he could scatter the frustration from his scalp. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, tone still maddeningly flat. “What’s not fair is waking up seventy years after your last memory and realizing the only people you trusted are either dead, ghosts, or decided to stay in the past.”

You turned, already walking toward the hallway, not angry — just done with the conversation.

“Don’t walk away,” Bucky said sharply, stepping after you.

His hand reached out — not fast, not forceful — just to touch your arm. Something gentle.

You flinched before he even made contact. The shift in your body was instantaneous — reflexive. A dodge like a breath, like muscle memory. Your spine stiffened as your arm slipped from his grasp, your eyes suddenly sharp.

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, voice cold and loud and carved out of something ancient.

Bucky froze. His hand still hovered in the air. He stared at you.

You weren’t looking at him anymore. You weren’t really even here. Your eyes had gone somewhere else, farther back. You were breathing too fast, too shallow. Your body stiff, locked down.

And that was when Bucky understood. Really understood.

It wasn’t about him.

It was about him.

The one with the metal arm who used to drag you through concrete floors when you disobeyed. Who'd wrap his hand around your throat when your eyes held too much rebellion. Who struck you, again and again, because someone ordered him to.

Even when Bucky had been free for years, the ghosts still lived in his hands.

And you… you still saw them.

His hand dropped. Guilt flooding every inch of his face.

“I didn’t mean to—” he tried, voice lower now, thick in his throat.

You didn’t answer. You just walked past him, through the narrow hallway, closing yourself into his room, he had given you, without a word.

Bucky didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there. One hand pressed flat over the other. Like he could keep himself from reaching again. Like he could pretend it hadn’t happened.

But the truth was branded now—burning beneath the surface of his skin.

He hadn’t earned your trust.

And maybe he never would.

────────────────────────

You didn’t want to go.

That was the first thing you made clear, arms crossed, jaw set, suspicious eyes watching Bucky like he might lead you off a cliff instead of down the D.C. Metro escalator. You hadn’t asked where he was taking you. He didn’t tell you, either. Just said, “It’s important.” You didn’t like the way that word made your chest tighten.

The museum was too bright.

Too open. Too filled with noise and breath and movement. Everything felt too fast and too slow at once. Your boots echoed on the polished floors, steps cautious and silent like instinct, like old habits that had never really died.

Bucky stayed near but didn’t try to touch you — not since that day. He led you quietly, nodding at the security guards like this was something he did often.

You hated how many people were looking. Even when they weren’t.

When you entered the exhibit, the air shifted. Cooler. Calmer. Reverent.

A bronze plaque on the wall read: Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Beneath it — sepia photographs. Names. Artifacts behind glass. There were curved helmets, worn boots, faded letters.

Bucky paused beside you.

“This was the first place I came after I got out,” he said, voice quiet, like it didn’t want to disturb the ghosts on the walls. “Didn’t know where else to go. Didn’t even know who I was, really. Just… remembered pieces. Faces.”

Your eyes traced the familiar ones. Dumb Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Montgomery Falsworth. Jim Morita. Happy grins and tilted hats and the smell of gunpowder you could almost still taste.

Then you saw it.

Your own memorial.

It was set apart, just slightly — not grandiose, but longer than the others. The image they’d chosen was one you didn’t remember being taken. You were young — about twenty two— perched on a wooden crate in fatigues rolled at the sleeves, head turned mid-laugh, hair slicked back but wind-loosened, fingers curled around a rifle too heavy for your frame. Your expression was too soft for war. Your eyes too alive.

You blinked at it.

Above the frame was your name, carved in brass. First Lieutenant, Tactical Reconnaissance. Grey Fox.

And beneath it, the words Presumed KIA, 1945. Missing in Action. Last seen on mission in the Austrian Alps.

You felt your throat tighten and couldn’t explain why.

“Why is mine longer than the others?” you asked, quietly, too still.

Bucky glanced over at you, then at the plaque. “Because you were a big deal.”

You gave him a look, skeptical.

He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Only woman in the Howling Commandos. One of the first women to serve actively alongside combat troops. You were kind of… a symbol. They said your service helped inspire the Women’s Armed Services Integration Act in ‘48.”

You scoffed, faintly. “So they threw me on a wall.”

Bucky smiled, just barely. “They honored you. You meant something to people. Still do.”

You stepped closer to the glass. The uniform behind it was familiar. Yours. The same patches, same leather. There was even your knife — the one Howard Stark had gifted you before that last mission. The one you lost in the snow.

You didn’t remember losing it.

Didn’t remember dying.

Your voice was flat. “They thought I was dead.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “They did.”

You turned to him. “Did you? After Hydra.”

Bucky didn’t look away. “For a while.”

Something in you curled tighter, like a spring wound too far. “When did you remember?”

He shifted, brow furrowing. “Not right away. It was all… fragments. Flashes. And even when I saw your face, I didn’t know if it was real. Steve had to tell me. He said you’d come after me — that the day I fell off that train, you went looking.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t—” you started. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I don't either.”

You looked back at the photo — that too-young version of yourself, all spark and reckless pride, before Hydra carved you hollow. You felt something stir in your chest — not grief, not quite. More like the shape of grief, wrapped around something else. Something you didn’t have words for.

It should’ve been easy to keep walking.

To follow the curved path of the exhibit, to drift past the tributes like a ghost among glass and old light. But your steps faltered when your eyes caught it — the photo.

It wasn’t a combat shot. Not a press photo or wartime propaganda. It was a quiet moment. Just the two of you. The Colonel stood in uniform, hat tucked under one arm, and you beside him, barely twenty. The background looked like the docks, water glittering, your dress hem catching the wind like a flag. He had one hand on your shoulder, firm but gentle. You were laughing — head tipped toward him, eyes squinting in sunlight, mouth open in mid-word.

Your stomach turned.

You hadn’t seen his face in decades. Not like this.

People always assumed a man like that — a military father, a colonel — would be stern. Emotionless. Cold. But he wasn’t. He was exacting, yes. Fierce when it came to protocol and discipline. But when it was just you and him? He was warmth and humor and the smell of clean shaving soap. The only one who called you by your full name and somehow made it sound like affection.

He was your favorite person in the world.

You reached out before you realized what you were doing — fingertips hovering above the glass, as though you could touch the edge of the photograph and fall through it.

Beside the picture was a framed newspaper clipping. A headline in bold type:

“Decorated Colonel Honors Missing Daughter in Public Address”

— November 3rd, 1945

Your throat clenched.

You hesitated. Then stepped back.

“I can’t,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to read it.”

Bucky glanced at you, then down at the plaque. “Want me to?”

You nodded once.

But He stepped closer, eyes scanning the plaque. His voice was low, a little rough.

“To say that I lost a soldier would be true. But to say I lost just a soldier would be a terrible injustice.”

“My daughter — the one you knew as ‘Grey Fox’ — was many things. A tactician, a tracker, a fighter more ruthless than most men I’ve commanded. She earned her place in the Howling Commandos not because of her name, or mine, but because she earned it. Day after day. Battle after battle. She was sharper than steel, braver than men twice her age, and she never ran from anything — not even fear itself.“

“She was stubborn from the start — wouldn’t follow the rules if she thought they were wrong, wouldn’t back down from any fight worth having. And yet she was kind. She was soft in the way only the strongest people are. She made people better just by standing beside them.”

“They’ll tell you she was tactical, skilled, a leader. All of that is true. But I want people to remember who she was when the orders were done. She liked swing music. Had too many pairs of shoes. And twice as many dresses. Spoke her mind without apology and carried a silver locket with her mother’s photo, that she thought no one ever noticed.”

You felt it then — the sting behind your eyes. The tears building, slow and traitorous. You turned your head away, lifting your hand as if the simple motion could shield you from what the words were doing to you. But they kept coming.

“And though the world may mark her as lost — let me be clear. My daughter is not forgotten. She lives in every fire lit in the dark, every brave voice in the silence, every young girl who believes she can stand in a place no one thought she should.”

“She gave everything to her country. And I don’t know how to say goodbye to her. I don’t know how to let go of my little girl—”

Then his voice cut off.

You waited. One breath. Two.

And when the silence stretched too long, you asked quietly, “Why’d you stop?”

Bucky didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes on the plaque, jaw locked. “That’s where it ends,” he said softly. “The article says he couldn’t finish the speech. He—” Bucky hesitated. “He walked off the podium, too choked up.”

You turned toward him slowly, scoffing.

“No,” you murmured, voice thick. “The Colonel never cried.”

It came out too genuine to be anything but memory. Something certain. Like gravity.

You shook your head, pressing your hand to your eyes as the tears spilled freely now, silent and hot, streaking down your cheeks without restraint. There was no sobbing. No sound at all. Just that kind of grief that closed in around the chest, so dense it felt like the world had narrowed to a pinhole.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, voice breaking on the edges. “For reading it. For bringing me here.”

Bucky stood beside you, hands flexing at his sides. He didn’t reach out. Couldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because he knew you wouldn’t let him.

And maybe, in that moment, standing in front of a monument to a life you couldn’t remember and a love you’d buried somewhere deep — that was enough.

────────────────────────

You sat at the window again, the late morning sun slicing through the thin curtains like a scalpel. You didn’t feel it. Couldn’t, really. You were aware of the light, the way it bled over your hands resting on your knees—but it didn’t feel warm. Just… distant. Like everything else.

Bucky was in the kitchen, fumbling with something—probably another attempt to make coffee the way you liked. You didn’t tell him he never got it right. He tried too hard. He always had.

The silence between you two was the loudest part of this place. Even when he tried talking, even when he looked at you like you were a wound he couldn’t cauterize. It made your skin itch.

He thought he owed you. You knew it. That was what this was. This apartment, this half-life, these careful touches and softer tones—this was guilt. This was his penance.

You didn't know who you were anymore, not really. The world had moved on. Your war was over but still echoing in your blood. Bucky was the only familiar thing left, and even he felt warped—like a shadow of something you couldn’t remember clearly. You used to laugh with him. Tease him. Steal his rations and call him pretty boy. Now… you couldn't even meet his eyes for longer than a breath.

You weren’t stupid. You knew trauma bonding. You knew conditioning. You knew how Hydra twisted wires until they sparked like emotion, cracked whips until loyalty sounded like love. What the Vixen and the Winter Soldier had wasn’t a bond. It was survival.

This thing between you and Bucky—whatever it was, whatever it had once been—it was born in the dark, bred in pain, sharpened by orders and obedience. Hydra’s hands were all over it. You felt it every time he looked at you too long. Every time he brushed your arm and you flinched.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And he was too deep in his guilt to see it.

He was helping you because he had to. Because he’d hurt you. Because he'd bruised you in those white walls and watched handlers drag you by your hair. And this… this domesticity—it was the last bullet in his gun, a way to sleep at night.

So you stayed quiet. You stayed small. You tried not to think about the way he used to make you laugh just by cocking an eyebrow. You tried not to remember how you’d watch his reflection in puddles during missions, not because you were tracking him, but because you felt safer when you knew where he was.

That was all conditioning. It had to be.

It had to be.

────────────────────────

She sat at the window again. She always sat at the window.

Bucky stood in the kitchen, palms braced against the counter. The coffee machine groaned, spitting out something bitter. He didn’t look at it. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

Her profile was the same. Sharp. Still. But her shoulders—he remembered them being straighter. Her spine taller. Now they curled inward, like she was trying to fold herself into nothing. And it gutted him.

She hadn’t smiled in weeks. Not the way she used to. Not with that smart-ass grin that used to crinkle her nose and make the whole damn camp warmer. Back in the barracks, before the frost, she used to razz him about his hair. Called him “Sargeant Shampoo” once. He’d laughed so hard he dropped his tray.

That was real. It was. He knew it in his bones.

But she didn’t believe it. She thought he was helping her out of guilt. That their bond was a Hydra artifact. And Bucky could barely look at her without wanting to scream.

Because if that wasn’t real—if her laugh wasn’t real, if her hand in his wasn’t real, if the way she used to stay up for him when he came back from solo missions wasn’t real—then nothing was. Then he wasn’t real. Then everything he'd clung to in that white noise void of the Winter Soldier—every memory, every flicker of light—was a lie.

And goddammit, she wasn’t a lie.

She was the reason he didn’t put a bullet in his own head when the voices got too loud. She was the reason he hesitated in ‘89. The only one who ever fought him like an equal, and the only one who made him feel like he was more than just a loaded weapon.

She thought this was guilt.

Bucky had been guilty a long time. That was nothing new. He could live with guilt. What he couldn’t live with was this—this chasm between them, this damn wall she kept her heart behind. Like he was just another ghost from the operating table.

He closed the distance between them slowly, cautiously. She didn’t look up. Just stared at the sky, as if she was waiting for the war to start again.

“I know what you think this is,” he said finally, voice low. “You think I brought you here because I feel sorry. Because I’m trying to make up for what I did.”

She didn’t say anything.

“But that’s not why I’m here,” he continued. “I remember you. Not just in Hydra. Before. You—”

His voice cracked.

“You used to make fun of how I tied my boots. You once saved our whole squad by yourself. You—You were kind. Brave. And we were real.”

That made her flinch. He saw it in the way her fingers curled.

“I never hurt you because I wanted to,” he said. “I hurt you because I wasn’t me.”

She looked at him then. Her eyes were glassy, but not soft.

“And what if I’m not me?” she asked.

Bucky didn’t have an answer.

He watched her rise, walk toward the bathroom, close the door without a word. He could hear the faucet turn on, even though she never washed her face until after dark. He stared at that closed door for a long time.

And somewhere in his chest, something cracked.

────────────────────────

“This isn’t working,” you said, voice low, raw.

You stood in the middle of the living room, your arms wrapped around yourself as if you were trying to hold your own ribs in place. The quiet stretched, thick and suffocating, like it had weight. Bucky stood across from you, like always—close, but never quite close enough to make it feel real again.

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the words. As if you’d just spoken in a language he forgot how to understand.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he already knew.

You didn’t look up at him when you said, “I don’t think we should be around each other anymore.”

The silence after that was devastating. You didn’t mean for it to sound like a kill shot, but it landed that way anyway. He staggered where he stood, barely, but you saw it. Like your words had stabbed him clean through and now he had to pretend it didn’t hurt.

His breath hitched. His jaw clenched. “We can still try,” he said, desperate, his voice cracking like splintered ice. “We’ve come this far. Don’t walk away now. Please.”

Your heart fractured. You wanted so badly to feel what he felt, to be what he needed, to believe this could still be something salvageable. But every moment you were around him, it was like being underwater—your body drowning in silence, your mind screaming against the weight of ghosts.

“I don’t know how to be around you without... without being afraid,” you whispered. “Of myself. Of what this is. Of what it means.”

“You’re not afraid of me,” Bucky said quickly, eyes wide with something that looked like grief. “You never were.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you corrected softly. “I’m afraid with you. I don’t know how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep waiting for the white walls to come back. For someone to scream an order. For the part of me that was me to vanish again.”

His mouth opened, but no words came.

You looked defeated. Not angry. Not cruel. Just tired—of yourself, of this world, of the weight you both carried. The kind of tired that lives in the bones.

Bucky took one small step forward. Then another.

“Just stay,” he begged, broken. “I’ll be better. I’ll—”

You shook your head. “It’s not you.”

He stopped.

“It’s what’s left of me.”

And then—because you didn’t want to leave him without at least one last thing—you opened your arms.

You let him touch you.

His hands trembled as they slipped around you, pulling you in like you were something sacred, something breakable. Your arms went around his neck, slow, unsure. His chin rested against your temple. Your heart raced and calmed at the same time, a contradiction of longing and fear.

You stayed like that longer than you should have. And when you finally moved to pull away, his hands reflexively tightened around your back. You stilled at the pressure—not rough, not painful, just… desperate.

A sad, shuddering sigh left your lips as you rested your forehead against his collarbone. You let him hold you a little longer.

Then, when you pulled away enough to meet his eyes, you looked at him like you were looking through time. As if you saw the boy from the barracks, not the broken man standing before you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “that I couldn’t save you.”

Bucky’s eyes welled with tears, his throat working around something he couldn’t speak.

“I promised I would,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “Back when they took us. I swore I’d get us both out. And I didn’t.”

His hands loosened. Just slightly.

“I’m also sorry,” you said, voice trembling now, “that I don’t know how to be okay.”

You leaned in, pressing a single kiss to his cheek—a soft, lingering goodbye that clung to him like a fingerprint burned in time.

When you stepped back, his arms dropped, slowly, as if his body refused to let you go even though his mind knew you were already gone.

And Bucky—he didn’t cry. He just stood there.

Frozen.

Watching you walk toward the door like he’d watched so many things slip through his fingers. Like he had all the strength in the world but none of it could stop the fact that this time, he was losing you not to Hydra, not to death—but to your own will. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

You left him standing in the center of that apartment. Alone. Still reaching.

Still waiting.

Still loving you like it might make a difference.

Welp, if you've actually reached the end and want to read something that will make you feel better, I recommend, Come Home To Me

also:

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes

985 notes · View notes

aurescentia · 1 month ago

Text

Thinking Thoughts about video game designer Eddie accidentally (unintentionally) putting a Steve lookalike in his game.

The kids... notice.

Steve only finds out when Dustin and Lucas are play testing the game before Eddie hands off a pitch for potential funding.

Steve and Eddie aren't even friends yet.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

"Dude, watch it," Lucas mumbles, knocking his shoulder into Dustin's. "Don't kill him before the checkpoint."

"Oh, sorry. How silly of me!" Dustin mutters back, hunching closer to the screen.

"Of course I'm trying to keep Steve alive. Stop backseating and wait your turn."

Steve can practically hear the eye rolls ping-ponging around their side of the room.

Mere moments later, they both let out an exasperated groan and start arguing in earnest as Steve walks over to them, curiosity piqued.

"Dude!! You killed Steve! I just told you to be careful!"

"Obviously I was trying," Dustin grits out, annoyed, "but you kept distracting me!"

"Alright, I'll bite. Why am I dead?" Steve asks, stepping up unnoticed behind them.

They both whip around so fast they nearly knock heads as they look up at Steve, embarrassed.

"Uh."

"Wow, I like- completely forgot you were here," Dustin says, unperturbed.

Like Steve wasn't the one to give him a lift here twenty minutes ago.

"Gee, thanks," Steve says, rolling his eyes. From this vantage, above them at Lucas' desk, he can see the screen they had just been arguing over.

Dropping between them, forcing both to squawk and get out of the way as Steve leans toward the screen. He has to get closer to make sure he's seeing this right.

It's... him. Sort of. A miniature, pixelated version of himself, slumped over, dressed in old timey knight-in-shining-armor shit, his sword leaned on the wall beside him.

He doesn't want to be conceited or anything, but the likeness is... undeniable. Tawny hair, smattering of tiny speck freckles. Hazel eyes that muddle into a greenish gold in pixelated form.

It's Steve, undoubtedly. Dead, with a sword through his heart.

He turns back to Dustin and Lucas, pointing blindly at the monitor.

"Why am I- why is that me?"

They shoot each other looks from over Steve's shoulder, mouths working as they search for a delicate way to phrase it.

"Well... It's not you, explicitly," Dustin starts slowly.

"Or legally. He's legally distinct from you!" Lucas adds, nodding frantically.

"Right, his name's not even actually Steve," Dustin says furtively.

"It's Severian, which he absolutely stole from Shadow of the Torturer, but he said he'd-"

"Gonna stop you right there, Henderson," Steve says, cutting him off before he could go off on some tangent long enough to bore him into distraction.

"Who is this he and why the fuck would he put me/not me into his game?"

Steve has a hunch. More than a hunch, actually. A bone-deep sureness that he needs confirmed about their 'cool, older game designer' friend that they loved to prattle on about all the fucking time.

"Eddie?" Dustin says, visibly cringing.

"But he doesn't know we call his character Steve. I don't think he even realizes it's one-hundred percent, undeniably you," Lucas hurries to clarify.

"It's just an in-joke. Something stupid we do," Dustin adds, nodding his agreement.

Eddie fucking Munson.

They weren't even friends. Not really.

So why did Munson, evidently without realizing, make a whole ass game with Steve as the protagonist?

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

now with a part 2 and more 2 cum.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #capital g Gamer Eddie Munson #steddie microfic

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marvelstoriesepic · 9 months ago

Text

Two

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Your friends Wanda and Nat drag you to a corn maze event at night. After a rather unpleasant encounter with Bucky, Sam, and Steve, you want nothing but this night to end. Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to find the exit first.

Word count: 6.2k 🌾 🎃 🔦

Warnings: Annoyance to lovers; scared!Reader; scare actor with chainsaw; scarecrows; protective!Bucky; little bit of sad!Bucky

Author’s note: This is me ignoring my wips and writing something that randomly popped up in my head. Wrote this all in one sitting but I’m actually genuinely happy with it :)

Masterlist

“We’re going to get lost in there.”

“With your sense of direction, definitely, but thankfully you have me.”

You shove Nat in the shoulder lightly enough, grumbling under your breath, while Wanda on your other side snickers softly.

The brunette links her arm with yours. “We’ll stay together the whole time,” she assures you.

“Well, I left my bed for this, so this better be good!”

Natasha and Wanda insisted on visiting the corn maze event your town had to offer this year. And since they claimed it would be boring to do this in daylight you now are standing in front of towering stalks of corn being so close together, they obscure the view inside. Sure, it would be way too easy otherwise but, the easier this is, the faster you’d be getting out of here.

There is a clear cut through the corn, signaling the entrance to the maze, but you can’t see past the artificial fog swirling in the tunnel so that’s no help either. The branches over the entrance have cobwebs dangling down and a scarecrow is placed right beside the hole, its eyes glowing red with unnatural light.

A few dimly lit jack-o-lanterns path the way to the foggy entrance, giving only enough light to make sure you wouldn’t catch on uneven ground and fall before anything even started. That would surely be embarrassing enough for the night.

You can make out faint whispers coming from inside the maze, unsure if those come from other visitors or if they are simply sound effects. Either way, you don’t like it. It’s not like you get scared easily. But there’s something about the dark that had always irked you and you don’t feel like getting jumped by some scare actor tonight or some other shit.

There are a few other people standing in groups around you three, talking to staff members, or looking at the map of the maze to somewhat prepare. You don’t pay them any mind though. There is no way you’d be socializing tonight.

“Alright, let’s get this party started!” Nat exclaims beside you.

“I don’t see this being a party,” you mutter, “and shouldn’t we get a map as well? Might be helpful, you know?” The dry sarcasm in your voice gives way to the enthusiasm you are absolutely lacking.

“We don’t need a map. Come on!” Is all she says as she pulls you and Wanda to the entrance.

“Alright well, just so you know, I'm blaming it on you when we’re still aimlessly wandering around in there by dawn,” you warn, but there’s clearly amusement in your tone you can’t suppress and you share a quick laugh with Wanda.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

It takes you three a little more than fifteen minutes to find the first checkpoint. You’re not sure if this is good or bad timing but at least you haven’t lost anyone of your small group yet so that is good.

The small flashlights you had been given earlier by an instructor cast narrow beams through the dense, twisted rows of the maze. Now, each light lands on the scarecrow ahead, its ragged form standing as still as the one you passed at the entrance. He only has one arm outstretched, clearly pointing in the direction you’ll find the next checkpoint.

“This way,” Natasha calls out, already turning to follow the path being pointed at. Her black leather jacket catches the glow of your flashlight as you walk behind her, Wanda beside you.

You hear a set of screams echoing faintly through the maze, the fifth one since you entered - an indication that in the distance, other visitors just got ambushed by scare actors in the dark. You have no intention of being next so you’re thankful for Nat taking the lead.

However, your gaze constantly darts behind you, checking your back every few minutes, convinced that at any moment something - or rather someone - might leap out of the shadows. You quickly assess and flash the path you had walked seconds earlier, before turning around again, paranoia creeping in with every step.

Distracted, you almost miss the tombstone jutting from the path ahead of you. Your heart skips a beat as your foot catches the edge, but before your face can meet the ground, Wanda’s hand shoots out. She firmly latches onto your jacket sleeve, pulling you back and steadying you, an amused laugh slipping past her lips.

“Thanks, Wan,” you laugh, a little out of breath.

“Getting lost already, ladies?”

You shriek, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest, and Wanda yelps in unison. You bump into her side, both of you spinning around hastily toward the source of the voice. Even Nat flinched, but she seems to recover quickly, letting out a low chuckle as she eyes the three figures standing before you.

You could practically hear the sultry smile she’s undoubtedly wearing behind you as she questions them. “What are you guys doing here?”

Yeah, what are they doing here? You narrow your eyes at the man who made you leap out of your skin.

Bucky Barnes. Of course.

In the middle of a creepy maze, with scare actors hiding around almost every corner, he somehow managed to sneak up on you. Typical. You shouldn’t be surprised he found you in a fucking labyrinth.

“Thought we’d check out the fancy attraction everyone’s been yapping about.” It’s Sam who answers, his words laced with a teasing grin as he stands slightly behind Bucky with his arms crossed over his chest, clearly entertained.

But Bucky didn’t even acknowledge Nat’s question. His focus remains on you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and that glint in his eyes you know so well. He’s evidently pleased with himself for catching you off guard. Fantastic.

Steve, who comes into focus on Sam’s other side, offers you girls a sympathetic smile. There is an apology written in the way he tilts his head. “We didn’t know you were planning on coming, or else we would’ve asked you to join us,” he says, voice sincere.

Before you can respond, Bucky cuts in, stepping forward with that infuriatingly confident swagger. He throws a lazy arm over your shoulder, pulling your stiff form against his side. “Ah well, we’re together now, so let’s stay that way. We’ll get you through this maze well-protected, girls.”

His voice carries that signature smugness as if he’s doing you some grand favor and you should be grateful. You’re not. Definitely, absolutely not.

You immediately shake off his arm, stepping away from him with a sharp glare. “Yeah, no thanks. We’ll manage on our own,” you argue.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, noticeably unfazed. His smirk deepens as he leans in, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Surely that scream said something different, doll. Don’t you think?”

You scowl. “Oh, shut up, Barnes-”

Steve interrupts you with his hands held up, palms open in a calming gesture. “Let’s not make this difficult. We’ll go our own way if that’s what you want.”

“Stay,” Nat drawls, standing relaxed with her arms crossed and shooting you a teasing glance. “It’s funnier that way.”

You cut her a look that should have been able to kill her. The corners of her mouth only curl higher as she turns back towards the path ahead of you.

You see Bucky’s grin from the corner of your eyes.

You all resumed walking, six flashlights cutting through the eerie darkness around you, their beams illuminating the narrow, winding path ahead. Despite your reluctance to admit it, having the guys with you provided some sort of ease. Your shoulders droop slightly and your gait becomes more confident.

More often than not you feel the hot gaze of Bucky on your skin but choose to ignore it, focusing on the path ahead so as not to stumble over another tombstone.

“So, have you guys started preparing for-” Steve’s voice breaks through the silence but gets immediately cut off by Sam.

“Hell no, no talking about classes, or practice for that matter. That ain’t on my agenda tonight,” Sam scolds rather loudly, his voice filled with mock severity. Nat snorts, still walking ahead of you, and you join in, a small laugh escaping as Steve sighs.

The moment was brief, though, as you round another corner and Nat calls out what lay before you. “Dead end,” she declares, her tone flat but unsurprised. “Turn around.”

Grumbling softly, your group pivots and you retrace your steps to take a different turn, only to find another winding corridor shortly later. This goes on for minutes - Natasha calling out dead ends and your group backtracking to find another path offering no more than the last. The guys didn’t take a map with them as well.

You don’t fail to notice the constant presence of Bucky at your back. Each time you turn a corner he seems just a little closer, the warmth of his proximity soothing the nerves in your veins and helping with the chilling air that comes with the night. You ignore that, though.

However, you can’t ignore the fact that you did not once turn around to check your back since he and the others expanded your little group and Bucky took his place at your back. It’s strange. All the paranoia and unease from earlier had softened somehow, as if his irritating confidence bled into you, making the maze feel a little less menacing, the darkness a little less suffocating.

You feel almost reassured by the steady weight of his attention at your back like his silent presence can ward off any sense of danger.

You’re not sure how to feel about that.

Suddenly, loud menacing laughter erupts from the thick corn wall beside you. The sound is dark and jarring, cutting through the air and sending a bolt of fear through your chest. You startle with a gasp, instinctively reaching for Wanda beside you as you jump away from the bushes, your hand clutching onto her arm.

Your heart pounds violently, the adrenaline making your breath quicken. You’re too lost in the moment to notice the steady hand that has settled on your back - Bucky’s hand.

Without a word, he keeps his palm firmly pressed against the fabric of your jacket as his other hand shoots into the corn wall. You barely register his swift movement until you see him yanking out a small device - a microphone hidden in the stalks, playing that sinister laughter on repeat. With a click, the sound stops.

“Just an audio, doll, everything’s alright,” Bucky explains, his voice low and calm, the teasing edge from earlier absent.

Your breathing slows and you let go of the death grip you had on Wanda’s arm, not registering how tightly you held onto her.

Bucky’s presence remains solid and you glance at him quickly, expecting to find his usual smug grin or some sarcastic remark waiting, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel.

But there’s none of that. Instead, his expression seems almost grim as he eyes the microphone in his hand, a hint of disgust crossing his face, lips twitching. Without much care, he tosses the device back into the corn, not bothering to see where it lands.

His other hand still lay pressed against your back and you let it ground you for a fleeting second.

However, the shock transforms rather rapidly into confusion. Shouldn’t he be delighted it went on right as you passed it? Usually, he would revel in something like this, tease you for your reaction, and flash you that infuriating smirk.

He doesn’t.

You keep walking for another few minutes, the tension slowly easing back into a manageable rhythm, when Sam barks out. “There! Second checkpoint! Y’all that’s on me!”

He moves past Wanda, stopping in front of a small carton laid out on a makeshift table. Scattered across the surface were pieces of a puzzle, all with seemingly random lines on them. Four small wooden stools sat nearby, clearly set up for people to take a seat while working on the puzzle.

“A puzzle?” Bucky asks incredulously, coming to a halt with a frown, his hands on his hips.

“I think it’s cute,” Wanda offers with a smile, moving to one of the stools and lowering herself down. She picks up a piece, studying it as she begins sorting through the chaos. You agree, following her lead and settling on a stool beside her.

“You too cool for a puzzle, Barnes? Or are you scared you won’t be able to solve it?” you mock half-heartedly, your eyes already skimming over the pieces, trying to find where they fit together.

Bucky scoffs, his teasing tone returning full force. “Joke’s on you, sweetheart. I’m an excellent puzzle solver. Always did this with Bec’s when she was small.”

His voice was lighter now and you feel yourself relax a little more at the returning banter settling between you.

Though you find yourself thinking about the small comment about his sister you keep stuck on and curiosity rises in you at the little insight in his former private life. You shouldn’t find this as interesting as you did. And you shouldn’t want to know more.

Bucky lowers himself into a crouch beside you since the two other wooden stools sit beside Wanda. Nat and Steve sit down on those with mild amusement, all eyes on the puzzle pieces.

Bucky stays rather close to your side, his thigh brushing against your own as he reaches over the small makeshift table.

Sam hovers over Wanda’s shoulder, offering commentary and the glow of his flashlight as she arranges the border pieces with surprising efficiency.

“It’s an arrow,” you quip, placing a few more pieces together with a minor sense of accomplishment.

“Oh yeah? How’d you figure that out?” Bucky smirks beside you, playful as ever as he gives you a gentle shove to your shoulder with his own.

Annoyance creeps back in and you roll your eyes. “Cut it, Barnes. What you’re doing over there isn’t helpful either,” you snap, shoving him more forcefully in return. He sways slightly on the balls of his feet, letting out a low chuckle that only grates on your nerves more.

For what feels like the hundredth time, you slap his hand away from the pieces you’ve already fit together. Bucky stopped sticking his own pieces together and rather enjoys reaching over and intentionally placing the wrong pieces onto yours, or worse, rearranging what you’d already solved, eyes twinkling with mischief and the corners of his mouth tugged high up his cheeks. Each time you fix it, he finds another way to mess it up.

You refuse to look at his blinding grin.

You huff instead, slapping his other hand away as it winds around your arms trying to sneak another mismatched piece into your section.

You're also too occupied to notice the knowing glances shared across the table.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this done so we can keep moving. I’m trying to make it outta here in one piece, people,” Sam jokes with a lightness in his voice that suggests he’s enjoying this rather thoroughly.

You finished the puzzle quickly, the final piece snapping into place, and you had to hold back Bucky’s hands, refraining him from spinning the whole thing to make the arrow point in the wrong direction.

A few minutes into the walk and a few dead ends later, Wanda breaks the comfortable silence. “When’s your next game again, guys?” she asks softly.

Sam let out a groan of exasperation, throwing his arms out dramatically, almost hitting Nat. “Oh come on! What’d I say about that, huh?”

He’d been walking at the front since he claimed his spot as the lead after 'earning' it by finding the checkpoint. He turns around as he talks, facing Wanda with a playful glare.

“You said no talking about class or practice. So, I can ask about games,” she counters with a smile.

From behind you, Steve’s laugh rumbles through the group. “She got you there, pal.”

Sam shakes his head, turning ahead again, muttering. “Yeah, yeah. Game’s next Saturday.”Though his annoyance is half-hearted at best.

Then, from beside you, Bucky’s voice breaks through, casual but directed. “You’re coming, right?”His tone is laid back with an underlying expectation. The question seems to be aimed at the group but he was looking at you.

Bucky had stepped up to walk beside you after you resumed walking, his pace matching yours and you see the way his head is tilted in your direction.

You glance up at him, blue eyes watching you. He obviously waits for an answer.

“Don’t know. Maybe I have to work then.” You shrug, playing it off, and look back forward again. But you’re surprised at the way your pulse quickens under his gaze and your hand squeezes the flashlight a little tighter.

You don’t always put a whole lot of effort into being there for their games. Sure, you showed up every now and then, but not nearly as often as everyone else. It wasn’t for lack of support. More like self-preservation.

Watching Bucky stride onto the field with that cocky confidence, owning every inch of the space around him, irks you incredibly. He’s good, and he knows it - he owns it.

Unfortunately for you though, sometimes you couldn’t shove down your annoyance for the guy enough and he, unbeknownst to himself, found a way of making your stomach flip in ways you weren’t entirely proud of.

Also, that football gear - You hate the way your body reacts upon seeing him in it as if it were the first time. The fitted jersey, the helmet tucked under his arm, the way his shoulders look even broader in the pads, the brown tendrils of his fluffy and tousled hair falling over his forehead - it all makes your stomach flutter every time and it drives you crazy.

So you found ways to avoid it. You picked up extra shifts at the library, checked the game schedule weeks in advance to make sure you had a built-in excuse. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, just something casual you were doing to avoid unnecessary distractions. But deep down, you knew better.

And so does Natasha - if her smirk in your direction is anything to go by. You glare at her to move her attention, but it’s useless.

You’re unprepared for the following corner of the maze, lingering in the echo of your thoughts. So when the scare actor does his job, emerging from the shadows and brandishing a chainsaw that roars to life in a terrifying symphony, your soul might have just kissed you goodbye.

The flickering light from the chainsaw illuminates his grimy, masked face, a wicked smile etched across his features, and eyes glimmering with twisted mischief.

You scream - just like Wanda, just like Sam. Nat lets out a quick yelp herself and you hear the sharp intake of a breath behind you from Steve. Bucky, who had seemingly been lost in his own thoughts, flinches beside you. In a swift motion, he surges closer, grabbing your arm harsher than probably intended and pulling you to his side. His leg instinctively positions his body in front of you.

The outfit of the actor - or that’s what you try to tell yourself he is - is a patchwork of tattered flannel and soiled jeans, the perfect embodiment of a deranged lumberjack. Raised high, the chainsaw vibrates with a menacing growl, its teeth gleaming wickedly as the man brandishes it like a weapon, the scent of gasoline mingling with the earthiness of the maze.

You clutch Bucky's arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle of his biceps as he stands protectively before you, his stance rigid and shoulders tense. Your other hand is linked with his, shaking fingers surrounded by steady ones. Though his stance is stiff and tense.

Time seems to freeze as Nat, Wanda, and Sam stand still in front of you, Steve’s presence at your back.

Your heart races violently in your chest, suffocating you, and for a moment, it feels like your breath stopped altogether as the chainsaw-wielding man lunges toward you six.

All you are able to do in your state of panic is squeeze Bucky’s hand so tightly you might have feared his blood circulation cut off, if your mind were able to conjure up a thought at the moment.

Bucky reacts instantly. Without hesitation, he pivots and bolts down the maze, pulling you along. His fingers clutch yours with such fierce intensity as if his only fear is losing you in this chaos.

Steve surges ahead, taking a sharp turn right while Bucky guides you left, then right, and left again; maneuvering the maze like a seasoned racer. The world around you blurs as you focus solely on keeping up, your heart racing along with your feet. All sense of direction is lost in the chaos and you can’t tell if Nat, Sam, and Wanda are still trailing behind or if they’re swallowed by the cornrows.

You try to take a glance back, hoping to catch a glimpse of red hair, dark brown skin, or Wanda’s long coat.

“Don’t look back!” Bucky shouts over the roar of the chainsaw, his voice snapping your head to the front before you can see anything else besides the blur of yellow-green walls. “Switch off your flashlight!”

You do as you’re told.

You could have had a relaxed evening, maybe taking a bath or watching a show with warm tea and popcorn but no, instead you find yourself chased by a man with a real fucking chainsaw.

Panic surges through you again, your breaths getting shorter at Bucky's fast pace and you feel his hand tighten. There’s an unexpected strength in the way he holds you, his muscles coiling with determination. He navigates the twists and turns with instinctive agility, intense eyes moving over to you every few seconds as if the only important thing here is you.

And somehow that is oddly reassuring and maybe a bit satisfying at the moment. All that mattered is Bucky’s strong grip, anchoring you as you run alongside him.

Around another corner, the path opens up to a small clearing that offers a momentary respite. Bucky pulls you into the safety of the space, pressing your back against the rough stalks of corn, their leaves brushing against your skin. You stand chest to chest, touching each other with every ragged breath you take in.

Bucky still seems composed despite all the running you just did.

He faces the direction you had come from, muscles coiled and ready to react, arms on either side of you, practically hugging you to his chest.

“We lost the others,” you pant, glancing around as best as you could with a mountain of muscle blocking your view.

Bucky’s face is a mask of focus, his eyes scanning the maze. “Yeah. Just stay with me,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, his breath fanning over your cheeks.

He takes another few seconds to assess the surroundings, before looking down at you. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, yet urgently.

You had never been this close to Bucky before, had never imagined such a scenario, and it leaves you unprepared for the overwhelming feelings that flood your senses.

The moonlight cast a slightly silver glow over his features but some remain hidden in shadows. His eyes search yours and you find yourself caught in the depths of his irises, a captivating swirl of blue that makes it hard to look away. His lips are parted slightly, soft breaths brushing against your cheeks and your nose fills with a scent that is something distinctly him. It doesn’t help with finding your voice. The slight furrow in his brow suggests worry as he scans your features.

You nod, still breathless from the scare and his proximity.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to reply, though just then, a chilling laughter echoes from around you. The sound of the chainsaw roars back to life, slicing through the stillness.

You flinch in Bucky’s hold, instinctively moving closer and burrowing half in his chest. “Fucking asshole,”you breathe out a laugh and Bucky tightens his arms momentarily around you with a low chuckle. He seems to relax a little.

“We’ll have to keep moving,” he states, a slight trace of amusement in his tone as he looks back at you. He lifts his hand for a second as if longing to tuck the loose strands of hair behind your ears that landed in your face after the frantic escape.

You ignore the sliver of disappointment as he takes his hand back and moves away slightly, letting the chill night air brush against your skin instead of his warm breath. You feel cold, despite the adrenaline pumping in your veins.

The laughing grows louder and Bucky links his hand with yours again. “You ready?” he asks, waiting for your nod before starting to run again, darting through the maze some more.

You have no idea how long it takes before you come to another stop but your chest heaves with exhaustion as you do, ragged breaths leaving your lips. Bucky stands composed with narrowed eyes, looking around the maze.

The silence between you is perhaps a little uncomfortable, the only sound being the heavy breathing of your own labored lungs.

“Well, shit,” you utter after regaining some semblance of balance. “How do we find the others? I have no idea where we are.”

Bucky’s eyes meet yours, his expression unreadable for a moment. He licks his lips, then shrugs nonchalantly. “Looks like it's just the two of us.”

Your incredulous gaze sweeps over his face. “Seriously?” you ask, coming out sharper than intended.

Bucky rubs his hand over his face, looking away from you. “I’m sure they’re fine. Not like anything ever happens in these things. Sam probably already made a bet that he makes it to the exit before we do. So we should just…try and beat 'em.”

You know he tries to seem like this doesn’t affect him at all but there is something about him that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. He looks a little defeated, perhaps even…hurt. And you don’t quite understand why.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners slightly as he tries for a smile but it looks wry. “Come on, doll! We’re a great team,” he insists.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t know about that, Barnes.”

Pain shoots through your chest. Not unfamiliar but not known around Bucky. His faltered expression stings and you don’t know what to do besides watching him drop his eyes to his feet and sigh heavily.

The sound feels like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless once again but without running from a man with a chainsaw.

His hands move over his hair. “It’s still Bucky for you doll. Told you many times,” he says softly, voice heavy with a mixture of dejection and desperation. “And we don’t really have a choice now, do we? We don’t know where the others are and it might take hours to find them. Just looking for the exit of this thing would be easier. Bet the others are doing the same.”

He looks at you then, with a troubled expression, seeming so vulnerable all of a sudden, traces of the cocky football player lost somewhere in this maze.

You nod then, slowly, not able to bring a word out because you have no clue as to what has him this sad.

“Alright,” he continues, nodding to himself. “I think we might have run past the third checkpoint. Let’s find the last one.”

The silence between Bucky and you stretches out like a fragile thread, the tension building with each passing moment. You can feel him glancing at you every few paces and you look over at him every once in a while but nobody says anything.

You don’t even talk when reaching another dead end, just turning around and resuming to walk.

He seems to let you lead, though, taking the turns you do.

You let your gaze sweep over the maze’s twists and turns until something catches your eye. A small, narrow wooden post stands almost camouflaged among the corn stalks, and your pace quickens.

“Over there! Look!”

It feels weird to break the silence between you but you don’t look over at Bucky as you approach the post and hear him fall into step behind you.

It’s adorned with two wooden flags, both having slightly faded letters atop. You read the first one, a small riddle as it seems.

“What’s it say?” Bucky asks, his voice quiet and low near your ear.

The glow of your flashlight helps you make out the words. “It says…What has keys but can’t open locks? What has a face but no eyes, nose, or mouth?”

You chance a quick glance at Bucky beside you. His eyes narrow. “I think I know this one,” he says slowly. “A clock, maybe.”

You read the riddle again, feeling his eyes on your profile. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” You hesitate a second. “Damn, Barnes. Not only all muscle, I see!” You're grateful for the teasing tone that made its way back to your voice and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky’s grin lighting up his face again.

“You’d be surprised, doll,” he replies softly, a smile in his voice.

It isn’t quite the answer you had expected.

You thought he’d dig out the fact that you basically complimented his figure and you snapped your gaze up to his, though he doesn’t meet your eyes, instead staring at the letters on the wooden post.

“So, it’s a clock. What do we do with that?” He questions and you slowly turn back, lighting up the wooden flags again.

“There’s more.”

You move your light to the second flag, starting to read what’s written there.

“I’m a number that’s often paired. In harmony, I’m the perfect tease. Together we’re a perfect pair. A balance of Yin and Yang to share. In the morning, I’m bright and bold. By night, I’m soft and gentle to hold. My presence is felt in every way. From sunrise to sunset, every day.”

You hadn’t even finished reading when Bucky began shuffling a little beside you, straightening his spine. He watches you in silence now and you do your best to ignore his gaze.

You had no idea who came up with that riddle, but you feel like slapping that person. The weird tension between Bucky and you only tightens, seeming to snap any minute and this is no help at all.

Those words seem to sear themselves into your brain, echoing with an unsettling intimacy, you either wanted to bask in or get rid of.

You feel yourself wandering down a dangerous road.

You stare at those words carved into wood and it is as if someone had been watching you two, studying your dynamic, and decided to reduce your complicated relationship to a text.

But do you really think so?

In harmony? A perfect pair? Yin and Yang?

You know there was always something. You can try to suppress feelings for all you want but how can you get rid of something you won’t even acknowledge in the first place.

You like him. You like him a whole lot. Damn it, there is just something about this idiot you have to adore. But you can’t tell him that. Not now.

Not when the weight of his gaze hasn’t left you yet and you feel a flush rise in your cheeks.

Finally, you meet Bucky’s eyes, still fixed on you, as if waiting for something. His expression is unreadable and you feel like bolting away into the corn maze and getting lost. Maybe forever.

How can he look so calm and rigid at the same time? You know he is affected by those words but it looks more like he tries to see what they do to you.

His eyes dart back and forth between yours, so intense, your throat constricts and you look away, clearing your throat in hopes it will break the spell.

“Two,” you croak out. “That’s the answer. We have to head towards two o’clock.”

You see Bucky nodding slowly from the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched and you begin walking again.

The tension is palpable, like a living entity that wrapped itself around you. Every step feels like a struggle as if you’re wading through quicksand, fighting against the undertow of your own emotions.

The silence grows so thick, you can hardly breathe.

Light.

There is light just around the corner, beckoning you forward and distant voices grow louder with each step you take.

But right after rounding the corner, fog appears, wrapping you in its damp, grey folds. It’s disorienting at first but feels just like the fog you had passed at the entrance so this has to be a good sign.

However, as you spin around, desperate to locate Bucky, he is lost in the mist and you feel the suffocating need to feel him, hands reaching out frantically, grasping at nothing.

“Bucky!” You call out, voice strained and urgent. You don’t even notice the nickname rolling off your tongue, torn from your lips as if ripped from your throat.

In an instant, a gentle touch brushes against your arm. You jerk back at first, startled, but then feel the soft pressure of Bucky’s fingers wrap around yours. His other hand takes hold of yours, touch so gentle and careful as if you are something to be treasured.

Your heart begins to race as you realize he is right in front of you, chest nearly pressed against yours just like earlier, though this time it feels much more intense, intimate, purposeful.

You strain to see beyond the veil of mist, but it’s like gazing into a void. All you can make out is the faint outline of Bucky’s form, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His breathing is growing ragged. He can run however long away from a chainsaw-wielding man but standing in front of you is what makes him lose his breath?

Blood is pumping through your veins and you feel it rushing through your ears. He’s still standing in front of you, hands holding yours, chest resting against yours and you feel his hot breath against your face again.

You try to comprehend what he is doing, why he doesn’t lead you to the exit, but deep down you know. He’s gauging your reaction. Maybe he saw something in your gaze while reading this riddle, maybe it was in the way you looked at him, or carried yourself. But something about the way you had acted seemed to have given him courage. He found something as he searched your gaze at the wooden post.

And now he’s waiting for you.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely audible but the hitch of a breath right in front of you is an indication he heard you.

His name is a plea, a confirmation, the consent to continue what he started.

Bucky’s fingers caress your skin, moving up your arms in such a slow motion as if he’s mapping and memorizing how every inch of your skin feels under his fingertips. Shivers run down your spine and goosebumps erupt in the wake of his hands and you know he can feel it.

His hesitation tempers down with every second.

The touch of his fingertips is magnetic and although you can’t see it, it draws you in with an almost magnetic force. You feel yourself leaning into him, eyes fixed on the fog where you know his own are, as if willing to clear it, ready to see the exact kind of blue you fell for. But you know he’s looking at you, not seeing, but still looking. And that was enough to make your stomach flutter.

As his fingers reach your face he gently tucks the flyaway strands behind your ear, holding your face in his palms and tilting it just right. His forehead lands on yours and you take a deep breath in until all you consume is him.

You don’t care about the eyesight you are lacking at the moment. You wouldn’t even care about hearing that menacing laughter again, or the roar from the chainsaw, because here in Bucky’s arms you’ve never felt saver.

You feel his presence in every way.

And when your lips meet his, moving in sync, you know.

In harmony. Like the perfect pair. Yin and Yang.

“Hold your horses, people, I hear something.”

You ignore Sam’s voice outside the fog, attention set on Bucky and his plump lips, his tongue gliding in your mouth, exploring its new home.

“Barnes! Hey, man! Y/n! You in there?”

Sam’s shout again remains ignored.

“You lost, guys, everyone’s out here!”

Bucky pulls away at that, resting his forehead against yours. You feel his huge smile against yours, keeping your eyes closed.

“Nah,” he whispers against your lips. “I definitely won today.”

“The road might be long

The stars may not guide me

But if you keep your heart open

I will find you”

- Michael Xavier

#bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x reader #enemies to lovers #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #protective!Bucky #corn maze #college!reader #college!bucky #athlete!Bucky

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sweetromanova · 20 days ago

Text

More To Lose🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: You thought your life with Steve Rogers was what love looked like. But love isn’t quiet disappointment or fading into the background. It’s soft hands when you’re breaking. It’s someone who sees you, even when you don’t see yourself. And just maybe, it’s Natasha Romanoff, waiting for you to see her too.

Warnings: implied/referenced IVF, emotional neglect, divorce, post-partum depression themes, hurt comfort, angst.

A/N: hiii, it’s been like five years since i’ve posted any kind of writing and i’ve never shared any of my marvel x natasha romanoff stuff (i have so many random fics in my drafts) so please be kind!🤍

Chapters: Two, Three, Four, Five, Epilogue

Chapter One

You had never been invisible.

You knew how to command a room when you needed to. You knew the power of silence, of letting people underestimate you until it was too late. Fluent in five languages, head of communications and diplomatic strategy for the Avengers’ and had personally shut down four international conflicts that would have declared wars before they even reached TMZ.

You made your living turning chaos into strategy.

You weren’t one of the Avengers, not technically anyway but you were the person they listened to when the stakes were too high to guess. While Captain America and Iron Man debated field ethics in the conference room, while Wanda’s eyes glowed red as Clint’s phone floated in the air just out of reach, while Natasha Romanoff sat in silence and watched the rest of the world spin, you was often the one feeding quiet intel into comms, smoothing over diplomatic flare-ups or feeding misinformation to the right parties with a well curated smile.

Tony once described your job like a joke. “S.H.I.E.L.D. without the stick up their ass.”

You’d replied. “Billionaire without the emotional growth.”

He’d snorted his coffee and called you in on nearly every operation after that. Everything that he sat at the table for, there was a seat waiting next to him for you.

You didn’t fly, punch through wars, bend reality or strangle people with your thighs but you were never invisible.

Not until you fell in love with Steve Rogers.

⋆⋆⋆

It started slow. Almost soft.

He met you after a failed mission in Berlin. You were there to run interference with the German Government. He was there to apologise for smashing through a military checkpoint.

You remember how he looked. Too tall, too perfect, his presence so strong but mind completely unaware of how much space he took up in the world. You remember him blinking at you and saying. “You’re the intel liaison?”

And without making eye contact, still scrolling through satellite data, you had replied. “Disappointed?”

His grin had been annoyingly boyish. “Just surprised. Thought you’d be taller.”

“And I thought you’d be punctual.”

Tony had laughed from the corner. Even Hill managed to crack a smile behind her paperwork.

Once you lifted his head and met his amused eyes, Steve smiled too.

⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t expect it to be more than a brief flirtation.

A conversation at an event, a few lingering glances, maybe a drink after. He asked you to dinner and you pretended it wasn’t a date. Told yourself it was just two people sharing a meal outside of the Tower walls.

But he picked a place with candles, cloth napkins and a view of the East River at dusk. He wore a suit that fit too well for someone who claimed to hate dressing up. Over the bread basket, he confessed that he hadn’t been this nervous for a meal since the ’40s.

You talked about history and politics. He let you challenge him. You told him his optimism was old-fashioned and dangerous. He just smiled and said. “It got me this far.”

He told you stories about Brooklyn that made you ache for a time you’d never lived through, for sidewalks that no longer existed and people long since gone. He spoke with a reverence that made you listen harder, as if hearing the names might summon them back.

He mentioned Peggy Carter in passing at first, a flicker in his voice like a skipped heartbeat. And Bucky. God, he talked about Bucky like the man still held his heart in one hand and never gave it back. You could hear the grief of missed years behind the fondness, the loyalty behind the loss. It should have scared you off but it didn’t.

It made you curious. It made you careful.

He kissed you in the rain a month later. It wasn’t a movie moment like you wanted. It was too cold, your shoes were soaked and his umbrella flipped inside out with the wind. But then his hand slid behind your neck, fingers warm and grounding and you leaned in like you’d been waiting years.

Maybe he had been.

It was easy, at first. Quiet. Stable in a way that felt like standing on solid ground after a lifetime of storms. He didn’t ask you to fix anything. He just made room for you. In the space he hadn’t realised was empty until you walked in.

You felt safe. Loved, maybe.

And slowly, you started to understand. Loving Steve Rogers meant walking alongside a man whose heart lived in three different centuries, but who somehow, was still learning how to hold yours in the present.

⋆⋆⋆

He asked you to move into the Tower six months in. Not in so many words but just a toothbrush at his sink, a drawer, a closet then suddenly all of your favourite mugs in the wrong cabinets.

Wanda became your confidante. Sam made you laugh when things got tense. Natasha didn’t say much, but she watched you like she understood more than she let on.

You weren’t part of the team but you weren’t outside it either.

Until the day you walked into the lab and found Steve already talking to Tony, Bruce, and Helen Cho. They were discussing DNA sequencing. You had almost carried on walking, wanting to mind your business about a conversation that had nothing to do with you. Until it did.

Your egg. Steve’s DNA.

You stood frozen in the doorway while they explained how IVF could work for him, for you. How it could be made safe, stable, viable, even with his serum-altered biology.

Steve looked so excited. “I wanted it to be a surprise!” He exclaimed, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

It was a surprise, of course. “You already spoke to them?”

All four pairs of eyes suddenly seemed a lot more interested in anything but you. “Well I- I just wanted to know if it was possible before we got excited.”

“He thought you’d be happy.” Tony added, helping Steve out of the hole he’s dug.

“I did.” Steve said. “I thought I was doing this for us.” Tony winced, Bruce continued to fiddle with his tablet and Dr Cho was re-reading the notes scribbled on her tablet. Everybody was waiting so you finally smiled even though your stomach was sinking.

Because he wasn’t trying to be cruel, not really. He was trying to build a life with you. He just forgot to ask you first.

“I was just surprised.” You croaked. “I’m happy.”

⋆⋆⋆

IVF was brutal.

You never told him how bad it got. You downplayed the nausea, skipped over the dizziness, laughed off the mood swings. You didn’t mention the way you threw up from the hormone shifts or how you passed out in the medbay once because your blood sugar bottomed out and no one found you for twenty minutes.

He was with you for the first few appointments. He sat beside you, stiff with worry, his thumb brushing across your knuckles like he could will the bruises away before they formed. He asked questions. He read every pamphlet. He made you tea.

But then missions started calling. Bucky needed him. The world needed him.

So you gave yourself the last three weeks of injections alone. Most nights, it was in the shared bathroom next to the Avenger’s Common Room. You waited until everybody was in the middle of dinner when it was quiet, when the halls stopped humming with movement and they all socialised with the people they felt most comfortable with. You’d set the tiny syringe on the edge of the sink and steel yourself in the mirror. sleeves pushed up, jaw tight, stomach already blooming with pinprick bruises in yellow and purple.

You did it quickly. No hesitation. You couldn’t afford to hesitate anymore.

However the sting was sharp tonight, sharper than usual and something about it cracked your composure. Maybe it was the silence or the way your body felt like it belonged to science now, not to you.

You let out a breath that was almost a sob. And then another.

You pressed a fist to your mouth, trying to silence it. Eyes squeezed shut. Just a moment. Just a crack in the armour.

You wiped your face before standing. You looked in the mirror and whispered to yourself. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But when you turned, she was there, watching as usual. Natasha.

She stepped into the bathroom, soft as breath, her gaze landing on yours. Then drifting just briefly to the redness around your eyes. The streaks down your cheeks that you hadn’t quite managed to erase.

She didn’t comment. Just offered a quiet “Hey.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t walked in on you falling apart.

You nodded quickly and stepped aside to let her in. You didn’t look back.

You moved to the sink, hands shaking slightly as you ran them under warm water. You focused on the sound, the water heating up to burn the tender skin of your fingers, the smell of the institutional soap. Anything but the knot in your throat.

Behind you, Natasha made no further mention of what she’d seen. She offered you silence like a kindness.

You wanted to thank her for it. But your voice would’ve cracked.

⋆⋆⋆

When the test came back positive, you told him at breakfast.

You slid the test across the kitchen table next to his coffee like it was nothing. Like your heart wasn’t pounding out of your chest.

He stared at it for a beat too long, eyes scanning then widening. Suddenly, he dropped his fork with a clatter, scooped you into his arms, and spun you around the kitchen while you laughed through tears.

It was the happiest you’d seen him in weeks. Maybe months.

He buried his face in your shoulder for a moment, just a second of stillness before he pulled back, breathless and eyes bright.

“You know…” He said, his voice thick with something he didn’t name. “Peggy used to talk about wanting kids. Back then. It was always a someday thing. I never got that far.”

He paused, smiling at you like you were the future he never thought he’d live to see.

“I think she’d be happy for me. For us.”

You nodded, throat tight.

He kissed you, your forehead first, then your lips, brief but tender. He set you down, a smile playing at his mouth, and reached for his phone to call Bucky. To share the news. To congratulate him on becoming an uncle.

You don’t remember being congratulated.

⋆⋆⋆

Margot was born early, by C-section. Steve almost missed it. He came running into the operating room just as they laid you down. He kissed your forehead, whispered how proud he was, how brave you were.

You were so tired that you couldn’t speak.

When the nurse asked for her name, Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Margaret.” He said, softly.

Your body stiffened. Still open on the table. Still bleeding.

“Huh?”

“I want to name her Margaret.” You wanted to fight it, you’d offered names up to him for months now and he hadn’t liked any. Maybe you should have guessed all along, of course it was going to be about her.

“Margot.” You said, not offered. “With an ‘o’.”

He looked at you, surprised but nodded. “It’s perfect. Different but still her.”

You closed your eyes suddenly wishing the anaesthesia would wear off, you’d prefer to feel the pain of your stomach being laid open on the table than to hear this.

You just needed something that was yours but even your own baby lived in the shadow of what once was.

⋆⋆⋆

Everyone came to see her. Sam. Bruce. Wanda. Bucky. Pepper. Even Tony, with a ridiculous stuffed tiger bigger than the baby. Steve carried Margot like she was made of glass, parading her through the Tower like a medal.

You followed behind him, one arm braced against the wall, stitches pulling with every step.

Your hair was unwashed. Your body shivering in pain. Your vision blurred at the edges.

No one noticed… except Natasha.

She slipped away from the group without a word. She came to your side, delicately took your elbow and eased you down on to the couch before you collapsed.

“You look like hell.” She murmured, quietly. “Like a truck hit you.”

You tried to laugh. “Try a super soldier and his super child.”

“Congratulations Mama.” She didn’t smile but her gaze softened. “Water?”

You nodded, letting your eyes slip closed briefly. “Please.”

She brought it and sat beside you, her hand coming to fall over yours. Her presence reassuring and comforting. She let everyone else fawn over the baby while she focused only on you.

“You’re the first person to say congratulations to me.” You whispered, your fingers twitching under hers.

Nat’s head tilted. “You’re the one who did the hard part.”

That was the first time you wanted to cry in front of someone.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve was a good father. That wasn’t the problem.

He changed diapers, he held her for hours, sang her lullabies from the 1930’s you’d never heard before. However when she slept, he slipped away.

To the gym. To conference rooms. To Bucky.

They trained together late into the night. Planned missions even when they weren’t needed. You heard them laughing through closed doors, soft and low sounds that made you feel like an outsider in your own life.

He talked about Peggy when he thought you were asleep. Or just when he thought you weren’t listening.

“Peggy would’ve known what to do.” He murmured once, holding Margot against his chest. You lay still beside him, breath caught in your throat. “She always knew what to do…”

And slowly, a truth settled over you like fog. You were living with a man whose heart still lived in two places, both unreachable.

⋆⋆⋆

You started disappearing.

You stopped wearing makeup. Stopped combing your hair. You forgot how to flirt, how to tease. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed without faking it.

Yelena dropped Fanny off before a mission and said. “She’s your dog now.”

You didn’t argue. It had become a tradition. Yelena’s fake lack of care for the pet she loved so much. Your fake lack of awareness that Fanny was the only companion you really had to confide in.

Walking her became the only thing that got you out of the Tower. It was never easy. The stroller was heavy and the path was uneven. You stumbled more than once and cursed under your breath more time than you could count.

One morning when Margot wouldn’t nap, Fanny was pulling on the leash, barking and you just felt your knees give out.

Natasha appeared without a word. She took the leash and took the stroller. Fanny immediately came to a halt, watching the redhead like she was the alpha in the pack. Still not acknowledging her presence, she simply walked beside you like it was routine.

“You don’t have to do this.” You murmured, eyes wet.

“No I don’t.” She glanced over. “But I want too.”

⋆⋆⋆

She started showing up more after that.

Not always with words. Sometimes it was just a meal left outside your door when you hadn’t made it to dinner. Sometimes folded laundry that she’d picked up for you or some of Margot’s clothes that seemingly made it’s way round the compound. A silent nod before a meeting, your favourite coffee order waiting in your usual spot.

One night, you broke down at 2am. Margot wouldn’t stop crying. Dr Cho claimed she was colic, nothing to do but wait it out. You’d been pacing the compound floors for hours, feeding her, rocking her. Your shirt was soaked, your body ached but then she appeared.

Natasha took Margot from your arms, held her like she’d done it a hundred times and whispered something in Russian that calmed her instantly.

You slid down the wall and cried into your hands.

Natasha didn’t say a word. She just sat beside you. Solid and still.

⋆⋆⋆

Steve never once noticed.

Not when you started sleeping on the edge of the bed. Not when you flinched beneath his touch. Not when you said “I’m fine” like it was muscle memory.

He was always chasing something. Bucky? Peace? The past?

But no one ever chased you.

Except her.

Natasha noticed, without making it known. She saw the distance growing between you before you ever admitted it to yourself. She saw it the day the silver locket appeared around Steve’s neck, small, worn and familiar. She didn’t ask about it but she noticed the way your eyes locked onto it like gravity. One side held Peggy, timeless, beautiful, unchanging. The other held Bucky, holding your daughter just hours after she was born, cradling her like she was the most delicate thing in the world.

Not you. Not the woman who carried her. Just the memory and the man he never stopped chasing.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She never did. But she looked at you like she knew, like she saw the fracture lines forming before the break.

And for a moment, you felt real again.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t invisible.

131 notes · View notes

the-winter-spider · 10 months ago

Text

Death Rattle | B. Barnes

word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Angst, death

A/N: I was inspired by how did it end by ts, enjooooyyyyyyyy

Not proof read or edited will do that tonight!

----

The quinjet hummed quietly as you and the team prepared for the mission ahead. You adjusted your comms, listening to the chatter of your teammates as you loaded your weapons.

“So, what’s the bet today?” Sam’s voice crackled over the comms.

“I say Steve’s shield gets stuck in a wall again,” you teased, glancing at the Captain with a grin. “Ten bucks.”

Steve rolled his eyes, adjusting his helmet. “That happened once.”

“And we’ll never let you forget it,” Natasha chimed in smoothly. “I’m betting Bucky’s arm malfunctions, Fifty bucks says he’s cursing up a storm in Russian before we’re done here.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Bucky grumbled, though you could hear the smirk in his voice. “I’d say something about Romanoff’s hair getting messed up, but that’s just asking for trouble.”

“Smart man,” Natasha replied with a smirk.

“Alright, focus up, team,” Steve said, his voice firm as the quinjet began to descend. “Intel says the Hydra base is heavily guarded, but we’re taking them by surprise. Y/N, you and Bucky take the east wing. Sam, Natasha, you’re with me on the west. We take out the comms tower, secure the data, and get out.”

“Got it, Cap,” you confirmed, tightening your grip on your weapon. Bucky gave you a nod, his blue eyes filled with quiet determination.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sam’s voice broke in just before you dropped down to the ground. “Try not to blow anything up this time, alright?”

“No promises, birdbrain,” you shot back, grinning as you and Bucky hit the ground running.

—

The mission had been going smoothly—too smoothly, if you were being honest with yourself. You and Bucky had infiltrated the Hydra base with minimal resistance, clearing the first few checkpoints with ease. It was almost unsettling how little security you’d encountered, but you pushed the thought aside as you focused on the task at hand.

“Alright, we’re in,” you whispered into your comm, pressing yourself against the wall as you peeked around the corner. “Heading to the main server room.”

“Copy that,” Steve’s voice crackled in your ear. “Sam and I have the control room in sight. Be ready to move once we take it out.”

“Got it,” you replied, glancing at Bucky beside you. He gave you a nod, his eyes scanning the hallway ahead. You both moved in perfect sync, your footsteps silent as you made your way down the dimly lit corridor.

“Man, I can’t believe we’re doing this without any real backup,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached the door to the server room. “It’s almost too easy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s asking for trouble, right?”

You smirked, shrugging as you began to work on the door’s control panel. “Hey, if something goes wrong, at least we’re together.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that always works out so well,” Bucky quipped, his voice dry but tinged with warmth.

You chuckled, focusing on bypassing the security lock. “You’re just mad because I usually end up saving your butt.”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “You keep telling yourself that, doll.”

The lock beeped, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. You and Bucky slipped inside, your eyes scanning the rows of servers that filled the room. Everything was eerily quiet—no alarms, no guards, just the hum of electronics around you.

“Alright, let’s make this quick,” you said, pulling out the EMP device from your pack. “Once this goes off, we’ll have about two minutes to get out before the backup systems kick in.”

“Two minutes?” Bucky gave you a look. “You sure you didn’t set that timer a little tight?”

You grinned, already attaching the device to the main server. “Where’s the fun in a long timer? Besides, you love a challenge.”

“Not when it involves getting blown up,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

Just as you were about to activate the EMP, a familiar voice crackled over the comms. “Hey, Y/N,” Sam’s voice was light, almost amused. “Try not to blow anything up this time, alright?”

You rolled your eyes, pressing the button to start the timer. “No promises, birdbrain.”

“Seriously, don’t—” But Sam’s voice cut off as the EMP activated, the lights flickering before plunging the room into darkness.

“Time to move!” you called out, grabbing Bucky’s arm as you bolted for the exit. The two of you sprinted down the hallway, the sound of alarms finally blaring through the base. The EMP had done its job, but it had also triggered the security systems.

“I swear, you live for the chaos,” Bucky grumbled as you turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a group of Hydra agents who were scrambling to respond to the alarms.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shot back, your adrenaline spiking as you took out two agents with quick, precise shots.

Bucky just shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

“Nah,” you teased, ducking into an adjacent hallway. “I’ll leave that to Hydra.”

Just as you said it, an explosion rocked the building—one you hadn’t planned. The shockwave threw you both off your feet, slamming you into the wall as debris rained down around you.

“What the hell was that?!” Bucky shouted, coughing as dust filled the air.

“Not me!” you called back, pulling him to his feet. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear!”

“Must’ve hit something important with that EMP,” Bucky muttered, wincing as he rubbed his shoulder. “Or they just really didn’t want us getting out.”

“Guess we better not disappoint them,” you said with a grim smile. “Come on, let’s move before this whole place comes down.”

The two of you sprinted for the extraction point, the sound of collapsing ceilings and distant explosions echoing through the base. You could feel the tension rising in your chest, the thrill of the mission mingling with the ever-present danger. But even as the walls crumbled around you, you couldn’t help but laugh, a wild, exhilarated sound that caught Bucky off guard.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at you with raised eyebrows.

“Just thinking,” you gasped, dodging a falling chunk of concrete, “Sam’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this.”

Bucky shook his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, but it’s why we keep you around, isn’t it?”

“Chaos and explosions?” you quipped, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

“And saving my butt,” Bucky added, his eyes glinting with affection despite the chaos surrounding you.

You just smiled, your heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. “Guess we’re even then, huh?”

“Guess so,” Bucky agreed, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary.

The two of you finally burst out into the open air, the quinjet waiting for you on the horizon. As you ran for it, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just another crazy day in your life—one that you wouldn’t trade for anything

—

The base was eerily quiet as you made your way inside, the only sounds coming from the hum of machinery and the distant murmur of Hydra agents. You and Bucky moved in sync, clearing rooms with practised ease.

“You know, this is almost too easy,” you muttered, ducking behind a crate as you approached the east wing. “I’m starting to think they’re just letting us in.”

“Don’t jinx it, doll,” Bucky replied, scanning the hallway ahead. “We get in, get the data, and get out. Nice and simple.”

“Simple? Us? You’re funny, Barnes,” you quipped, flashing him a grin before slipping into the next room.

—

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over Brooklyn. The streets were quieter now, the bustle of the day giving way to the peaceful hum of evening.

You and Bucky walked side by side, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps in sync as you made your way through the neighbourhood. It was a perfect summer evening—one of those rare moments when everything felt just right.

“You ever think about getting out of here someday?” Bucky asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost wistful.

You glanced over at him, catching the way the fading sunlight highlighted the sharp lines of his jaw, the warmth in his blue eyes. “You mean leaving Brooklyn? Or the Avengers”

“All of it, you know, see what’s out there.” He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Paris, London… maybe somewhere quiet, like the countryside. Just to get away from everything for a while.”

You smiled at the thought, imagining Bucky wandering through cobblestone streets in some far-off city, looking as effortlessly charming as ever. “Sounds nice,” you said. “But I can’t really picture you as a farm boy, Barnes.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. “I think i’d manage. But what about you? If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

You tilted your head, considering the question. “I don’t know… Somewhere peaceful, I guess. But it’s not really about the place. It’s more about who you’re with, you know?”

His gaze softened as he looked at you, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had quieted down, leaving just the two of you in that golden light. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

There was a comfortable silence as you continued walking, the air between you filled with unspoken words. The truth lingered there, close enough to touch but never quite reaching the surface.

You wanted to tell him—wanted to say that wherever he went, you’d follow. That he was the person you’d want to see the world with, whether it was Paris or a tiny farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

But instead, you nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “You’d probably miss the city too much anyway. Can’t imagine you without your favourite diner.”

Bucky laughed, the tension easing as he bumped you back. “True, Can’t beat their apple pie.”

“See? You’re a city boy through and through.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning at you. “But I’d trade it all for the right company.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, you thought about what it would mean to just say it—to tell him how you felt, how you’d always felt. But then he looked away, his gaze drifting to the horizon, and the moment passed.

“Let’s head back,” he said after a while, his voice light but his eyes carrying a weight that matched your own.

You nodded, falling back into step beside him. The walk home was filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed naturally between you. But beneath the laughter and the teasing, there was something deeper—a connection that went unspoken, yet was understood by both of you. Neither of you admitted your feelings that day, but in your hearts, you knew. It was simple….

Some things didn’t need words.

—

That’s when things went sideways. The comms tower was in sight when a sudden explosion rocked the building. The lights flickered, and the walls trembled as debris rained down. You barely had time to react before the hallway filled with Hydra agents, weapons drawn.

“Ambush!” Bucky shouted, raising his rifle and firing at the incoming agents. You ducked behind a pillar, returning fire as the room erupted into chaos.

“Of course it couldn’t be simple,” you muttered, taking out an agent before he could reach you. “Sam, Natasha, how’s it looking on your end?”

“We’ve got a few surprises too,” Natasha replied, her voice tense. “Hold your position—we’re almost done.”

“Bucky, we’ve got to take out the comms tower,” you said, glancing at him. “You hold them off, I’ll go plant the charges.”

“I’ll go with you—” Bucky began, but you shook your head.

“No, you’re better at holding a line. I’ll be quick,” you assured him, offering a small smile.

He hesitated, then nodded, his eyes locking onto yours. “Be careful, Y/N.”

“Always am,” you winked before darting down the hallway toward the tower.

You could hear the sounds of battle behind you—Bucky’s rifle, Steve’s shield clanging, Sam’s wings cutting through the air. But your focus was on the mission. You reached the comms room, planting the charges quickly, but as you were about to leave, the ceiling groaned, and you heard it—a crack, then a roar as part of the building started to give way.

“Y/N, get out of there!” Steve’s voice barked through the comms.

But it was too late. The floor beneath you crumbled, sending you crashing down into the lower levels. Pain shot through your body as you hit the ground hard, dust and rubble filling your lungs as you struggled to breathe.

“Doll? Y/N, do you copy?” Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, frantic.

You coughed, trying to clear your throat. “I’m… I’m here,” you gasped, pain lancing through your side. “But I’m pinned… building’s coming down.”

“Hold on, sweetheart. I’m coming for you,” Bucky grunted, the desperation in his voice unmistakable “Just hold on” He repeated grunting, his voice strained as you heard him fighting his way to you. The sound of metal clashing and boots thudding echoed in the distance, each second dragging on like an eternity.

“Buck, go, go, go! That way!” Steve shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.

You could feel it—the end. It crept up like a shadow, warm yet cold, each sensation clashing against the other like fire and ice. It was almost poetic, how the contradiction mirrored you and Bucky, two halves that made a flawed, perfect whole.

—

The Avengers compound was unusually lively that afternoon, with everyone gathered in the common room, taking a rare break from missions and training.

Steve and Sam were engrossed in a game of chess, Natasha was flipping through a magazine, and Tony was tinkering with some gadget on the coffee table. You were perched on the edge of the couch, sipping a cup of tea, when Bucky walked in.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky said, his voice warm and smooth. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes locking onto yours. “Miss me?”

You smirked, taking a sip of your tea. “I didn’t even notice you were gone, Barnes.”

“Oh, that’s cold,” Sam commented without looking up from the chessboard. “But you know she’s lying, right?”

Bucky just grinned, strolling over to where you sat. He took the cup from your hand, taking a sip himself before handing it back. “Well, I’m back now. What’d I miss?”

“Not much,” you replied, ignoring the way your heart fluttered when his fingers brushed against yours. “Steve’s losing to Sam, Tony’s probably breaking something, and Nat is pretending she’s not listening to us.”

Natasha looked up, raising an eyebrow “I’m not pretending.”

Bucky chuckled, sitting down next to you—closer than necessary. His arm rested casually along the back of the couch, his presence warm and solid beside you. “Well, I’m sure things were dull without me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “If by ‘dull,’ you mean ‘peaceful,’ then yeah.”

“Oh, come on. You know you missed me, sweetheart,” he teased, his voice dropping to that low, teasing tone that always made your pulse quicken.

“Keep telling yourself that, Barnes,” you shot back, leaning in slightly. “Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

“Y/N, just admit you missed him already,” Tony said, not even looking up from his work. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“Who says I missed him?” you countered, your tone playful. “Maybe I just enjoy watching him trip over his own ego.”

Bucky’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with that mischievous spark that always set your nerves on edge in the best way. “Funny, I don’t remember tripping…Must’ve been too busy thinking about you.”

Natasha snorted softly, exchanging a knowing glance with Steve, who had finally looked up from the chess game. “You two are impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“More like predictable,” Steve added, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“Who’s fooling who?” Bucky asked, his tone light, but there was something more in his eyes—something that lingered just beneath the surface, unspoken. He turned back to you, his gaze softening. “I think she’s just playing hard to get.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “Who says I’m playing at all?”

The room went silent for a moment, everyone waiting for what would happen next. You could feel the tension crackling between you and Bucky, the air thick with the things neither of you ever said out loud. But instead of pushing it further, you leaned back, breaking eye contact with a casual shrug.

“Guess we’ll never know,” you said, your tone light.

Bucky’s smirk didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, something only you could see. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe,” you echoed, your voice quieter now, more sincere.

Tony sighed dramatically, throwing down his tools. “This is worse than a soap opera. Just kiss already, would you?”

“Not a chance,” you and Bucky said in unison, both of you grinning as the room erupted in groans and laughter.

But as the banter continued, as everyone got back to their own conversations, Bucky’s hand brushed yours again, lingering for just a second too long. And even though neither of you admitted it, in that brief touch, you both knew—something unspoken, something that didn’t need words.

—

“You’re my last 7 minutes,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“What? Doll, no, please, please hold on. We’re almost there,” he panted, his breath hitching in a way that broke your heart. Bucky never sounded like this—desperate, afraid. He was always the unbreakable one, the soldier who could face anything. But now, he was crumbling.

You licked your lips, your mouth dry, “After death…”

“You’re not dying!” Natasha’s voice cut through the comms, tight with fear. She thought they were almost done, thought you were almost safe, but then the ground shuddered. The building you were in groaned, and the next thing you knew, it started to collapse. Dust and debris filled the air as more agents swarmed in, but all you could think about was him.

—-

The party inside was in full swing—laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses filled the air. The warmth of the celebration radiated through the rooms, but out on the balcony, it was peaceful, quiet, and far removed from the buzz inside. The cool night air brushed against your skin as you stood with Bucky, both of you gazing out at the stars that glittered in the sky.

You had both slipped away from the crowd unnoticed, seeking a moment of calm away from the festivities. The balcony was lit by the soft glow of string lights that draped along the railing, casting a gentle light over everything. The faint sound of the music inside reached you, but it was distant, like an echo of another world.

“Pretty out here, huh?” you murmured, leaning on the railing and looking up at the sky.

Bucky nodded, his eyes following the same path as yours. “Yeah…. It’s nice to get away from it all for a bit.”

You smiled, your gaze drifting to him. He was standing close, the light catching the edges of his face, making his blue eyes stand out against the night. There was something about the way he looked just then—so at ease, so content—that made your heart swell with affection.

Before you knew it, you were speaking without thinking. “You know, you have the most beautiful eyes, Buck.”

He turned to you, slightly taken aback by the compliment. A faint blush crept up his neck, and he let out a soft chuckle, clearly unsure how to respond. “I, uh… thanks, doll. That’s sweet of you.”

You shrugged, smiling as you reached out to gently take his hand. “It’s true. They’re… they’re kind, and they hold so much. I guess I just wanted you to know.”

Bucky looked at your hand in his, then back up at you, something tender and vulnerable flickering in his eyes. He hesitated for just a moment before stepping closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you as he looked deep into your eyes.

“Y/N, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly, his voice soft but earnest. “In all my 100 years of living… I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, your heart fluttering wildly. He was so sincere, so open in that moment, that it left you speechless. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there, wrapped in the magic of the night.

Without thinking, you took another step closer, your hands coming up to rest on his chest as his arms gently encircled your waist. The music from inside changed to a slower tune, one that drifted out onto the balcony, and before you knew it, Bucky was leading you in a slow, gentle dance.

The two of you swayed together, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if you’d been doing this for years. There was no need for words—everything you wanted to say was in the way he held you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered.

For a moment, you forgot about everything else. The past, the future, all of it melted away, leaving just this—this perfect, quiet moment under the stars.

It wasn’t until you heard a muffled laugh from inside that you realised you had an audience. Glancing over your shoulder, you caught sight of Steve, Natasha, and Sam standing by the glass patio doors, watching the two of you with grins on their faces. Steve gave you a thumbs-up, and Natasha winked before they all turned back to the party, leaving you and Bucky to your dance.

You laughed softly, resting your head against Bucky’s chest as you continued to sway. “I think we’ve been spotted.”

“Let ‘em watch,” Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “I’m not letting go just yet.”

“We're not gonna here the end of this”

He shook his head smiling “No were not”

And with that, you both continued dancing under the stars, lost in each other, as the world outside kept spinning.

—

“The human brain still lives for 7 minutes and plays the most beautiful memories….” You paused, struggling for breath, your vision blurring “Its you Bucky, you’re my 7 minutes…”

“Cap!” Sam’s voice crackled over the comms, strained. “We need to hurry.” But you could hear it—the death rattle in your chest, your body betraying you as the darkness closed in.

Bucky was close now. You could feel his presence, the warmth of his hands as they found yours, trembling. “Sweetheart, no, don’t do this, don’t leave me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before.

You wanted to say something to comfort him, to tell him you’d be okay, that you’d see him again in those last 7 minutes. But the words wouldn’t come, your strength slipping away as everything faded.

“I love you…” was all you managed before the world went quiet, his tear-filled eyes the last thing you saw.

And then there was nothing.

“Y/N… Y/N, wake up. Please,” Bucky’s voice was barely a whisper now, thick with grief. His hands clutched yours desperately, his grip tightening as if he could somehow pull you back from the edge. But you were gone—your body limp, your chest no longer rising with breath. The warmth was fading fast, leaving you cold, just like the darkness swallowing him whole.

“Bucky, we have to move!” Steve’s voice broke through the haze, but it felt distant, like he was calling from miles away.

Bucky didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His entire world had narrowed to you—your lifeless form, the bloodstains on your suit, the silent, unmoving chest that would never rise again. His mind screamed at him to do something, but his body was frozen, paralyzed by the reality crashing down around him.

“Bucky!” Steve’s shout was louder now, closer, and then he was there, grabbing Bucky by the shoulder, shaking him. “We have to go, now! The building’s coming down!”

“Not without her,” Bucky rasped, his voice shattered. He lifted you into his arms, cradling you close like a lifeline, refusing to let go. “I’m not leaving her.”

Steve’s heart twisted painfully, seeing his friend like this—so broken, so lost. But the ground was trembling beneath them, the structure ready to collapse at any moment. “We’ll get her out,” Steve promised, his voice cracking. “But we have to move.”

Bucky finally looked up, his eyes red, brimming with unshed tears. Slowly, he nodded, and together they began to move, Steve covering Bucky as they fought their way back through the crumbling building. The walls groaned ominously, and dust filled the air, but Bucky didn’t care. All he could see was you, all he could feel was the unbearable weight of loss pressing down on his chest.

The team was waiting for them at the extraction point, their faces grim as they saw you in Bucky’s arms. Natasha’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, Sam’s jaw clenched tightly, and even Steve’s stoic expression was cracked with sorrow.

“Let’s go,” Steve said quietly, signalling for the quinjet. But Bucky couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to make it out, supposed to laugh about this later, supposed to be okay. You weren’t supposed to be dead in his arms.

The flight back was silent. No one spoke, the air thick with unspoken grief. Bucky sat motionless, his hand still gripping yours, his head bowed low. He didn’t let go even when they landed, didn’t let go even as they gently tried to take you from him. It wasn’t until Steve knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, that Bucky finally released you, his eyes hollow, staring into nothing.

“You loved her,” Steve said softly, though it wasn’t a question.

Bucky’s voice was barely audible, a broken whisper. “She was everything, Steve.”

Steve’s hand tightened on his shoulder, offering silent comfort, but Bucky couldn’t feel it. All he felt was the emptiness, the unbearable ache that filled the space where you used to be.

And in that moment, he knew he would never be whole again.

#bucky x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fanfic #the avengers x reader #avenger reader #avengers x reader

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xoxosimp · 1 year ago

Text

Right Person, Wrong Time

POV: You break playboy!Bucky’s heart

Pairing: Bi!Bucky Barnes x Bestfriend!Reader

Part two: Perfect Timing

Warnings: angst, not beta’d, mediocre writing

A/N: This is heavily inspired by this sound on tik tok and one of my favorite scenes in a Disney channel show I used to watch LOL.

~~~~

If there is something about life, you like things to be simple.

You flourished when you had a consistent and simple routine. Where others feel bored with things being the same everyday, mundaneness gives you a certain type of peace you never wanted to give up.

Bucky Barnes was a part of your routine. Every day after work, you and Bucky would run at the park. Sometimes it was one mile, other days it was five.

Your workout routine with Bucky was never stale. Warm up, run, (Bucky insists that he always runs behind you for whatever protective reason he has. And looking at your ass is a great motivator, not that you know the latter). Then you would have dinner together, either one of you would cook or you would go out to eat.

The sound of you and Bucky’s steps echoed against the pavement. Sweat clouded your vision and your lungs were begging for a respite but you were halfway to your checkpoint point. You picked up the pace, challenging him to keep up from behind.

Bucky caught up to you and gestured to your foot, “ Your shoe is untied, angel,” he panted out.

You furrowed your eyebrows and glanced at your feet, breaking your stride. “ Well, I guess we can take a break now,” Bucky said as he came to a stop.

You smiled, “ You freaking liar!”

Bucky holds up his hands as if he was innocent. “ Don’t hate me just because you stopped, beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned against the rails of a bridge you so conveniently stopped at.

“ What do you wanna do for dinner?”, you asked Bucky, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“Anything you want, I want, angel.”

You asked him everytime and every time he gave the same response. He always wants what you want. “ Then let’s get Peruvian food, I could kill for lomo right now.”

Bucky chuckled to himself, like he had something to say. “ Do you not want lomo, Buck?”

“ That’s fine, angel, just..” he trailed off. “ At least this dinner won’t have a side of tension.”

Bucky alluded to a dinner you had with your other friend Steve Rogers, and his significant other, Lililian. Steve isn't the one to argue in public, but his girlfriend kept picking fights. You and Bucky would attempt to dissolve the tense atmosphere, but it always seemed to thicken again.

“ Yeah, I couldn't imagine going through all the drama they’re going through. Steve looked like he wanted to explode,” you recalled.

He nodded his head. “ I think Steve needs someone less…in your face, you know?”

“Elaborate.”

“ Steve has a … strong personality, angel. He needs someone to soothe rather than excite.”

“So what, he needs someone to tame his inner alpha?,” you quipped.

Bucky chuckled and looked at you. After a pause, he said, " You know, we wouldn't be like that.”

You raisd an eyebrow, standing up straight, “ Like what?”

“ Complicated. If we were together, it would just be me and you, plus together.”

Your stomach fluttered. The notion of dating Bucky wasn't completely foreign to you. Bucky was an attractive person, inside and out. It was something about the way he looks at someone, the way he looked at you, that you knew you could trust him with the darkest parts of yourself. His huge fucking arms were always open if you needed a hug, and his beautiful blue eyes were always on you.

But if Bucky Barnes was anything, he was a player. He knew how to play a woman ( or man) like a finely tuned instrument, and make them melt into his hands.

Bucky Barnes didn’t date. Bucky Barnes didn’t settle down. He thrived in spontaneity.

You shook your head, “ We’re friends, Jamie.”

“ But I want more. I want more of you, angel. You’re the first person on my mind when I wake up, and the last thing before I go to bed. I can’t go a day without you. Would it really be that much of a difference if we were together?”

He spoke with so much conviction that you almost trusted him.

“ Bucky , ever since I met you, you’ve always been a player,” you explained. “ We have the perfect relationship and I don't wanna lose you just because you wanna try something new.”

You could have slapped him and Bucky still wouldn't have looked so shocked. His expression makes your heart drop into your stomach.

“ What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he countered.

“ You get bored easily,” you crossed your arms. “ If we started dating you would get bored of me, then we would break up and our relationship would never be the same.”

“ We’re friends, Bucky,” you reiterated. “ You can have as many boyfriends and girlfriends you want, and we can still be best friends.”

Usually you could tell what mood Bucky was in. He had a “ I’m Hangry” glare and a “ I’m tired of this bullshit “ glare. You couldn't make out what he was feeling.

“ I don't feel like Peruvian food today,” he uttered “ Let me walk you to your car.”

“Are we good, Jamie?”

“ We’re good, (Y/N).

He didn't call you angel, or beautiful, or any of the other pet names he would call you. Bucky didn't give you a kiss on the cheek and tell you to drive safe once you got in your car. The feeling of hurting him weighed heavy on your chest, but the relief of speaking your truth was liberating.

Maybe you made a mistake, telling Bucky you didn't trust him with your heart.

No, it’s for the better.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #best friend! Bucky Barnes #Bi!Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes oneshot

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 6 months ago

Text

Eddie Munson's royal wedding

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 21

Prompt: Formal

Rated: M

Tags: Modern AU; Rock star Eddie; Royal Steve; Established relationship; Sexually explicit language

Notes: Previous part | Part 1

“Okay,” Eddie says. The crowd outside the toned windows of the limousine has been getting thicker, which means they must be there soon. “Lemme get this straight again.”

Steve, seated opposite him and looking both stupidly at ease and infuriatingly handsome in his tailored suit, chuckles.

“You’re talking about your tie, right? Because you’ve been tugging on it again.”

Eddie groans and attempts to right the dreaded thing. It feels like trying to strangle himself.

“Very funny, you asshole,” he grouses, but Steve doesn’t rise to the insult, just continues to observe his struggle with fond amusement. “I'm talking about this wedding. Why do we need to- … I mean, how are you related to these people again?”

“Here, let me,” Steve mutters, leaning over and swatting Eddie’s hands away so that he can straighten the tie for him. “You know my cousin?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “The Duchess of What’s Her Face. Met her at a fundraiser once. Major bitch, please don’t tell me it's her getting married.”

“No, that’s my father’s niece,” Steve laughs, markedly not correcting him on the major bitch part. “This is my mother’s side of the family.”

“Ah, the banker and entrepreneur side,” Eddie says. He tries to fiddle with his rings, but they’ve made him leave most of them at home. “Much better.”

“Hey,” Steve says. “Try to look at it from the positive side. You won’t have to remember any titles. There'll probably also be less cameras.”

Silence drops. The car slows down as they pass another security checkpoint.

“Hey,” Steve says. His hands settle on Eddie’s shoulders, featherlight and familiar. “Hey, look at me.”

Eddie does.

“You don't have to do this,” Steve says. His eyes are serious, his brow furrowed. “I can get out of this car alone and tell the driver to bring you home, and nobody will need to see you like this.”

“Wow,” Eddie scoffs. “You can tell you've been trained in diplomacy. That's the nicest way anyone has ever told me I looked like shit.”

Steve drops a chaste kiss to his lips, just as the car stops. “I never said that. I know it's not your favorite type of event, though. Or your favorite type of people. I don't ever want to force you into-”

“Hey,” Eddie interrupts him. “You're not forcing me. I chose this. I chose you. And for the record, I know I look fantastic in this thing.”

Steve hums, a low sound that settles heavy in Eddie’s abdomen. The driver’s door shuts and steps approach. An excited chorus of voices swells outside. The goddamn press, eager to catch a photo of him making a complete ass of himself on his first royal engagement.

“You know when you'll look even better?”

Eddie flinches back to attention. “Huh?”

The door swings open. A storm of flashing cameras breaks loose.

Steve smiles, bright and professional. His voice is so low Eddie needs to strain to catch it.

“When we get back to the hotel and I take it off you.”

“There he is!”

Eddie turns to see the bride swooshing towards him in a flurry of white skirts, her new husband trailing on her heel like an eager puppy. He casts a nervous glance over his left shoulder, then one over his right, but Steve is nowhere to be seen.

“Eddie Munson,” the bride says, coming to a stop in front of him and taking a generous sip of her champagne. “The rock star who bagged the crown prince. Every eligible person in this room either wants to be you or kill you, you know that?”

“Yeah well,” Eddie says, taking in the mean curl of her mouth and the sharp glint in her eyes. “Good thing you're not eligible anymore, I guess.”

Her face twitches and her hand grips the glass a little tighter.

“Carol,” says her husband, smile sharp. “Don't tease him. He must have it hard enough. The backlash from his fans, the media claiming that this is just a rebellious phase Steve is going to grow out of soon. I imagine it can't be easy.”

“Ah, you know how the press are,” Eddie says. “Better not to listen to them. Steve and I are in this for the long haul. We're planning on making it work.”

The bride quirks a brow. “Well, good luck with making that white dress work at your wedding.”

And Eddie wanted to behave, he really did, but what can he do when served a cue like this?

“Bold to assume I'll be the one wearing the dress.”

Silence drops. The bride and groom gape at him. A scandalized murmur runs through the assembled bystanders, and fuck, when did they gain an audience?

“Um,” Eddie says. “Listen, that was-”

“There you are!” Steve exclaims, materializing out of nowhere and taking him gently by the shoulder. “Tommy, Carol, I'm so sorry, but we need to get going. Early start tomorrow, you know how it is. Beautiful wedding, congrats again.”

And then Eddie’s being pulled out the doors and into the venue's lush garden, past a crowd of gawking wedding guests.

“I can't believe you said that.”

Eddie is already drawing a breath to apologize, but then it dawns on him that it's not rage that's making Steve’s voice shake. It's laughter. Steve's hand, against all rules of propriety and protocol, has slipped into his.

“Told you I'd be a disaster at this,” he shrugs, and Steve snorts.

“Ah, they deserved it. We can deal with the fallout tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Eddie smirks as the limousine rolls to a stop before them and the driver jumps out to open the door for them. “Is this the part where you take me to the hotel and-”

“Oh no,” Steve says, and pulls him inside. His eyes are sparkling. “Change of plans. You're fucking me in the car.”

And who's Eddie to disregard a royal order?

More holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles 2024 #the rock star and the royal

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teddiee · 4 months ago

Text

Into Each Life: Chapter 18

Summary:

For just a second, he let Steve hold him, let himself be wrapped up in something solid, something steady. Let the weight of another trusted Alpha’s touch press down, soothing the frayed edges of his instincts.

Steve pulled back just enough to search his face, hands gripping his arms like he needed proof Tony was real. “Where the hell did you go?” he demanded, voice sharp, laced with too much—too much worry, too much frustration, too much of everything Steve wasn’t saying.

Tony, because he was Tony, flashed a shit-eating grin. “Summer camp.”

Words: 11,620

Warnings/Explicit Content: a/b/o dynamics, scenting/marking, non-penetrative climax, accidental orgasm, overstimulation, possessive alpha bucky barnes, touch-starved tony stark, third-wheel steve rogers (lol), light dom/sub undertones, hickeys galore

“Do you intend to knock? Or are we simply admiring craftsmanship this evening?”

Tony scowls, shooting Jarvis a glare. “I—I’m just—Give me a second.”

“You’ve had several.”

“Jesus, J, let me have a moment, will you?”

Jarvis folds his hands neatly behind his back, ever the picture of composed patience. “Certainly. Would you like me to clear the rest of your evening for this, or should I reschedule your self-doubt for a more convenient time?”

Tony exhales sharply, dragging both hands through his hair. “God, you’re pushy.”

“And yet,” Jarvis says, infuriatingly calm, “here we are.”

Tony turns back to the door, pulse erratic, stomach a roiling mess of nerves. It’s just a door. A simple, scuffed, brown apartment door.

And yet, it somehow feels like he’s standing at the edge of a battlefield, waiting for the first shot to be fired.

It’s been thirteen days.

Thirteen days of pacing sterile hallways with an ID badge slapped on his chest like some kind of war criminal on probation. Thirteen days of conversations that only ever seemed to involve classified files, military jargon, or someone shoving yet another clipboard in his face. Thirteen days of cafeteria slop he wouldn’t feed to a dog.

Thirteen days since he’s seen Bucky Barnes.

When he’d finally been granted release, it had been Jarvis waiting for him, parked at some godforsaken SSR checkpoint in the middle of nowhere. Jarvis, who had stood beside the open car door, looking uncharacteristically tense, hands clasped so tightly they turned pale. Jarvis, who never pried, never pushed, but who had exhaled, just once, when Tony slid into the passenger seat; like the weight of an entire world had just lifted from his shoulders.

The drive back to Brooklyn had been quiet, the Packard cutting through rain-slicked streets as Tony fought to hold himself together. Jarvis had kept glancing at him, concern written into the stiff set of his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows. When they’d pulled up to the brownstone, Jarvis had offered to walk him up—something he’d never done before.

Tony hadn’t said no.

And now, here they were.

The silence stretches too long. Jarvis sighs, and then, with the measured efficiency of a man who has spent over a decade wrangling a Stark, he raises his hand—

And knocks.

Tony’s stomach plummets. He whips around on his heel and shoots his butler a frenzied look. “What the fuck, Jarvis?”

“You were taking too long.”

“Becuase I was building up to it!”

“Yes, at an absolutely glacial pace.” Jarvis straightens an invisible crease in his sleeve. “If you had your way, we’d be standing here until the next war.”

Tony’s retort dies in his throat as he hears movement inside.

The sound of shuffling footsteps. A dull thud—like something bumping into a piece of furniture. Then, a sharp curse, followed by hurried, uneven strides approaching the door.

Tony stops breathing.

The lock clicks. The door lurches open.

And then—

The world doesn’t tilt so much as it lurches—sharp, disorienting, like stepping onto solid ground only to find it’s turned to water beneath his feet.

Not in some grand, sweeping way. Not in a poetic, tragic, cinematic burst of fate.

No, it’s worse.

Because it’s quiet. Devastating in its simplicity.

The man in front of him looks… ruined.

Not just tired. Not just unkempt, but gutted, carved out, frayed down to something raw and aching.

His hair is a mess, flattened in some places, sticking up wildly in others, like he’s been shoving his hands through it over and over again. His undershirt—thin, soft with wear—is wrinkled beneath his open suspenders, his button-up shoved to his elbows, creased and disheveled like he’d rolled them up hours ago and never thought to fix them. His trousers sit low on his hips, a little looser than usual, like he’d forgotten to wear a belt, and his bare feet barely make a sound against the scuffed wooden floor.

But it’s his face that hits Tony the hardest.

The dark smudges under his eyes, deep and bruised-looking, like he hasn’t truly slept since Tony left. The tension in his jaw, the way his lips press together like he’s been holding something back, like he’s used to holding down on words too sharp to say aloud. But Tony knows him too well. He sees it in the flicker of his fingers at his sides, the almost imperceptible twitch of his shoulders, the way his breath stutters on the exhale.

And then—

His eyes widen.

His lips part, but no sound comes out. His breath catches, just for a moment, his entire body going taut with something unreadable as his gaze rakes over Tony’s face, scanning him like he doesn’t trust what he’s seeing. Like Tony might disappear if he blinks too long.

For half a heartbeat, he just stares.

Tony stares back.

And for a long, silent second, the world shrinks down to nothing but the space between them.

Then the scent hits.

Tony staggers.

The force of it is immediate, brutal, knocking into him like a sledgehammer to the ribs. It’s Bucky, Bucky, thick and warm and overwhelming—cedarwood and musk and something darker, richer, something that has always made Tony feel safe, wanted, home.

His body reacts before his mind catches up, his knees threatening to give out as heat floods through him, a desperate, aching instinct roaring to the surface.

His scent glands pulse like a heartbeat. His breath shudders out in a ragged, ruined sound.

Bucky moves.

One second, there’s space between them. The next, Tony is being pulled in, hit with the full force of Bucky’s body, hands gripping his shirt like he needs proof, like he needs to feel flesh and bone beneath his fingers to believe it’s real. The impact steals Tony’s breath, knocks it straight out of his lungs as Bucky clutches at him, arms coiling around his back, pressing their bodies together with something close to desperation.

Tony makes a sound—raw, unsteady, ripped from the very core of him—and fists his hands into Bucky’s shirt, white-knuckled, clutching back like letting go isn’t an option.

Bucky trembles.

“Jesus Christ.”

The Alpha's voice is wrecked, furious, breath hot against Tony’s temple. His whole body vibrates, his chest heaving with ragged, unsteady breaths. “Where the hell have you been?”

Tony can’t answer. Can’t find the words, can’t find anything but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—his scent, his heat, the way his body wraps around Tony like he belongs there.

Bucky buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, breath shaky, arms like iron bands locking him in place. His hands won’t stop moving, won’t stop touching—searching, roaming, pressing into Tony’s ribs, his back, his shoulders, mapping out every inch like he’s afraid something will be missing.

“Fuck—” The curse is barely a breath, vibrating against Tony’s pulse. “You—Goddammit, Tony, you just—” His voice cracks, just for a second, and Tony feels it like a knife between his ribs.

Tony sags, lets himself fold into Bucky’s grip, every bit of tension bleeding out of him as he breathes in deep, lets the scent of his Alpha flood his senses, soothe the raw, aching wound in his chest. It’s overwhelming. It’s grounding.

Bucky exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against Tony’s, the grip in his hair tightening like he needs something solid to hold onto.

His voice, when he speaks again, is rough at the edges, frayed like a rope about to snap.

“Never—” Bucky swallows hard, fingers curling tight against Tony’s nape. “Never do that to me again.”

It’s not a plea. It’s an order.

Tony shivers, his breath catching, his whole body humming with the force of Alpha, Alpha, Alpha.

Bucky pulls back just enough to look at him, his pupils blown wide, gaze raking over Tony’s face like he’s committing it to memory. His fingers tighten in Tony’s shirt, knuckles going white.

"Two weeks."

Bucky's voice is wrecked, sandpaper-rough, something strained and shaking at the edges. His grip on Tony’s waist is iron-tight, fingers flexing like he’s afraid Tony’s going to vanish right out of his hands.

"Two fucking weeks," he rasps, and there’s something layered under the anger, something raw and exposed and running bone-deep. "And all I got was—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, fingers fisting tighter in Tony’s shirt. "One letter. One." A sharp exhale, ragged, too fast. "No phone call. No address. Just—just words on a goddamn page."

Tony presses closer, the weight of Bucky’s body keeping him upright. His heart’s hammering hard enough to crack his ribs.

Bucky shakes his head, voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to decide whether he’s angry or just aching. "I didn’t know where you were, Tony." His hands shift, grip twitching against Tony’s waist. "Didn’t know if you were safe. If you were—" He stops, drags in a breath through his nose, exhales like it burns on the way out. His chest rises and falls too fast, too uneven.

Tony’s lungs seize. He’s talking before he even realizes it, words stumbling over each other in their rush to get out.

"I wanted to—" The admission bursts out of him, too quick, too frantic. "Bucky, I swear, I—" His breath stutters, voice cracking wide open, but he pushes forward anyway. "I couldn’t. I couldn’t. They wouldn’t let me, I didn’t even know where I was, technically, I—"

His hands are shaking. He clenches them tighter in Bucky’s undershirt, holding on for dear life.

"I promise you, Buck, I—I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell you everything, I just—" His voice caves, shaky and weak and desperate, too desperate. "I couldn’t."

Bucky’s whole body is locked up, vibrating with something that’s not quite rage, not quite relief. He makes a low, fractured sound in the back of his throat, then suddenly—

Tony’s breath is stolen.

Bucky hauls him in, arms coiling tighter, his scent spiking with something thick, something weighty, something that slams into Tony’s nervous system like a freefall.

"Jesus, Tony," Bucky mutters, voice rasping against his neck, breath hot and unsteady. "I—" The words falter, break apart. His fingers dig into Tony’s waist like he’s trying to hold both of them together. His whole frame is trembling, broad chest pressed against Tony’s, muscles wound up so tight they might snap.

Then, barely a breath, barely a whisper—

"God, honey, you don’t even smell like you."

Tony doesn’t register it at first. His brain is full of white noise, his body full of Bucky, warmth and weight and sheer presence sinking into his bones.

Then Bucky makes a noise.

It’s quiet. A low, wounded thing.

Tony's stomach lurches.

Bucky pulls back, just enough to look at him, hands sliding over Tony’s collar, pressing into the pulse at his throat, his wrists, his jaw—searching. Searching for something that isn’t there.

"You don’t—" Bucky swallows hard, eyes flickering dark, stormy, sharp-edged and hollow all at once. His voice scrapes raw as he breathes, "They scrubbed me off you."

Tony’s breath stops dead in his throat.

The SSR. The bunker. Cold metal tables and clipped military efficiency. Antiseptic and starch and nothing else. No scent-marking. No warmth. No him.

He hadn’t even noticed.

Bucky had.

Bucky, who always buried his face in Tony’s neck when he came home, who always wrinkled his nose when Tony smelled too much like stale Institute hallways, who had once—just once—dragged his mouth over Tony’s mating gland and murmured mine like it meant something.

Tony tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat feels swollen shut, lungs strangled by something cold, something tight.

Bucky looks gutted.

"You smell like—like nothing," Bucky says, almost disbelieving, like it’s a physical impossibility. His fingers curl into Tony’s lapels, tugging him in, like sheer force of will might bring it back. "I don’t—God, I don’t like it, doll, I don’t—I can’t—" He breaks off, breath catching on something ugly.

And then he’s pressing in, pushing his face against Tony’s throat, drenching him in scent, like he can overwrite it, fix it, pull Tony back from whatever sterile void they dumped him in.

Tony shudders, his whole body locking up. His fingers dig into Bucky’s back, holding on, clutching tight. His voice comes out shaky, hoarse, barely above a whisper—

"‘M still yours."

Bucky makes another wrecked sound, part growl, part plea.

"Still yours, Buck. I swear it."

Bucky breaks.

His hands are frantic, desperate, dragging Tony closer, his lips pressing hot, fast kisses to his temple, his cheek, his jaw—anywhere he can reach. "Yeah, honey," he breathes between kisses, "yeah, you are. Mine."

Tony nods, shaking apart, curling into Bucky’s warmth like he can fuse them back together.

Bucky exhales, shaky, uneven, one hand sinking into Tony’s hair, the other still holding onto his waist like a lifeline. His scent floods the air—heavy, grounding, his.

They could stay like this forever. Wrapped around each other, fixing it. Undoing the space, undoing the ache, undoing whatever the SSR tried to take.

But then—

A quiet cough.

Tony stiffens, brain snapping back to reality in a painful whiplash as his head jerks up—

And there’s Jarvis. Standing a polite distance away, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression perfectly neutral save for the faintest flicker of long-suffering patience.

"Perhaps I should come in and make some coffee," Jarvis suggests dryly.

Bucky doesn’t react. Doesn’t even twitch. Just holds Tony tighter, nose still buried against his skin, like he’s pretending Jarvis doesn’t exist.

Tony, for his part, is actively considering melting through the floorboards.

But Bucky Barnes is still his mother’s son.

Which means Tony barely has time to register what’s happening before Bucky lifts his head just slightly, nodding once—respectful, quiet.

"Mister Jarvis."

Jarvis’s expression doesn’t flicker. Not a smirk, not a twitch, nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, quick and subtle, before he steps forward with smooth, effortless grace.

"Mister Barnes," he returns, just as composed. "A pleasure, at last."

Tony actually stops breathing.

Bucky doesn’t let go. But his grip changes—less frantic, more assured, like his body has finally decided Tony is here, and real. His head tilts slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. No challenge, no hesitation—just understanding. A long moment stretches out between them, quiet and unspoken.

Then, finally—Bucky exhales.

"Yeah," he says, steadier now, something looser in his shoulders. "Yeah, I think it is."

Jarvis doesn’t react right away. Just looks at Bucky, measuring, assessing.

Then, so quick Tony almost misses it, the barest flicker of something.

Approval, maybe.

Then—gone.

Jarvis clears his throat. "Shall I assume three cups?" he asks, already turning toward the kitchen, perfectly unfazed.

Bucky’s voice is still gravelly, still thick with something raw, but he answers without hesitation.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, please, that’d be great. Maybe four. Come on in.”

Jarvis steps inside with a measured grace, shutting the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click that somehow feels like the final turn of a lock. The room shifts, smaller now, the heavy press of Bucky’s scent sinking into the space between them, curling around Tony’s skin like something with teeth.

Bucky’s attention snaps back to him instantly, like it never left. His hands resume their path, mapping him out, tracing over sharp cheekbones, brushing against the dark hollows under Tony’s eyes, pausing at the almost-healed cut on his lip. His frown deepens, something hard and lethal flickering in the space behind his eyes.

“I was going outta my mind,” he murmurs, voice tight, gravel-rough. His fingers drift lower, skimming Tony’s jaw, his temple. “Had no idea where you were. No one knew a damn thing. Couldn’t find a trace of you—not with your family, not with Stone. Nothin’, doll. Just—” He exhales sharply, like the words are too bitter to sit on his tongue. “Dead ends.”

Tony sways closer, grip tightening around the straps of Bucky’s suspenders, holding on like maybe, just maybe, if he clings hard enough, he can shove an apology into Bucky’s skin and make it stick. His own voice is quiet when it comes, strained and unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “God, Buck, I’m so sorry.”

Bucky doesn’t let him pull back. If anything, he holds on tighter, his hands dragging over Tony’s skin like he’s still searching, like he’s cataloging every inch of him to make sure none of it’s missing. His palms frame Tony’s face, his thumb sweeping over the soft skin beneath his eyes, pressing against exhaustion like he can erase it.

“Where the hell were you?” he asks, voice dropping lower, rougher. “What happened?”

Tony’s throat tightens. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come.

Because he can’t tell Bucky.

Not about SSR, not about Project Rebirth, not about Erskine or the chamber or the ice-cold weight of secrecy pressing into his ribs. Not about the way they locked him away in a concrete tomb while the world kept turning without him.

He signed the NDAs. He swore the silence.

But he can give Bucky this.

“I wasn’t with Tiberius,” he manages, meeting Bucky’s gaze even as his stomach churns with the half-truths he can’t untangle. “I swear, Buck. I wasn’t.”

Bucky exhales, sharp and rough, like he’s trying to shove the weight of the last two weeks out of his lungs. His fingers press a little harder, thumb sliding to the hinge of Tony’s jaw. His eyes flash, something unreadable simmering just beneath the surface.

“You sure?” he asks, voice quiet but edged with something razor-sharp. “You can—You can tell me.”

Tony nods, grip tightening around Bucky’s wrist, grounding himself in the heat of his skin. “Swear it.”

A beat. A long inhale.

Something shifts in Bucky’s shoulders—not much, but enough.

Tony licks his lips, pulse hammering under the weight of Bucky’s grip. “The contract’s void,” he whispers. “I’m not—he doesn’t own me anymore.”

Bucky’s expression darkens. His fingers flex like he wants to dig deeper, carve out every last answer Tony isn’t giving. Like he’s not content to let this mystery sit, to let it live in the quiet between them.

But whatever he sees in Tony’s face must be enough—because he doesn’t push.

Instead, he lets out a quiet sound, something deep and rough, curling his fingers around the back of Tony’s neck, his thumb dragging over his scent gland in slow, grounding strokes. His breath shudders out, long and uneven, like the last two weeks are finally catching up to him all at once.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs.

Then, with a quiet fierceness that settles deep in Tony’s ribs:

“You were never his.”

The coffee is scalding, strong, and mercifully grounding. Tony wraps his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his fingers as steam curls lazily into the air. The kitchen feels smaller than it should, crowded with the weight of too many bodies, the rich caffeinated scent cutting through the dense, lingering haze of Bucky’s pheromones hanging thick in the room.

Across the table, Steve squints between Bucky—who still hasn’t stopped touching Tony, one hand curled loosely over the back of his chair, thumb skimming slow, lazy strokes against his shoulder—and Jarvis, the very picture of unshaken dignity, sipping his coffee like this is just another Tuesday.

“You—” Steve starts, voice still rough with sleep. He blinks hard. “You have a butler.”

Tony takes a slow, pointed sip. “Incredible observation skills, Rogers.”

It had taken a considerable amount of effort to drag Steve out of bed. Bucky had muttered something along the lines of “dumb lug could sleep through an air raid” before stomping off to the bedroom, vanishing for all of ten seconds before a sharp thud and an indignant yelp signaled that Steve had been forcibly extracted from unconsciousness.

By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, his hair was an absolute disaster, his undershirt twisted like he’d fought a battle in his sleep and lost, and his face was wearing the kind of deep confusion only half-conscious men could muster. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, blinking slow, trying to process—

Then he saw Tony.

And Steve—Steve just froze.

Mid-step, mid-breath, mid-blink. Muscles locking up, jaw going slack, blue eyes widening as he took Tony in. His mouth opened like maybe he had words, but then his gaze dropped lower, scanning, flicking over every inch of him like he wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing him or if he was still dreaming.

Tony barely had time to process before Steve crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked him into a hug so tight it drove the air from his lungs.

His whole body locked up, instincts screaming at the abruptness, at the sheer force of being grabbed, of being enveloped—but Steve was Steve, scrawy limbs and all.

And Steve smelled like home—like linen and soap, like warm Brooklyn summers, like graphite and ink.

Tony exhaled, slow and unsteady, and let himself sink into it.

Tony, because he was Tony, flashed a shit-eating grin. “Summer camp.”

Steve scowled. “You’re an ass.”

Now, with a cup of coffee in hand and Steve looking marginally more awake, he was back to staring at Jarvis with the furrowed expression of someone struggling to process a deeply inconvenient reality. “No, seriously,” Steve says, dragging a hand through his hair. “You meant an actual butler? This whole time? Like—a real, breathing, limo-drivin' butler?”

Jarvis, to his credit, doesn’t even blink. He sets his cup down neatly, regarding Steve with the same mild patience he usually reserves for tax collectors and door-to-door salesmen. “Unless there has been some significant change to my employment status of which I am unaware—yes.”

Steve gapes at him. Then back at Tony. “Jesus. All this time, I thought you were jokin’.”

“I was,” Tony says, shifting in his chair. “But I had to keep up appearances. Put out a classified ad—‘Middle-aged Brit needed: must be balding and own at least three waistcoats. Bonus points for proficiency in disappointed sighs.’”

Jarvis takes another sip of coffee. “And yet, despite my exceptional qualifications, you insist on testing my patience daily.”

Tony gestures vaguely. “See? Best investment I ever made.”

Bucky makes a low, tired noise, something close to a laugh, but his hand never leaves Tony. Broad and warm, it remains at the nape of his neck, tracing slow, absent circles, his thumb occasionally wandering to brush against Tony’s scent gland. It’s subtle but deliberate—reassuring, anchoring, possessive in a way Tony doesn’t know how to process.

He should pull away.

Should crack a joke, should roll his eyes, should act like his whole body isn’t going liquid under the weight of Bucky’s touch, isn’t leaning into the slow, grounding press like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

He should.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, shaking his head, letting his shoulders relax under the weight of it. “Anyway,” he says, flicking a look at Steve. “Glad to see you managed to drag yourself out of hibernation.”

Steve grumbles something about "someone kicking up enough scent to wake half the Alphas in the damn borough,” but Tony isn’t listening anymore.

Because Bucky leans in.

Just slightly, just enough for the heat of him to flare against the side of Tony’s temple, just enough that the air shifts thick with something electric, something that makes Tony’s blood run slow and heavy. The hand at his nape doesn’t move, but Bucky inhales, close and quiet, scent flaring rich and deep as he presses the barest fraction closer.

Scenting.

Marking.

Tony feels it everywhere.

His pulse jumps, his breath hitches, his skin prickles like every nerve in his body has just gone on high alert.

Too much. Too fast.

His instincts don’t care.

His body soaks it in, curled into the warmth of an Alpha’s presence, into the wordless claiming Bucky is offering in slow, careful increments.

And Bucky—Bucky knows.

Of course, he does.

He can smell it. Can feel the way Tony’s breath has gone shallow, the way his fingers curl tighter around the ceramic of his cup, the way his scent softens, hazed into something instinctively receptive.

For half a second, Bucky’s grip flexes like he wants to push, like his own instincts are telling him to take, to hold, to keep.

Tony sucks in a sharp breath.

He tries to focus, tries to ground himself. He has an audience. Steve is still watching, brows knit together, sharp blue gaze flicking between the two of them, reading too much, catching on too fast. Even Jarvis, ever composed, pauses mid-sip, expression unreadable as his eyes flicker briefly between them.

Tony licks his lips, clears his throat, forces himself to speak. “Right, well,” he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. He waves a hand vaguely. “Look, I can't give you guys any classified details, unfortunately. Signed, like, forty-five NDAs. So let’s just say I was on a thrilling War Department-sponsored getaway. Real five-star experience—concrete beds, round-the-clock babysitting, food that tasted like wet newspaper. Real top-tier operation.”

Bucky makes a low, unimpressed noise, and his thumb strokes another slow line against Tony’s scent gland, pressing just enough to make Tony shudder.

“Tony,” Bucky says disapprovingly.

Tony exhales sharply, forcing a grin. “That’s the best you’re getting. You want details, you can file a request with the U.S. government. I’m sure they’ll get back to you in—oh, never.”

Steve looks vaguely green. “You were locked up?”

Tony shrugs one shoulder, feeling loose, untethered. “They called it a security measure. I call it a colossal waste of taxpayer money.” His fingers tighten around the mug as his breath hitches, heat pooling behind his ribs, creeping up the back of his throat. “Point is, I’m here now, so—”

A slow, woozy sensation washes over Tony, dragging him deeper into the thick, smothering heat of it—his blood humming, his skin flushed, his head full of cotton. He grips the edge of the table, fingers pressing into the wood like it might anchor him, like it might stop the slow unraveling inside him.

Across from him, Steve flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just the faintest hitch in his breath, the way his hands flex on his mug, the crease between his brows pulling tighter. His gaze flicks to Bucky, then back to Tony, his posture shifting from confusion to something steadier, something careful.

"Hey," Steve says, voice dropping into something quiet, something measured. His scent stays forcibly neutral, locked down tight, but Tony can tell—he's holding it back on purpose. "You okay?"

Tony tries to nod, tries to play it off, but his movements are slow, delayed, like his brain and body are working on separate frequencies. His breath stutters. He feels hot, too hot, his skin buzzing with something restless and heavy. Somewhere to his right, a chair scrapes against the floor, the soft clink of a coffee cup being set down—Jarvis, moving with the same effortless grace he always does—but Tony barely registers it.

Because Bucky is touching him.

Still. Always.

His hand stays warm and steady at the back of Tony’s neck, thumb pressing slow, absent circles against his scent gland. And when he leans in, his scent flaring low and steady, Tony feels it everywhere—pressing into his ribs, curling into his lungs, settling deep beneath his skin like something meant to stay.

Bucky knows.

Tony can feel it in the shift of his body, in the way his hand flexes at his nape, just slightly, like he's making sure Tony stays exactly where he is. "Hey," Bucky murmurs, voice soft but firm. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Tony blinks up at him, sluggish and heavy-limbed, breath coming too short, too uneven.

Bucky’s expression has changed—still tight with frustration, still sharp around the edges, but softened now, concern threading through the hard lines of his face. “You’re dropping,” he says, low and certain, like it’s just a fact, like it’s something he’s already decided how to fix. “Breathe for me.”

Tony shudders. The command in Bucky’s voice—deep, even, grounding—sets something off in him, instinct curling tight in his stomach, winding low in his ribs. His breath catches, then stumbles out of him all at once, hitching in his chest. His scent shifts, thickening in the air, curling warmer, softer.

Beside him, Jarvis clears his throat, the sound pointed but not unkind. “I believe that’s my cue,” he says smoothly, already rising to his feet.

Tony blinks, tries to gather his scattered thoughts, tries to regain some sense of composure. He pushes up like he’s going to stand, his limbs still syrup-heavy. “I’ll walk you out.”

Jarvis doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He just exhales through his nose, then levels Tony with a look so profoundly unimpressed that Tony has to fight the ridiculous instinct to bare his teeth like a petulant child.

“I sincerely doubt that,” Jarvis says dryly, reaching for his waistcoat where he draped it earlier.

Tony scowls. “I can—”

“You cannot,” Jarvis cuts in, patient as ever, but leaving no room for argument. He straightens his lapels, sharp eyes flicking once to Bucky’s hand at the back of Tony’s neck before returning to his face. “You will sit here, finish your coffee, and try not to fall over while I make my exit.”

"Bossy," Tony mutters, but he doesn’t move. Mostly because—yeah, okay, Jarvis might have a point. His balance is shot, his biology strung out and pliant under the sheer weight of Bucky’s presence, and the thought of actually getting up, actually stepping away from the heat curling warm and steady around him, seems about as possible as sprouting wings and flying out the window.

But something about saying goodbye now, after all this, after everything, makes his chest go tight.

Jarvis must see it, because he softens, just a fraction. As he pulls on his coat, he says, casual as anything, “Do try and ring me, Anthony.”

Tony nods once, sharp and quick, not trusting himself to speak.

Because it’s always like this with Jarvis—always a little too much, always a little overwhelming. His brain gets scrambled, his throat gets tight, his instincts get tangled up in all the things he’s never been able to say out loud.

Jarvis, who’s been there for every scraped knee, every sleepless night, every wreck Tony’s ever made of himself. Jarvis, who is the reason Tony is still here. Still standing.

Or, well. Sitting.

Jarvis buttons his coat with quiet efficiency, then glances toward Steve. “Mister Rogers.”

Steve, who has been silent this whole time, jerks like he’s just remembered he exists. “Uh—yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, hands tightening around his mug. “See you ‘round, Mister Jarvis. Sir.”

Jarvis dips his head once, then looks to Bucky. The pause is brief, but weighted, something quiet and assessing passing between them.

Bucky meets the look without flinching. Holds it. And whatever Jarvis sees there must be enough, because he nods, just once, in something that might be acknowledgment.

“Good night, Mister Barnes,” Jarvis says.

Bucky inclines his head, his grip on Tony never wavering. “Sir.”

And then he’s gone, the door swinging open just long enough for a cool gust of Brooklyn night to sweep in and steal some of Tony’s warmth before it clicks shut behind him.

The room falls into silence.

Tony stays slumped against the table, breathing slow, trying to pull himself back together while his body keeps trying to melt under the weight of Bucky’s presence. He knows he needs to get a grip, knows he’s already toeing the edge of something his body might not be able to handle, but it’s fucking impossible to think when Bucky is right there, all scent and heat and solid, unmoving certainty pressing in on him from every angle.

And then there’s Steve.

Still sitting, still holding his coffee, still looking way too much like a man caught in the middle of something he wasn’t prepared to witness. His scent is locked down, his expression carefully neutral, but Tony catches it—the way his fingers tighten just slightly around the ceramic, the barely-there twitch in his jaw.

Guilt stabs through him, sharp and sudden, even as his body betrays him, curling deeper into the quiet, grounding weight of Bucky’s touch.

Bucky, for his part, doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts closer, his grip firm, his scent pressing heavier, thicker, more deliberate. The shift is small, subtle, but Tony feels it like a brand against his skin.

“You should go back to bed.”

The words drop like a stone, short and clipped, not quite a command but carrying enough weight to make Steve go still. Tony glances at Bucky, catching the way his grip tightens—just slightly—on the back of Tony’s chair.

Steve exhales sharply through his nose. “You serious?” He gestures vaguely in Bucky’s direction. “You just dragged me outta bed, Buck. Literally. My ass hit the floor.”

“And now I’m tellin’ you to go back.” Bucky’s voice is even, too even, but there’s an unmistakable shift beneath it, something in his scent cooling at the edges.

Tony knows the room is still thick with it—his own scent, his pheromones still lingering, still saturating the air. Knows, too, that Steve’s Alpha biology is reacting the only way it knows how. There’s no intent behind it, no challenge, no claim.

But Tony’s Alpha clearly isn’t interested in nuance.

Steve squares his shoulders, gaze narrowing just slightly, a flicker of frustration behind his sharp blue eyes. “Buck—”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice drops low. Warning. “Bed.”

Steve’s jaw ticks, but after a beat, he exhales hard, tipping his head back like he’s asking the ceiling for patience. “Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Great to have you back, Tony. Can’t say I missed this part, though.”

Tony grimaces.

Bucky doesn’t so much as blink.

There’s a beat of silence before Steve rolls his eyes, grabbing his coffee cup and downing what’s left of it in one go before setting it down a little too hard on the table. “Fine. Whatever. Try not to do anythin’ nasty while I’m still awake, I swear to God,” he mutters, already turning on his heel and trudging toward the bedroom.

Bucky huffs, shaking his head as Steve disappears down the hall. “Punk.”

Tony, still blinking slow and heavy, lets his head loll lazily to the side. “You know,” he murmurs, voice syrup-thick, “for someone who just forced an Omega to drop his scent all over your kitchen, you’re a real possessive bastard about it.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks down, sharp and steady, pupils just a little too dark. “You’re askin’ for trouble, sweetheart.”

Tony hums, fingers finding Bucky’s wrist where it rests against his chair, pressing just slightly into the scent gland there, his touch featherlight, teasing. “Yeah? What kinda trouble?”

Bucky exhales, slow and measured, before lifting a hand and tucking a loose curl behind Tony’s ear. His fingers trail down, dragging over the bare skin of Tony’s throat, pressing into the quick, unsteady pulse beneath his jaw.

Tony’s breath stutters.

Bucky leans in, his breath warm at Tony’s temple, voice low and rough. “The kind you can’t handle right now, baby.”

His thumb strokes over the gland at Tony’s neck, slow and deliberate, before he pulls back just enough to haul Tony up, guiding him out of the chair like he weighs nothing. “C’mon. Bed.”

Tony whines—soft, instinctual, helpless—when Bucky moves away, his body resisting the loss of heat, of touch, of Bucky. His mind knows they need to move, knows his body is all but useless, barely able to hold itself upright without Bucky propping him up. But that knowledge doesn’t stop the noise that escapes his throat—high and desperate, the kind of sound he’d never let slip if he were thinking clearly.

Bucky freezes.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing, the low hum of the radiator rattling against the wall. Then, slow and deliberate, Bucky shifts.

But instead of pulling away, he steps into Tony’s space, hands sliding around his waist, solid and sure. Tony barely has time to process before he’s being lifted, settled into Bucky’s lap, back into the chair, their bodies fitting together in a way that makes something deep in Tony’s chest go soft, go quiet. He clutches at Bucky’s shoulders as the world tilts.

And then—oh.

Bucky ducks down, breath hot against the crook of Tony’s neck, lips grazing the throbbing, aching pulse point just beneath his jaw. His scent is thick in the air, saturating every inch of space between them, every inch of Tony, seeping into his skin, his lungs, his bones. Tony feels it like a drug, like a fever breaking all at once, like a rope pulling taut between them, dragging him closer, closer, closer.

Bucky growls—a deep, low vibration that rolls through his chest and into Tony’s. “Goddamn knew you weren’t doin’ good,” he mutters against Tony’s skin, voice half a rasp, half a snarl. His fingers flex at Tony’s hips, possessive, grounding. “Knew somethin’ was wrong. You smell—” He inhales deeply. “You smell like you’ve been starvin’ for it, baby.”

Tony doesn’t get the chance to answer. Bucky latches onto his mating gland—his burning, aching, too-long-untouched mating gland—and sucks.

Tony breaks.

A high, sharp noise escapes him, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His entire body locks up, nerves firing, pleasure lancing down his spine so fast and hot it’s blinding.

Bucky devours the spot, mouth hot and wet, tongue soothing over tender, fevered skin before sinking his teeth in again—not enough to break skin, not yet, but hard enough to leave something dark, something that’ll linger for days. A mark. A brand. As close to a bond as he can get without taking Tony right here, right now, in the middle of the apartment kitchen.

And Tony—Tony can’t breathe, can’t think. The sensation is overwhelming, the raw nerve endings in his neck lighting up like electricity, sending wave after wave of heat and relief and completion rolling through him. It’s instinct, it’s biology, it’s everything he’s been denied for nearly two weeks finally slamming back into place all at once.

It’s too much.

It’s perfect.

His vision whites out at the edges. His pulse slams against his ribs, his stomach tenses, his thighs tremble. His body seizes under the weight of sensation, his back arching, his fingers clawing into Bucky’s shirt, his breath shattering in his chest—

And then he comes.

Untouched. Effortless. Helpless.

The orgasm crashes over him like a tidal wave, wracking his body with shuddering, helpless convulsions, his hips jerking forward into nothing, chasing friction that isn’t even needed. His muscles seize, his entire world narrowing to the hot, wet press of Bucky’s mouth still sucking bruises into his skin, to the fingers gripping him so tight, holding him together while he shatters.

His body is still shaking, still riding the aftershocks, when Bucky suddenly stills.

The shift in tension snaps Tony back just enough for awareness to creep in, for the high of his orgasm to melt into something hot and sticky between his legs. His breath stutters, his muscles tremble in the aftermath, and—

Oh. Oh.

The realization barely has time to settle before Bucky growls.

The sound is low, raw, rattling deep in his chest. Possessive in a way that has something inside Tony going soft and pliant. The hands on his hips tighten, fingers pressing in firm as Bucky noses along his jaw, inhaling deep, tongue flicking out to soothe the bruises already blooming on his skin. His own breath is ragged, coming in sharp, uneven pants, his body taut with restraint beneath Tony’s.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifts his head.

Tony forces himself to meet his gaze—and nearly forgets how to breathe.

Bucky looks fractured. Absolutely feral. His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing up the grey, his jaw locked so tight it ticks, his nostrils flaring as he scents the aftermath, as he processes what just happened.

Tony doesn’t even get a second to prepare before Bucky’s grip tightens, fingers digging in, voice thick with heat when he exhales, “Jesus Christ.”

His stomach flips, shame and thrill tangling into something electric.

Then—quieter, like he can’t quite believe it: “Did you just come from me scenting you?”

Tony swallows hard, throat tight, body still trembling in Bucky’s lap. His cheeks burn, the weight of it all crashing into him at once. He tries to think, to find words, to string together something remotely coherent, but he’s still dizzy, still stunned, still—

Bucky moves.

His hand cradles the back of Tony’s head, fingers threading into his curls, thumb sweeping over his temple in slow, steady strokes, grounding.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with something close to awe. “Didn’t even touch you.”

Tony hums, eyes slipping shut for a beat before he forces them back open. His tongue feels thick, heavy, but he manages a slow, slurred, “Alpha.”

Bucky’s breath catches.

His grip tightens, just for a second, his entire body going rigid like Tony’s just grabbed him by the throat. His scent spikes, something raw and instinctual flashing across his face before he reels himself back in, his breathing hard and unsteady.

Tony feels weightless, drunk on it, tilting his head into Bucky’s palm with a quiet, pleased noise, his entire body thrumming.

Bucky exhales, rubbing slow, broad circles into Tony’s back. “Yeah, I know, baby,” he soothes, nosing against Tony’s temple. “You’re all messed up, huh? Poor thing.” His mouth presses warm against Tony’s hairline, then lower, trailing soft, absent kisses along the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw. “Did so good for me.”

Tony sags, boneless in Bucky’s lap, warmth seeping through every inch of him like he’s been drugged. And maybe he has, in a way. The pheromone onslaught, the relief, the sheer chemical rush of being back in Bucky’s space after so long—his entire body is responding like a starved animal finally being fed.

Bucky hums, pressing one last kiss to the fluttering pulse at his throat before shifting beneath him. “C’mon, killer,” he says, moving to stand, lifting Tony like he’s weightless. “Let’s get you to bed before you pass out on me.”

Tony grumbles, nuzzling into Bucky’s shoulder, weakly clutching at his shirt, but Bucky just huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, tone warm, amused, as he starts toward the hallway. “Trust me, I’d keep you like this all night if I could, but we gotta get you outta these clothes before Stevie kills us both.”

Tony blinks, trying to focus through the fog. “Stevie?” he mumbles, voice rough, slow.

Bucky grins, pushing open his bedroom door. “Yeah, genius,” he says, kicking it shut behind them. “You know he’s gonna have my ass when he smells what you just did all over our kitchen chair.”

Tony groans, muffled against Bucky’s neck, too wrecked to care. “He’ll live,” he mutters, half-slurred.

Bucky chuckles, the sound deep and indulgent, and shifts his grip higher, settling his arms more securely beneath Tony’s thighs. “C’mon, gorgeous,” he murmurs, nosing against Tony’s temple. “Let me put you to bed.”

The room is dim, the only light coming from the cracked glow of a bedside lamp. It’s small, slightly cramped, but familiar—cedar dust, warmth, something distinctly Bucky clinging to the air. An anchor. A tether. Tony blinks at the shadows along the walls, the rumpled sheets on the narrow mattress, the battered dresser with a single framed photograph resting on top—two young boys in school uniforms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning wide.

Bucky crosses to the bed in a few steps, lowering Tony down onto the sheets. Tony’s breath shudders at the loss of contact, but Bucky keeps a hand on him, palm steady over his shoulder.

“You with me?” Bucky asks, voice quiet as he brushes a thumb over Tony’s cheekbone. It’s soft, a little rough, but there’s something else there, something careful in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache.

Tony tries to nod, but the movement is clumsy. “Yeah,” he manages, blinking slow. “Just—” He exhales, sinking deeper into the mattress. “Just a little… floaty.” He lifts a hand, waving vaguely.

Bucky smiles—small, tired, something warm in it. “I bet.” He kneels by the bed, fingers deft as he tugs at the laces of Tony’s boots, one hand steady on his knee, keeping him still. “Gonna let me take care of you?”

Tony would normally crack a joke—about domestic Alphas or personal valets, maybe—but he’s too wiped out, the tension of the last two weeks leaving him feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. So he just murmurs a faint, half-hearted, “Yeah, okay,” and lets his eyes fall shut.

Bucky’s hands move with practiced ease, untying Tony’s boots, peeling off his socks. The faint thud as they hit the floor barely registers, his focus narrowing to the slow, methodical way Bucky tugs at the waistband of his slacks, careful, deliberate, like he’s handling something fragile.

Like he’s still trying to convince himself Tony’s really here.

When the last of his clothes are gone—save for the undershirt clinging to his skin and a clean pair of Bucky’s boxers—Tony feels warm hands slide up beneath the fabric. Rough fingers pressing into his ribs, his stomach, checking, mapping, searching for damage.

The touch isn’t intrusive. It’s instinct. A confirmation.

Tony doesn’t mean to make a sound, but something slips out anyway—a quiet, needy thing that he’d be embarrassed about if his body wasn’t still humming from the comedown. Bucky’s hands stutter just slightly, his gaze flicking up, jaw tight.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, voice low, like he’s bracing himself for an answer he won’t like.

Tony swallows, shakes his head against the pillow. “No,” he breathes, forcing himself to form actual words. “It’s—good. You’re—great.”

It’s quiet. Honest. Not one of his usual throwaway lines, not something deflective or flippant, and the tension in Bucky’s shoulders eases just a fraction. He bows his head for a beat, collecting himself, then shifts up the bed so he can maneuver behind Tony, propping him up against his chest. The scent of him—woodsmoke, cedar, the faint tang of metal—washes over Tony in a wave, making his stomach flutter.

They settle back against the pillows, the mattress creaking under their combined weight. Outside, a car horn blares, muffled by the walls, and somewhere above them, the tenant in 5B stomps around like an elephant on parade. It’s so normal—so achingly normal—that Tony almost laughs.

Instead, he just burrows deeper into the warmth at his back, turning his face into the hollow of Bucky’s throat and breathing him in, chasing something solid in the haze of exhaustion.

Bucky’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading into his curls, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles behind his ear.

They stay like that for a long moment, just breathing. Letting the quiet wrap around them.

Then, eventually—soft, careful: “Did they—” Bucky hesitates, the words catching. “Did they hurt you? Wherever you were?”

Tony’s chest goes tight at the raw edge in his voice. At the way Bucky is holding onto him like he’s afraid to let go.

“No,” he says. Then—quieter, drier: “Not… not like that.”

A pause.

Howard’s backhand flashes through his mind, sharp and impersonal, just a punctuation mark in a lifetime of corrections. His mouth twists.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, at least.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. For a moment, he’s silent, gaze skittering over Tony’s face. Tony wonders if he can detect the ghost of Tony’s bruised cheekbone, the scab of his split lip, both thankfully healed ten days later.

Then, quietly, “You scared the hell outta me.”

Tony exhales, chest heavy, heart aching at the hurt carved into Bucky’s features. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough, guilt pressing in. “I didn’t mean—God, Buck, I never wanted—”

“Shh.”

Bucky cups his cheek, warm and steady, his thumb sweeping just under the shadow of exhaustion beneath Tony’s eye. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing away something invisible. “Not your fault.”

Tony just closes his eyes, leans into the warmth. Lets himself be held.

The radiator hums softly, filling the quiet between them. Somewhere down the hall, water pipes groan to life.

Then Bucky exhales, slow and shaking. “I tried lookin’ for you,” he admits, the words spilling out, raw and unfiltered. “Everywhere. Soon as you disappeared—Christ, Tony, I couldn’t sleep. Spent two weeks knocking on doors, askin’ around, turning over every damn rock.” His hand curls against Tony’s back, holding tight. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

Tony doesn’t breathe.

“I couldn’t even get within ten blocks of your family’s place in Manhattan,” Bucky continues, his voice tight. “Guards turned people away on sight. Tried callin’ Jarvis’s main line—tried callin’ the damn Institute, even. Nobody would tell me shit.”

Tony swallows against the lump forming in his throat. His stomach twists, shame curling around his ribs.

“And Stone,” Bucky mutters, something sharp in the way he says the name. “Went sniffin’ around Tiberius Stone, thinkin’ maybe that contract pulled you in. But it was like askin’ after a ghost. No address. No business records. No paper trail. Some people swore up and down they’d never even heard of him. Others clammed up the second I said his name.”

Tony grimaces.

Yeah. That tracks.

Bucky’s grip tightens, like he’s physically holding himself back. “Figured either he went underground or your old man pulled strings, but I—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Tony’s chest aches. He shifts, pressing in closer. “Buck…”

“You know that letter I sent you?” Bucky asks, voice quieter now, like he’s reluctant to say it. “The one after you wrote me?”

Tony nods.

“I rewrote it six times.” Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, humorless. “Didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. If I should’ve said anything at all. If they’d hurt you for it. Just—” He drags a hand down his face, frustration bleeding through. “I couldn’t sit here twiddlin’ my thumbs while you were gone. Thought maybe if you saw how bad I needed to hear from you, you’d…” He trails off, swallows hard. “Well, guess they never even let you see those, huh?”

Tony’s throat is tight. He can barely get the words out.

“They gave it to me,” he murmurs. “Your letter. I—I still have it.”

Bucky stills. His breath catches, barely audible.

Then, in one fluid movement, he’s pulling Tony closer, cupping the back of his head, pressing him in tight.

“I thought…” Bucky exhales sharply. “I thought maybe that bastard had you. Or your father pulled some backroom deal to keep you under lock and key ‘til that contract was binding. I wasn’t even sure if you were still in New York.” His voice goes thick, rough. “They put your bonding announcement in the papers, did you know that? I showed it to anyone who’d look, demanding to know where you were. But all I got were shrugs. Blank stares.”

Tony wets his lips, pressing closer, letting himself be held. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words useless, but all he has. “I knew… I knew I’d come back. Just had to figure some things out first.”

Secure his freedom. Legally emancipate himself. Reverse engineer a technological meltdown.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Bucky’s fingertips stroke idly at the space below Tony’s collar, hooking under the edge of his undershirt. “I’d have torn the whole city apart, if I’d had any idea where to start.”

“Sounds like you already tore apart half the furniture in Brooklyn,” Tony says, lips tugging into something that isn’t quite a grin.

Bucky doesn’t deny it. Instead, he exhales, the sound heavy, like the last two weeks are pressing down on his chest. “Damn near lost my mind without you,” he admits, voice rough, worn through. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—” He stops, breath quivering in a way that betrays how close he came to breaking. Then he laughs—humorless, quiet—shaking his head. “Me and Steve… we were crawling the walls, snappin’ at each other, almost threw punches a couple times. Stress’ll do that, I guess.” His fingers curl more firmly around Tony’s waist, like he needs the contact to stay steady. “If Jarvis hadn’t shown up when he did, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Tony tucks closer, heartbeat thrumming unsteadily. The knowledge that Bucky was here, worrying, helpless—it digs a ragged edge into his heart. “Buck,” he whispers, covering Bucky’s free hand where it rests against his hip. “I’m really sorry.”

Bucky just shakes his head and presses a soft kiss to the slope of Tony’s shoulder. “None of that,” he mutters, voice cracking once, betraying the raw undercurrent of relief and fear. “You’re back, that’s what matters.”

Tony nods, throat tight, cheek brushing Bucky’s skin. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and bone-deep tired but resolute. “I’m home.”

They lapse into silence, the hush of the night pressing in, the distant hum of the city beneath them. Bucky’s fingers drift in slow, steady movements through Tony’s hair, his other arm a solid band around Tony’s waist, and Tony can feel the exhaustion trying to pull him under.

But something else lingers beneath it, something deeper, something hotter.

His skin feels tight, humming with something electric. He’s finally where he belongs—pressed against Bucky, in Bucky’s bed, wrapped in Bucky’s scent. But instead of lulling him into easy sleep, the combination of it all is making his blood run too thick, his breath too shallow, his body thrumming on some biological frequency he can’t shut off.

Bucky is wrapped around him like a furnace, his scent thick, enveloping, everything. Tony can barely think through it, through the sheer weight of Bucky, of being here, in his space, in his bed, where everything smells like him. Every inhale drags in cedar and smoke, sweat and musk, something uniquely Bucky, something that makes Tony’s instincts flare up with mindless, desperate want.

He should be calming down, coming down from the high of the reunion, settling into sleep—but he can’t. Because his body knows. Knows what’s pressed up against him, knows what Bucky’s doing, or rather, what he’s not doing.

Bucky’s hard.

And he’s ignoring it.

Tony doesn’t understand how he can. Not when the scent of arousal is seeping into the sheets, not when his cock is thick and hot against the small of Tony’s back, not when Tony’s still soaked himself, slick already dripping down the insides of his thighs just from being near him.

He lets out a soft, helpless whimper and pushes back, pressing his ass into Bucky’s lap, grinding against the heat of him in slow, frictionless rolls.

Bucky growls—low, warning, but also claiming, reverberating through Tony’s spine. His grip tightens, arm clamping around Tony’s waist, breath rasping against the back of Tony’s neck.

“Tony,” Bucky warns, voice dropping even deeper. “Don’t.”

Tony does it again.

He rolls his hips again, dragging himself against the thick, aching heat of Bucky’s cock, moaning softly at the feeling, the size of it, how perfect it feels slotted right up against him.

Bucky snarls, restraint fraying, hips jerking in response. Enough for Tony to feel that sharp twitch of his cock against fabric slicked in Tony’s own scent.

“Fuck—Tony—”

Tony whines, twisting, grabbing at Bucky’s wrist where it’s clenched around him, trying to force some kind of motion, some kind of touch. “Please,” he mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow, eyes fluttering. “Buck, please—”

Bucky curses under his breath. “Jesus,” he chokes out. His hand moves, sliding down, pushing past the waistband of Tony’s boxers—Bucky’s boxers—yanking the fabric down his thighs. “Alright, gorgeous. Alright. I got you.”

Tony whines when the cool air hits him, his thighs clenching, instinct making him try to close them up again—but Bucky doesn’t let him. Bucky’s hand is right there, smoothing over his hip, guiding him, spreading him open just enough. Just enough—

Tony barely has time to whimper before Bucky is pushing his thighs apart, spreading him open just enough, just—just—

And then Bucky’s cock is sliding between them, thick and hot and perfect, pressing snug against the soaked, dripping heat of Tony’s inner thighs.

Tony shudders, his back arching, his hands clutching at the sheets.

“Oh,” he gasps, his whole body tensing, overwhelmed by the sheer size of Bucky, by how easy it is for him to settle right there, to press himself into the slick mess between Tony’s legs. “Oh, fuck—”

Bucky groans behind him, low and rough, pressing his forehead to the back of Tony’s neck. “Christ, Tony, you’re so—” He swallows thickly, his hands flexing against Tony’s hips, holding him there. “You’re a mess, baby.”

Tony whimpers, shaking under him. “You—” His voice is wrecked, shredded. “You smell so fucking good, Buck, I—I need—”

“I know,” Bucky growls, voice rough and frayed. He shifts, pushing closer, his cock sliding between Tony’s slick thighs, drenched in the smell of him, the heat of him, them. “Jesus, honey, you’re drivin’ me crazy.”

Tony sobs, twisting beneath Bucky’s weight, trying to push back, to get closer, but Bucky just holds him in place. One arm hooks tight around Tony’s waist, fusing them chest-to-back, while the other slides up, his palm settling over Tony’s bruised, too-sensitive mating gland, holding him right where he wants him.

Tony keens at the contact, his entire body shaking, his slick making a filthy, wet sound as Bucky starts moving, slow and steady, dragging his cock between Tony’s thighs, grinding himself into the heat of him.

“Fuck—” Bucky groans, his grip tightening, his voice cracking at the edges. “That’s it, sweet thing. Just—just let me—”

Tony wails, thighs tensing, body arching. Bucky’s cock rubs perfect along the slick stretch of skin, against the spot where Tony needs him most. It’s too intense, too good, not enough.

Bucky shudders—his breath catches, hips jerking just enough to make Tony sob.

“Feel that?” he rasps, voice gravelly, unsteady. His lips brush Tony’s ear, his breath coming in ragged stutters. “See how good you’re makin’ me feel, doll?”

Tony nods, frantic, gasping, his mind gone fuzzy, drowning in all that heat.

Bucky’s hand strokes over his stomach, keeping him close, locking Tony against him. “You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to the nape of Tony’s neck—gentle and possessive all at once. “So good.”

Tony shakes, his breath hitching, his eyes rolling back. The sound of it, the smell of it, the heat of Bucky’s cock between his thighs—it’s too much and not enough, a vicious tease of friction and desperation all rolled into one.

Bucky groans, hips stuttering, grip going tighter. “Fuck, Tony,” he breathes, voice barely there, shaking on the edges. “I’m gonna—I can’t—”

And then—oh—

Bucky comes, thick and hot, splattering across Tony’s thighs. His scent flares, devouring the rest of the air in the room, his whole body seizing against Tony’s back as he rides out every tremor. His hand still covers Tony’s mating gland, pressing down, holding him in place while the charge in the air crackles and swirls, tangling with Tony’s own needy arousal.

He doesn’t even pause to recover.

Instead, Bucky’s hand trails down, moving slow and sure across Tony’s abdomen, over the tense muscles fluttering beneath sweat-damp skin. Lower—

Tony gasps, tensing up as Bucky’s fingers graze the slick mess pooled between his thighs, teasing, testing, just shy of pressing in. He whimpers, body jerking, but Bucky just hushes him, voice somewhere between soothing and something else, something molten.

“Shh, baby,” Bucky murmurs, tone warm, rough, still riding that wave of satisfaction with an undercurrent of something more. He leans in, mouth at Tony’s temple, lips brushing sweat-soaked curls. “I got you. Just relax.”

Relax.

As if Tony can, with every nerve in his body screaming for more, with his own skin crackling like it’s alive, with that aching need for Bucky eating him from the inside out.

But Bucky doesn’t leave him dangling in desperation.

His hand goes lower, fingers slipping through the wet heat slicking Tony’s thighs, pressing in just enough to have Tony’s breath catching, his thighs quivering, his teeth biting down on his lip until he tastes salt.

“Christ, Tony,” Bucky groans, his mouth brushing hot against Tony’s neck, his fingers exploring, teasing. “You’re soaked.”

Tony chokes out a whine, back arching, body thrumming, but Bucky just hushes him again, dropping a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. This time, it’s not enough to do anything but ramp him up, the touch maddening.

“Always so good for me,” Bucky says, voice going all syrupy, each word a gentle push sending goosebumps racing down Tony’s spine. “Always so sweet, so easy to touch.”

Tony sobs, his body locking up. “B-Bucky—” he gasps, voice cracking on a whimper. “Please—”

Bucky hums, indulgent, like he likes this, likes the way Tony begs, the way he unravels. He presses in a little deeper, dragging those fingers through the mess Tony’s made, spreading it around. Leaving his mark, staking his claim.

And finally—finally—he wraps a hand around Tony’s cock.

Tony whimpers, a high, desperate sound, his whole body jerking, pleasure blasting through him so suddenly it makes spots dance in his vision. He can’t stop his hips from rolling forward, chasing that touch.

“There we go,” Bucky croons, pleased, pressing a kiss to the back of Tony’s neck, the motion matched by a steady, deliberate stroke of his fist around Tony’s length. Slick and warm, firm and perfect. “That’s it, sweet boy. Let me make you feel good.”

Tony gasps, thighs clenching, breath splintering into sharp little sobs. It’s instant, immediate, no build. He was so close already, so strung out, that Bucky’s simple stroke is all it takes to shove him right to the brink.

Bucky keeps him there, stroking him through it, one arm still hooked around his mating gland, holding Tony tight in place, like there’s anywhere else he’d want to be.

“You look so pretty like this,” Bucky murmurs against his temple, voice going soft, affectionate in a way that makes Tony’s pulse pound harder. “All warm and messy in my arms. Mine.”

Tony sobs, pleasure spiking, electric and unbearable, his whole frame trembling under the onslaught.

“I know, baby,” Bucky breathes, words whispering along Tony’s neck as he trails kisses over his collarbone, over his shoulder, leaving him shaky and undone. “I know, it’s a lot. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

Tony’s hands claw at the sheets, breath hitching again as the coil in his belly tightens too fast, too sudden, too much.

Bucky knows. Of course he does.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice threaded with want, with command, with promise. “Come for me, baby. Let me have it.”

And for the second time that night, Tony breaks.

His orgasm slams into him like a freight train, ripping his breath out, shattering the last of his resistance. He spasms in Bucky’s arms, gasping, sobbing, moaning Bucky’s name as pleasure rips through him, coating Bucky’s fist and his own stomach, leaving him shaking and raw, head spinning.

Bucky hums, pleased, mouth on Tony’s throat, murmuring soft, sweet words as he strokes him through it, as he brings him down, grounding him, keeping him safe.

“That’s my boy,” Bucky says, voice going warm and something darker, pressing a lingering kiss to Tony’s jaw. “Always so good for me.”

Tony trembles in his arms, boneless and dazed, breath coming in stuttered pants. Finally, his instincts settle, hunger sated by Bucky’s touch, by Bucky’s presence, by the thick, possessive scent saturating the air between them.

Bucky doesn’t let him stay covered in the mess for long. Even in the hazy drift of post-orgasm, Tony registers the gentle way Bucky shifts, reaching over to the nightstand, returning with a cloth. The soft, dry sweep brushes over his stomach, then his thighs, wiping away the sticky evidence of what they just shared.

Tony hums, voice a low, vaguely protesting murmur. He should help. He should say something. But Bucky just hushes him again, dropping a kiss into Tony’s damp curls.

“I got you, love,” he murmurs. “Just rest.”

Tony sinks into the sensation, boneless and pliant under Bucky’s careful touch. He lingers longer than strictly necessary, wiping Tony down as if he can’t stand to break the connection, as if he needs to reassure himself—again and again—that Tony is here, safe, his.

Only when he’s finished does Bucky toss the cloth aside and drag the blanket over them both, tucking it around Tony’s body like he’s protecting something precious. Then, without so much as a pause, he hauls Tony in against his chest, arms wound tight around his waist, face nuzzling into the crook of Tony’s neck, breath warm and slow across his skin.

Tony exhales, letting out the last of whatever tension remains, his body humming with the sweet, sleepy weight of Bucky wrapped around him. He’s warm, he’s safe, he’s—

Drifting.

Right on the edge of unconsciousness, right on the cusp of sleep, except… not quite.

It takes him a few attempts, fluttering in and out of awareness, to notice something is off. It’s there in the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders, in the way his arms loop around Tony’s waist like a vice—too tight, too fierce, something barely contained humming beneath his skin.

At first, Tony chalks it up to leftover anxiety, the kind that won’t let you go even when you finally get everything you want. He knows that particular brand of restless too well: the remnants of worry, fear, relief, all braided together so tightly it’s impossible to tease them apart. Tony feels it, too, that weird echo in his bones telling him he’s still on the brink of something, that he can’t quite unclench his teeth.

But then Bucky twitches.

Not a casual, shift-in-place kind of movement. There’s an abrupt tension in his fingers where they press into Tony’s hip, a small, shuddering gasp against Tony’s neck. Like something inside him is winding too tight, like he can’t settle.

Tony forces his eyes open, lids heavy and uncooperative. He manages to press back, lifting his head a fraction, still numb with post-orgasm exhaustion. “Bucky?” he mumbles, voice rough, groggy. “What’re you—?”

Bucky shudders.

It’s a full-body thing, barely contained, like he’s fighting not to shake apart. His breath grows harsher, his chest expanding in slow, deliberate inhales, like he’s actively wrestling for control.

Tony frowns, blinking slow. “Y’okay?”

No immediate response. Just a tense flex of the hand at Tony’s hip, fingers curling in like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His jaw tightens, and when he finally exhales, it’s too measured, too deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, voice lower than normal, frayed at the edges. “Just—” He cuts himself off, shifting on the mattress in a way that says he’s not okay, that he’s anything but settled. “I dunno. Can’t get comfortable.”

Tony hums, trying for something soothing, letting himself lean back into Bucky’s warmth. The weight of Bucky’s scent washes over him, heavy and enveloping. It should lull them both into a calmer headspace.

Except Bucky doesn’t calm.

He’s still rigid, still almost coiled like he’s ready to spring.

Tony lets his eyes slide shut again, pushing a slow breath out, intending to chase sleep. But the tension brimming off Bucky stays there, tapping at Tony’s subconscious, refusing to let him drift completely.

Another shift.

Another quiet flutter of Bucky’s fingers at Tony’s waist.

Another deep, controlled inhale, like he’s trying to center himself on Tony’s scent and failing.

Tony’s brow creases, his thoughts sluggish, snagging on the question of why Bucky can’t seem to relax. He shifts slightly, pressing back into the heat of Bucky’s body, letting out a sleepy noise. “You’re fidgetin’,” he murmurs. “Not tired?”

Bucky’s laugh comes out hollow. “Yeah, doll. I’m tired,” he says.

But he doesn’t sound tired.

Tony should probably push, should ask what’s wrong, but he’s drained, his instincts are purring, content for the moment, finally sated after too many weeks of starved desperation. And Bucky isn’t moving, isn’t bolting out of bed, isn’t leaving, so… Tony lets it slide.

For now.

He hums again, letting his body go fully slack, his breath evening out, his consciousness slipping down, down, down.

Bucky’s arms tighten around him, just slightly.

Tony barely registers it before sleep finally pulls him under.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #wip #tony stark #ao3 #steve rogers #alpha/beta/omega au #captain america #tony stark x bucky barnes #ao3fic

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