marvel-ficrecs

[marvel-ficrecs]

Love

 Context : The story takes place after season 2 (so careful, some spoilers ahead). Homelander agrees to let Ryan and Butcher go, not wanting to lose the public’s admiration. When Edgar Stan asks him where his son is, he just smiles.

Vought makes believe that it was he who killed Stormfront, after she lost her mind and attacked civilians. The Seven are brought together, despite their hatred for each other, because of their contracts. Soldier Boy takes the place of Stormfront.

The Boys continue to fight against the supes, even if they are less active.

All of this does not matter in the following story.

Homelander was in love.

Well, he felt like he was in love. It had never happened to him before, so he had no real way of verifying that what he was feeling was love.

He hadn’t really liked Maeve, although he had always found her funny and sexy.

He had just spent a night with Rebecca.

He had had a weird relationship with Madelyn, he had trusted her, he had wanted her to always be there for him, but her death hadn’t really hurt him.

He thought he had loved Klara for a while, before realizing that he only loved the way she saw him. A God. But everyone already saw him as a God, that was nothing new. The only difference was that she was completely craaaaazy, and after a few weeks it had become boring.

Because Homelander wanted everyone to love him, he wanted everyone to respect him, to admire him, but he also wanted to be treated like a normal man sometimes. To be able to breathe, rest, not be perfect. To be himself. And that people would love him anyway after having see him like that.

Then he had met Y/N.

She worked for Vought, in the Damage Control department, so she knew him, she know him well, she knew his real story, what he could do, and how he could be. Yet she didn’t seem to be afraid of him every time he entered the room. Unlike all of her colleagues, whose hearts were starting to pound very hard, the smell of their filthy sweat filling the air.

           "Hello Homelander.“ she would say to him, smiling when she saw him. A kind smile, but polite. Respectful.

The first few times, Homelander thought she was stupid. Another ridiculous fan who refused to see what he was. Too bad, she was quite pretty, for a simple human.

It took him a little while to figure out that she was actually smart. Very intelligent, more than all the others. He had to talk to her to find out. But he liked talking to her, her heartbeat did not disturb their discussions too much.

Homelander noticed several things, in addition to her lack of fear. He learned that she knew very well that he was the strongest in the world, that he could twist her neck if he wanted, but she was not afraid, because she knew that he had no reason to do so, since she was doing nothing to annoy him.

He wasn’t mad or an idiot, although he was still dangerous, so he didn’t want to kill her for no reason. If he wanted to kill the others it was because they thought he wanted to kill them for no reason, looking at him like he was a monster. Not Y/N, who treated him normally.

She always asked him how he was. She was listening to him, really listening. She seemed to understand him, she kept his secrets and, most importantly, she never lied to him. Never.

Then she said a sentence that made him understand that he was in love.

           "Doesn’t that shock you ?” he had asked her. “The things we do sometimes. Some might think we’re the bad guys.”

           "Nothing is ever black or white. You have to see things from a bigger angle, the motivations, the circumstances, the consequences. I know… what you’ve been through. It is normal that you want to let off steam every now and then, and you do it on criminals, so… While it’s true that it’s not always really necessary, the result is still that you save innocent lives, when you can. It’s just that people would like everything to be perfect, which is not possible.“

           "Call me John.” he had said stupidly, without thinking.

After that, without realizing it, Homelander had started following Y/N like a puppy. And not just in the office. He was following her everywhere, flying down the street. He wanted to check that she was not in danger, that she was okay. That she wasn’t with someone else. He watched her when she was at her place, using his ray vision. He especially liked to see her relax in a bath, or sleep. He wondered if she was dreaming of him.

He dreamed of her, often. It had been a long time since he had dreamed. They were mostly pleasant dreams, in which they were together and happy.

Until the nightmare.

Everything had started well, they were in bed, Homelander between her legs, revelling in her moans and softness, lapping and pushing several fingers inside her. Until he pushes too much, too far, too hard. Panicking, he had brought out his hand with organs and the blood had started to flow without stopping. Y/N, either brave or in shock, was not screaming, but she was obviously in great pain. And he knew there was nothing he could do to save her. So, as he had done with Stillwell, he used his lasers to ground her skull and shorten her suffering.

He woke up with a start, and did not immediately understand that he had been dreaming. He hadn’t had a nightmare since he was a kid, and he reacted like he did back then, destroying his room, screaming, crying, and asking where Y/N was when Ashley ran inside to know what was happening.

           "Y/N ? From Damage Control, you mean ? I… I think she’s home ? Why ? Something happened ? She did something ? Should I call…"

           "No ! No… shut up and leave !“

Homelander had flown to Y/N’s to check that she was alive, that she was fine, he stood watching her sleep for several hours, wondering what he could do to avoid the risk of hurting her. So that no one would hurt her. So that he would no longer be afraid of her dying.

If only she was like him, a supe…

That was how he got the idea. It was obvious though. Y/N had to become a supe. For that, she just had to take Compound V. Homelander knew how to do it, he had been created like that. He knew the right dosages, the time needed, for the drug to permanently activate the powers in a person.

Now, he couldn’t predict what powers, it could be ridiculous and unnecessary powers.

But he was in love with Y/N. She was special. So he knew she was going to become a wonderful supe, a special one, he didn’t doubt it for a second, as he injected the V into her arm while she was asleep, or when he gave her the time-diluted pills in coffee or tea while she was working.

Of course it was going to take a while, several weeks, and Homelander had never really been a patient man, but for Y/N he would stay calm and wait.

As he had expected, her powers were exceptional.

First of all, superhuman strength, as they discovered when she destroyed the bathroom door, breaking several walls and a window with it after she punched it. The poor darling had migraines, probably from the treatment, and she couldn’t stand them anymore.

Then, extreme physical resistance. It was impossible to take her blood when she was taken to the infirmary, the needle breaking against her skin. Fire, electricity, ice, a punch, nothing could hurt her anymore.

On top of that, she had telekinetic powers, she could smash objects from a distance. People too. And make them levitate. With some training, she might be able to fly on her own. They would travel the sky together. Homelander loved the idea.

Before that, she had to be taken out of the Center, so that the doctors would stop asking her stupid questions, like ”Did you take Compound V ?“ Of course she had taken V, otherwise she wouldn’t have any powers. They were insulting though, refusing to believe Y/N when she said she didn’t know how it happened.

To help her, he had volunteered, coming to listen to her little heart to tell everyone that she wasn’t lying.

It was then that they discovered her last power, as she looked at him with pain and hatred in her eyes, starting to scream.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing to be able to read minds. Homelander didn’t want to hide anything from her.

But he didn’t quite understand why she was mad at him for making her a supe. He had done this out of love, to protect her, so they could be together.

He could only understand that she didn’t like being locked up, questioned, watched like a lab rat. He would understand that perfectly. Homelander remembered Doctor Vogelbaum. His childhood. He didn’t want his Y/N going through this at all.

But without Vought’s help, she couldn’t control her powers. What was causing her these terrible migraines, and which hurt her. He didn’t want her to be hurt.

And she was hurt when she was seeing him, so he gave her some space, even though he came flying over the hospital to watch her from a distance.

Until she asked to see him.

Y/N was smart after all. She was still furious, but she knew it was too late, she couldn’t get back to "normal”, she was going to need help, his help, and she could trust him anyway, because he would never hurt her. Not on purpose.

Before entering her room, he warned the doctor and Ashley as gently as possible that they shouldn’t talk to anyone about what they were going to hear. Homelander could have ordered them to leave, not to listen, but that was protocol, and he didn’t want Edgar to get involved in any of this.

When he entered, Y/N tried to smile. She looked tired. Slowly, he went to sit next to her, taking her hand.

           "Why ?“ she asked simply.

Because I love you, he thought very hard. I love you I love you I love you. Stay with me forever.

           "Everything will be alright.” was his response.

           "You really think that.“

It was not a question. She knew he loved her, and she knew he was sure everything was going to be alright. He would make sure of it.

           "They are listening.” she whispered very low so that he was the only one able to hear her. He found it adorable.

           "Don’t worry about them.“

           "John…”

           "Yes. Say my name.“

           "John, never do anything to me without asking me first.”

           "… I’ll try.“ It was the most honest answer he could give her.

Then, unable to control himself any longer, he kissed her. It surprised her at first, she stiffened in his arms, before slowly relaxing, running her hands through his hair, on his cheek, on his neck.

Yes, Homelander was sure now, he was in love. He had never loved someone like this, except maybe himself, and he had never felt so happy, not even when the crowd chanted his name.

His joy was only disturbed when Y/N seemed to panic, pulling away from him to look at the door.

           ”… They left ?“

           "No.” he said, still hearing the beating hearts of the little vermin spying on them from the other side of the faceless mirror.

           "… Ah, yes. It’s weird, I… I couldn’t hear them anymore.“

It was enough to make him immediately forget his frustration at having been interrupted in the middle of a charming kiss. Because if Y/N hadn’t read anyone’s thoughts as he kissed her, it meant she really liked it. That she had been perfectly relaxed. That at that moment, there had been him and only him. Them. The most powerful couple in the world.

           "Couple ?”

           "Of course. You are mine, I love you, and you love me. You love me, don’t you ?“

           "Hmm…” Y/N muttered, wincing. “I… I think so.”

It wasn’t the most romantic statement in the world, but it wasn’t a lie either, so Homelander decided to settle for it. For now. She added a shy little “Sorry John”, kissing him tenderly, and it was his turn to forget for a moment that they were being watched, hugging her.

Not that there were witnesses of his gestures of affections and weaknesses embarrassing him, he had made it clear to them that they had no interest in talking about this to anyone. He had never been ashamed by anything, but he didn’t want to make his Y/N uncomfortable.

So again, before going any further, he would be patient and wait until they were totally alone, to make love. Not to fuck, but to make love. It will be the first time for him. And maybe one day they’ll have a baby together.

           "John…“

Ah yes, could read minds, riiiiiight… Oops.

[marvel-ficrecs]

Yandere Homelander x Reader Imagine Scenario

Yandere Homelander x Reader Imagine Scenario

Synopsis: Imagine you’re an assistant at Vought who catches the eye of Homelander. Commissioned piece. 

Word count: 2591

notes: yandere, sexual harassment, unwanted romantic advances, dismissal of reader’s sexuality, reader is asexual and semi-aromantic

Imagine you’re a mid-level assistant working for Vought who catches the eye of Homelander.

Working for Vought is precarious; any naive illusions you have about Supes are quickly snuffed out when you realize how self-important they are, how managed they are; every speech, every photo, all carefully crafted images honed to perfection by the cogs of Vought’s machinery.

Of the Seven, Homelander is simultaneously the most respected and feared. He has a tendency to get gruff and snappy if he’s in a bad mood or he has to film a video’s take too many times or something simply doesn’t go his way.

But he can be charming, too. He sometimes signs autographs for assistant’s kids, scrawling his name on endless action figures and baseballs. 

And he flirts. Maybe not overtly, not all the time. A nice smile here. A compliment on someone’s outfit when he’s just finished going on a tirade and everyone in the room is a bit shaken–an icebreaker, a peace offering.

Eventually, he begins to flirt with you.

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[marvel-ficrecs]

CHAPTER 4: Critical Darling

Ship: Homelander/Dreamweaver(OC)

Warnings: I don’t really think any apply, it gets fairly emotional this chapter, and Homelander gets a bit yandere, since most of the perspective of this chapter focuses on his thoughts and feelings.

He inhales deeply, composing himself as he stands outside her door. He’s spent the past few days avoiding her, avoiding the discussion that is sure to follow their last encounter. Even now he’s unsure if he’s willing to follow through. He bites the inside of his cheek nervously, using his x-ray vision to peek into her suite.

She’s sitting on her couch, a colorful box of various...somethings strewn out across the glass coffee table. There’s a soft smile on her face, and his breath hitches ever so slightly; he’s almost jealous.

When was the last time he smiled so easily?

Unlike the other heroes, Homelander has no life whatsoever outside of Vought. The curiosity and envy he feels over...whatever is making her smile outweighs any trepidation he had felt about seeing her again.

Darcy startles at the weighty knock on her door, getting up to answer it with a confused furrow to her brow. She looks out the peephole, and her heart thuds. She hadn’t even seen Homelander since their incident in the closet; she certainly wasn’t expecting him to turn up at her private suite. She’s not sure if she wants to deal with him right now, and briefly considers pretending she’s not home.

“You know I have x-ray vision right? I can see you,” he says through the door.

She sighs, and opens up. He tenses at the look on her face, her nervous confusion a far cry from that pretty smile she wore only a minute ago. He knows he’s far from her favorite person, but seeing her expression change so quickly when she saw him was...disheartening. “Can I come in?” He asks, as though his throat is suddenly very dry.

She stares at him for a moment, trying to decide whether or not it’s a good idea to let him in. She decides that whether it’s smart or not is irrelevant, figuring that he’d be insufferable later if she turns him away now...she doesn’t need the headache.

She steps aside, allowing him to walk into her suite. He pretends to look around for a bit, but quickly makes his way to the coffee table, fingers tracing along the glass as he gets a look at the object of his interest. “What’s all this?”

“Oh.” She walks over to him, packing up the various trinkets into the box. “I’m putting together a care package for my brother.”

“You have a brother?” He tries, and fails, to sound completely casual; instead his voice waivers, giving a hint of awkwardness.

The truth is, being a lab experiment, Homelander doesn’t have any siblings, the closest thing he has being The Seven...and they aren’t exactly...familial.

“Yeah,” she answers cautiously. “He’s twelve, been living with our grandparents for a couple of years now,” she smiles fondly, pulling up a selfie of the two of them on her phone to show him. “We were really close before I came to Vought, so every month I like to put together a box of cool stuff I find in the city, so he doesn’t miss me too much.”

Homelander puts on a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes; jealousy building up again at the sight of the happy siblings. “Looks like a pretty happy kid.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, pressing her lips together like she was going to say more, but decided against it. He’s about to push her to finish her sentence when a loud timer goes off in the kitchen.

“Oh!” She steps quickly away from him. “Hey, why don’t you have a seat while I go check on that?”

He does as she asked, sinking down into the plush sofa while she picks up a quick stride to the kitchen. As he watches her, it occurs to him that this is the first time he’s ever seen her outside of her uniform. She looks so comfortable. He swallows awkwardly, unsure of how to feel about the domesticity of the moment.

“Whatcha cookin’?” He calls after her, trying to shake off the awkwardness.

“Be patient!” She scolds him, an unfamiliar humor to her tone.

He’d been scolded before, of course. Usually he wasn’t a fan, but this felt...different; almost friendly.

He doesn’t have to wait too long, Darcy walking out of the kitchen with a big tray of homemade cookies. His eyes widen as the aroma hits his nose, the scents of brown sugar and chocolate harmonizing beautifully. She sets the tray on the coffee table, having a seat next to him; careful not to touch him, he notices.

“Want one?” She asks, opening up a little paper bag and stuffing a stack of cooled cookies into it.

He doesn’t waste any time, leaning past her to grab one. “Absolutely.”

His eyes practically roll into the back of his head as he sinks his teeth into the oven-fresh cookie, savoring the whole sensation. And there it is, that warm smile of hers, except this time it’s for him. His heart nearly skips a beat as she chuckles softly. “Been a while since you had a homemade cookie?”

He takes a moment to answer, the words caught in his throat. “Yeah, you could say that.” In truth, he had never had a homemade cookie, no home-baked goods, actually. Sure, he could order whatever he wanted from Vought’s private kitchens, but that had nothing on these cookies, made from scratch and prepared with love. There’s that jealousy again.

“I put together this recipe myself, it’s my brother’s favorite,” she beams proudly. “I used to bake them for him all the time when we were kids.”

“Sounds like you’re a really good sister,” he forces out the words.

‘This is a happy moment, don’t make it bitter’

But he can’t shake the bubbling envy inside of him, because the truth is, she didn’t make these cookies for him. He watches her as she carefully places a few sleeves of cookies in the box, prattling on about how well her brother’s doing in school or something, a deep scowl fighting its way into his face. She’s acting so pleasant now, but he knows that in truth, she’d rather he not be here. He had wondered if maybe she was different, but she’s just like everyone else. Too afraid of him to be anything but nice, and too fucking two faced to admit it.

“Ya know,” she says, getting his attention. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in plain clothes.”

His brow furrows. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in plain clothes,” he crosses his arms, plastering on a petulant grin. “Great fashion sense, by the way.”

“These are my pajamas,” she defends herself. “You know, comfortable clothes for sleeping in? You do sleep don’t you?”

He finds himself fixating on the way her nose crinkles up when she’s frustrated, it’s much cuter now than out in the field. He scoffs, playing at offense, relaxing back into the couch. “Of course I sleep, what kind of stupid question is that?”

She’d be offended if she didn’t catch the grin threatening to turn up the corners of his mouth. “Okay Ass, what I mean is that everyone else in The Seven has plain clothes paparazzi leaks; you’re the big guy, and I’ve never seen you out of that suit.”

“Do you want me to take it off?” He teases, eyebrow raised suggestively.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Okay fine, dodge the question.”

He shrugs theatrically. “Your loss.”

“I think I’ll survive.” She turns back to finish up packing the care package.

He can’t help but drop his grin, mood souring as her focus leaves him. Can’t she finish that up after he leaves? It’s polite to pay attention to guests, right? Never mind the fact that he came uninvited.

“To be honest,” she turns to look at him, sealing the box. “I was fucking terrified when I saw you at the door.”

He slaps on a fake smile, barely concealing his thoughts. “Is that so?”

She sits back into her corner of the couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushion. “Are you surprised? You tried to fucking kill me the last time I saw you.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, grabbing another cookie before settling back into the couch. “Well…if I had really wanted to kill you, you’d be dead,” he argues, almost playfully, almost a threat; glad for the attention to be back on him.

She scoffs, shaking her head with an exasperated smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She stretches a bit, the bruises he gave her still evident on her pale skin. He feels a pang of guilt...and something else. “Anyway, I was trying to say that it’s...kind of nice having you here.”

His eyes widen, he had not expected that. It doesn’t follow the script, not part of the narrative that seems to guide his life.

“Kind of fucked up, isn’t it?” She says with a tired grin. “Maybe I’m just lonely...it’s just...nice, to have someone to sit and talk to for a change.”

“Well that’s a little pathetic,” he says in his usual snarky tone. “When you put it that way.”

She launches her throw pillow at him, knocking the cookie out of his hand mid-bite. “You ass!”

“Hey, I’m not the one enjoying a night in with the guy who tried to kill me,” he grins, showing a bit too much tooth. “You have to have other options.”

‘You don’t,’ she can’t help but think, eyes going a bit sad. It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he pokes his tongue into his cheek uncomfortably. Pity, is not a thing he’s used to getting. It doesn’t feel good.

“Hey…” she starts, awkwardness palpable. “You knocked on my door didn’t you?”

“You’re right,” he pushes through gritted teeth.

She scoots a little closer to him on the couch, her pulse rising notably. He looks at her, confused furrow to his brow, just in time for her to place her hand over his; her breath shuddering as she touches the bare skin.

“Don’t,” he whispers, making no attempt to pull away. “I know it hurts you.”

“It hurts you every day,” she whispers, closing her eyes as his pain envelopes her. “I’ve never met anyone so alone.”

He can feel her hand trembling against his, and something inside of him stirs. His chest heaves, and he takes her hand in his, running his thumb gently across her knuckles. He opens his mouth to speak, but sighs instead, unable to find the words.

“Knowing how you feel...I know I don’t owe you anything...but,” she opens her eyes, red from holding back tears. “I can’t bring myself to let you go.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know…”

His grip on her hand tightens, hurting her a bit, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “This is crazy,” he whispers, at least half to himself.

“Imagine how I feel,” she says with a melancholic laugh. “It’s not even my pain.”

He smiles, softly, real. “It is now.”

He watches her laugh, whole and genuine.

His.

She doesn’t even know it yet, but he’s already decided that they’re going to be together...no matter what he has to do to make it happen.

TAG LIST: @vi-er @lindasreasonstocommit

[marvel-ficrecs]

The Offer

summary: Zemo offers to sell the Winter Soldier in exchange for information. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 3k warnings: vaguely implied unwanted sexual contact a/n: this is based around the Madripoor scene in TFATWS ep 3, particularly Zemo’s suggestion of “he will do anything you want.”

“You must maintain your cover,” Zemo’s voice rang in your ear, drowning out the heavy bass of loudspeakers from the club down the hall. “If you break character, they will know… and they will kill us.”

You held your breath; arms folded tight across your chest, nails digging into the exposed skin on your biceps. It did little to ease the strain within your muscle as you watched Bucky standing guard at the edge of the room, his eyes overcast in a cold, emotionless haze. Ready for command. Empty of the needs and desire that made him human. Portraying the shadow from his past he was so desperate to escape.

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[marvel-ficrecs]

Graveyard

summary: As the unofficial healer for the Avengers, you pride yourself on the ability to mend heroes with the touch of your hand. Only, your gift comes at a heavy price — one you keep secret from your friends —and when Bucky asks you to do the impossible, they’ll discover why your gift is called a sacrifice, too.  pairing: bucky x healer!reader word count: 10k warnings: canon level violence

As a child, you were told it was a gift; placed upon a pedestal above the quaint suffering of a rural town and removed of your innocence for the good of strangers. You’d been made to be revered – honored – for the touch that could mend the broken.  

It began with a cut upon your father’s finger – a slip of a kitchen knife that had left a small bead of blood in its wake. Curious eyes glanced up at your father as he hissed at the sting of it and you’d reach forward to place your infant hand upon the cut, a grip so mall it barely wrapped around his finger. He stilled as a soft glow began to emit from your palm. When you removed your hand and began to cry, your father was stunned to find his skin perfectly intact – no trace of a scar in its place.  

They told you it was a gift, celebrated you as if you were a blessing from Heaven itself. But they were cruel in their rejoice, selfish in their praise. They had not considered your gift was not a gift at all – but a sacrifice.  

Like energy, pain could not be destroyed— but it could be absorbed. It could be transferred. Your father’s cut had not simply disappeared, but instead manifested on the finger of an infant for a few short moments before it faded into your skin; laid to rest amongst a sea of foreign injuries that did not belong to you.  

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[marvel-ficrecs]

A Long Ways Away (Bucky x Reader)

Summary: Connection, reconnection, and a small miscommunication. Bucky will travel however far, if it means making you smile.

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 4,173

Warnings: small mentions of blood and violence. I keep describing tears. small bit of Alpine content

A/N: this is for @wkemeup 9k writing challenge. I chose fluff prompt 10 which was: 

Character A calls Character B in the middle of the night crying - something they’ve never done before. They’re several states away. [B] gets in the car without hesitation and drives to wherever they are.

It was supposed to be fluff. I think there’s fluff. I mostly just had an idea and ran with it as best I could. Anyway I hope you enjoy it. I had fun writing it at least. It was way more entertaining than any of the essays I’ve had to write recently at least. Endings are always weird tho so hopefully this one isn’t too bad :)

Masterlist

Bucky found himself on the balcony, looking out into the busy New York nightlife. Cars driving through the busy streets. He felt it  matched the energy inside the Tower. If he looked behind he would have found Tony chatting away, creating a spectacle and being the center of attention as usual. Sam was playing pool against Scott. Accusing him of cheating by using ants to move the balls around when he wasn’t looking. Steve and Natasha were in the corner chatting away about the last mission. Steve was always a little too focused on work, even when these get-togethers were planned to distract the team from just that.

It was why Bucky needed a break, that’s what he would say at least. The reason for this whole party, as much as he hated the whole spectacle. A break from the team. A break from missions. He just needed an out, for now.

It’s at least what he was telling himself.

“Hey Stranger. Found your hiding spot.” He glanced behind and saw you there. Relaxed and leaning  against the doorway, a half empty drink in your hand. Smiling like there wasn’t a reason for you to be sad. He smiled back for a second, like he was still going to be here tomorrow.

He would miss you the most.

______

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[marvel-ficrecs]

I’m just having one of those days where I could really use some soft snuggles and love after a bad day...but alas

Do you have anything/ would be willing to write a small blurb about Bucky boy being his little awkward shy self wanting to comfort you but is still super shy around you but the ends up being soft baby Bucky

Okay I know that didn’t make much sense but yeah 🥺

I’m sorry you were having a bad day hun. Hope this helps ❤️

You were curled up in the corner of the living room couch, arms folded tight over your chest, knees tucked high to your body, as if you were trying to make yourself as small as possible. An infomercial was playing on the television for the last half hour but you hadn't been able to find the energy to change it. Instead, you favored staring off into the static until the picture blurred into a seamless, colorful mirage.

You supposed it didn't quite matter what set it off this time, but the feeling crept in anyway -- that dark, hollow sensation that seeped into your stomach and spread through your body until it dragged you below the surface. There was no relief in the compression of your own arms or the cushion of the couch, but you remained anyway. It was all you could do.

Until you heard Bucky call your name.

He stood at the edge of the living room, dressed in light blue pajama bottoms and a crewneck baring a cartoon drawing of Steve's shield. In his hand, was an empty glass of water he was likely on his way to the kitchen to refill, but he set it down on the end table.

"Are you alright?" His voice was quiet, the darkness of the room covering the flush in his cheeks as he watched you. The glow from the television gently illuminated his outline, flickering brighter every so often to give you a better look at the way he wrung at his hands.

"Bad day," you murmured, half into the arm of the couch.

You expected him to leave after that, but you glanced up to find him unmoved.

"I could, uh, I could stay. If you want?"

You blinked, surprised. "Yeah that... that would be nice."

Bucky swallowed, checking over his shoulder before he slowly made his way towards the couch. He propped himself on the edge of the seat cushion beside you, sitting just close enough to feel his presence but far enough away that he hadn't intruded on your space.

The two of you sat in silence for a while until Bucky eventually grabbed the remote from the table and switched the channel to an old rerun of a sitcom from the late nineties with characters he certainly didn't recognize, though he cracked a smile every so often.

You yawned, after the credits began to roll on the second episode.

"Do you want to lay down?" Bucky offered, already standing to move out of your way so you could stretch your legs.

You nodded, extending your legs with a tired sigh. They'd been curled up against you for so long, you'd almost lost feeling entirely. A soft smile grazed Bucky's lips as he watched you settle into the couch. He gave you a short nod and slowly, he turned to leave.

"Wait," you called. Bucky paused at the threshold of the room. "Don't go. Please."

A relief seemed to wash through his features then as he half jogged back to the couch. His eyes scanned over the little space remaining, his ears burning red.

"I'll make room for you," you told him, scooting as far to the edge as you could manage.

"Are you, uh... are you sure?" Bucky hesitated as he stared at the space between the back of the couch and your body. He'd be pressed to a tight space, his arm certainly hanging over your waist. Close quarters. He wasn't sure you knew what you were really asking for -- to be that close to a man like him. But he would do anything if it helped ease your burden. So when you nodded, Bucky took in a deep breath and crawled in behind you.

When he settled, he could practically feel every ounce of strain in your muscle slipping away. It fell away from his own body, too. He set his hand on your hip, unsure of what to do with it.

"Is this okay?" he asked timidly, his fingers gently tapping along the soft curve of your hip.

You chuckled then, grabbing his hand and tugging it to it laid comfortably over your waist. You adjusted your position, sinking into the feeling of his chest pressed to your back, the warmth of his body curled against you. He relaxed, a sigh slipping past his lips as he tugged you against him, his face resting at the crook of your neck. You could feel his breath on your skin.

“Thank you, Bucky," you whispered, letting your eyes drift shut.

"Anytime, doll."

[marvel-ficrecs]

hey, can you please write something with nswf Bucky and the prompt "you felt ice cold when I touched you"??

❝ bird season

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes is slippery when wet.

Warnings: None.

A/N: Thanks for the Ask, gorgeous! I took this in another direction. Prompt is in italics.

All filled prompts are tagged ‘evanstarff drabble’.

———

Bucky falls out of the mouth of a quinjet – not so much necessity, but while trying to save some guy named Samuel Thomas Wilson.

They’re both dragged up and out while the Atlantic Ocean spits and slurs all around them and there you are, pulling them up and up by the thing you call a pulley system, screaming some obscenities about eating a brain tumour for breakfast and how goddamn stupid are you two and some verbal conflation of exclamation marks.

Sam collapses on his back, wings malfunctioning, and he unclips them, wriggles out and rolls over to throw up some plankton or whatever. His mouth beneath those goggles look about to say something along the line of thanks, but all that comes out is MBLERGGHHH, so he lies back down again, dripping saltwater and sadness all over the floor.

Bucky is tired. So tired, so fucking tired, and why is this his job again.

Keep reading

[marvel-ficrecs]

A Weapon in Need of Care

By Raieth

Bucky Barnes/OC (FIC REC)

https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27992568#main

[marvel-ficrecs]

Changing Seasons

By Dadalorian23

Bucky Barnes/OFC (fic rec)

https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/27656053/chapters/67673053

[marvel-ficrecs]

Eclipse

summary: When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.4k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, PTSD, dissociative episode, nightmares, a rapid switch from sweet/fluffy to pain, angst with a happy ending 

An eclipse finds its home in the darkness Thriving as it suffocates the sun and shadows her light In its passage she lays in wait Waiting— for the moon to give way and grant her morning

Bucky thinks he’s found heaven when he lays with you under the cover of thin, linen sheets; the soft, white of the fabric touching over curves and edges of exposed bodies, peaks and dips, like snowcaps nestled upon the crest of mountaintops. Lying flushed with heat, hearts beating a little faster, breaths a little labored, Bucky reaches out and traces the lines of your face.  

The tip of his finger brushes over your nose, slips down along your jaw, touches the sun kissed stream of light against your cheek as it seeps in through the sheet thrown over your heads. You giggle as he pulls you in for a kiss, chaste and sweet, his hand curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck and he tugs you closer. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the way you laugh to his lips, muffled in his kiss but still uncontained.  

Hidden under sheets, shared breaths between you in your own little world, Bucky decides he will be content if he stays here forever.

Keep reading

[marvel-ficrecs]

The Only Kindness

summary: In the early days of Bucky’s captivity in Hydra, the only comfort he knows is the kindhearted doctor assigned to mend his wounds. At least when he's with her, he knows he isn’t alone. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 9.7k warnings: torture, canon level violence, unwanted sexual advances, hydra's attempts to brainwash bucky, hella angst, a/n: this is meant to sit in the world of canon and what we know eventually happens to Bucky at Hydra sooo do with that what you will. I am genuinely really proud of this one so I hope you can forgive me for the pain I cause

The first thing Bucky remembered every morning when the sting of florescent lights woke him in a cold sweat was that the arm attached to his shoulder was not his own. The realization of it hurt worse than the day before; with unforgiving metal seared into his skin, leaving behind bubbled scars and a revolting, oozing smell.

It weighed him down, slumped on his spine, pulled at his neck, and he struggled to even push himself upright. Sitting upon the thin mattress laid amongst an otherwise baron room, Bucky supposed he might have preferred the floor if not for the dark red stain at the center of the concrete.

Then, the familiar clicking of locks echoed against the walls and Bucky gritted his teeth as a stout man with rounded features and an arrogant grin strolled into the room – no, the cell – alongside two men strapped with rifles.

He clutched to the solid metal of his arm as if holding it might take the pressure off his shoulder, might subside the pain as it spread through his veins, or stop the twitching in his cheek as he tried to stifle the pain, but it was no use. He held on anyway in favor of wrapping a hand around the scientist’s throat.

“Ah, good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola greeted, though there was something unpleasant in his tone. A threat, perhaps. A taunt. It was always something of the sort.

Bucky could barely muster the energy to look the man in the eye, but as he did, it was hidden under a dark, loathing glare. He spat on the floor by Zola’s feet.

“Go to hell.”

Zola jumped back and brushed at the toe of his shoe. It was amusing, at least, to see the rage boil in the man’s chest; all red faced and round and steaming from the ears. Though Bucky’s triumph was shorted lived as Zola waved a single hand at the armed guards beside him.

They lunged forward and with heavy hands, clawed Bucky into their grip by his biceps. He met concrete within seconds; the red stain laid beneath him. His knees barely had time to heal from the day before and they stung as he struggled under the guards’ grasp, raw skin and blistering burns shielded by paper thin fabric.

His face was pushed down into the stone and for a strange moment there was relief; it was cool to the touch, a break from the feverish heat on his brow.

But then, while a guard pinched at the nape of Bucky’s neck, nearly choking the air straight out of him and the other jabbed a knee to his spine, he remembered there was no relief within Hydra.

“You have a long day ahead of you,” Zola announced, a smirk growing upon his face as Bucky let out a hollowed whine. It slipped past his lips before he could smother it down. He knew then that he had lost whatever game they were playing; the win-lose of a man in chains to his captors with scalpels in their hands and venom on their tongues.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the fall; since icy waters and plummeting down to a ravine he wished most nights had swallowed him whole. He didn’t know how many times he was cut open in an unsterilized room, thrown onto a rusting metal table and operated on with cheap anesthetic. He didn’t know how many times he was strapped into a chair that set fire to his veins and left him feeling numb and empty, how many times he felt a lingering sense of dread he couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t know much at all, really.

But he knew his name. He knew his serial number. He knew Steve would come for him like he did before. He knew he’d get through this. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.

“We have much to do,” Zola announced, admiring how Bucky’s face pressed down into the concrete, how the prickles in the stone scraped against his cheek and cut at his skin— pleased to see a man brought to his knees, bowing before the greatness of Hydra. It brought Zola a sense of pride whether the Sergeant resisted or not. He would give in soon enough.

The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Bucky’s arms as they yanked him back to his knees. They didn’t give him a chance to stand either before they started to drag him from the cell.

The grip on his right arm was sure to leave bruises behind, ones to accompany the mess of blue and purple coloring his skin, but it was the pain on his left that rendered him paralyzed. It felt like his arm was being ripped straight from his body, pulled at every nerve ending until they snapped. He could hardly move.

It wasn’t until Zola made a sharp left at the end of the hall that a familiar sense of dread dropped into Bucky’s stomach. Whether it was fear, panic, resilience, he wasn’t sure, but he started to fight back as they neared a dark red door with six locks running up the side.

“No,” he gaped, barely a whisper, but it caught Zola’s attention.

Bucky thrashed in the men’s grip, using his weight as leverage despite the searing pain in his shoulder and the blood trickling down his ribs from where metal fused to flesh. His heels dug into the concrete, trying to catch against the wall to slow them down, to stop what he knew was coming.

Zola merely smiled.

It was no use, and perhaps Bucky knew that from the start, but he couldn’t be strapped into that chair without a fight. He still didn’t know its purpose but he knew it brought him pain. It disoriented him, made him forget his own name and the monsters that chained him. It forced him to remember all over again that he was held prisoner, thousands of miles away from home, presumed dead, and he couldn’t -- he couldn’t do it anymore.

“Please,” Bucky gasped and it sounded foreign in his own voice – broken. He hated it. He despised how his voice cracked, how he fell to his knees in front of his captors and begged.

Zola grabbed a firm hold of Bucky's chin, stump fingers digging into his cheeks and demanding attention. As he pulled in closer, Bucky caught sight of something strange in the reflection of Zola’s glasses.

He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him; hair grown and wild, unkept beard on his face, dirt and blood covering most of his skin. Amongst the scratches in the glass and the clouds of dirt, the reflection of the man looked tired, with hallowed eyes and sunken cheeks. He wasn’t strong enough to fight back. He wouldn’t survive if he tired.

Bucky slumped in the guards’ arms.

“That’s what I thought,” Zola jeered, a lingering chuckle etched into the trail of his voice. He waved a hand at the guards and Bucky was placed into the chair, all dead weight and positioned like a doll.

Thick, metal bars strapped down around Bucky’s wrists, his biceps, his ankles to hold him in place. He did his best to let go of himself, to find somewhere far beyond the walls of this room, away from the men who ripped him to pieces and broke him to the bare bones. He imagined something better, safer, where he was clean shaven and in fresh clothes, where Steve was waving from the end of the street and the war long behind them, but the dream was torn from him as soon as the panels clamped against his temples.

Electricity jolted through his system and his whole body tensed. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

But he could scream.

It ripped through his lungs and he was certain he’d break straight through the mouth guard and shatter his teeth if they didn’t turn off the machine soon. The sound echoing through the room was strained, broken, and Bucky might have mistaken it for nails to a chalkboard if he didn’t feel the burn in the back of his throat.

He started to lose time, unsure if it was on for seconds or hours. It was blinding. It was all-consuming. It was swallowing him whole.

“Enough!” a voice broke through. A woman’s. It wasn’t one Bucky recognized.

“No, keep it on! He can take more.” Zola.

“Are you insane!” the voice shouted again. “You’ll kill him!”

Let them.

The thought startled Bucky but it slipped from him in the seconds it took to arrive; searing pain, white hot fire washing through every muscle down to his bones. His eyes began to flutter closed, a strange sort of emptiness pulling him under, a darkness he couldn’t place, and he welcomed the escape.

There was yelling again, though this time it was coming was across the room. The machine began to power down, the whirring sounds of electricity in his ears leaving him with a numbing silence. The dizziness took hold, the hollowness, and he was surprised to find a woman staring back at him, her hands wrapped around the lever that pulled him from the fire.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zola roared, accent thick and slurring his words together. He bounded forward, attempted to push past the woman but she held her ground, hands planted on her hips.

“I’m saving his life,” she grunted back, unfazed by Zola’s finger pointing up into her face. She swatted it away, ignoring the shock upon his rounded features. “You brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? Let me do my damn job.” She glanced around the room, eyed the men with guns aimed at the ready, barrels trained in her direction. “Give me the room.”

“Not going to happen,” Zola snapped but quickly silenced as she shot him a glare that had him cower several steps in retreat. His cheeks were burned red.

The woman turned back to the man in the chair and he slumped limply in its clutches, her narrowed eyes centering on the rapid rise and fall of his chest. She held up two fingers, eyeing him carefully before she slowly moved to press them against his throat.

He winced before she could even touch him, flinching at the air itself, and she paused, bringing her hand back to her chest. She gave him a minute to watch as she demonstrated what she was trying to do by pressing the tips of her fingers to her own neck.

She tried again and this time she held his stare; calming aura nestled between the vibrant shades in her eyes, a gentle kind of patience he didn’t expect, and he hardly noticed her fingertips against his skin as she felt for his pulse, feather light and paper thin. They were cool to the touch, a comfort in the burning heat of metal surrounding him and he caught himself before he could lean into her palm.

“His heart rate is through the roof,” she said tensely, turning back to Zola and withdrawing her hand. “Unless you want your multi-million-dollar project to go to waste, clear out before he has a goddamn heart attack.”

Zola eyed her suspiciously in what appeared to be a competition of wills. She straightened her back, arms folding over her chest, and she towered over the scientist’s small frame. He glared up at her and the fury was palatable on his face; upper lip twitching, eyes narrowed, hands curling into fists.

She held her ground.

“Fine,” Zola grumbled, waving a hand to the line of men behind him until they bring their weapons down to their sides. “Give the doctor the room.”

As if she were waiting for the men to leave, she exhaled a breath like she had been holding it for quite some time. When she let her hands come back to her sides, puncture marks were left in her palms.

“I’m leaving a man behind for your safety,” Zola threw over his shoulder at he reached the door, almost like a threat.

She swallowed; jaw clenched. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not today, but it will be.”

Then, he was gone.

The door locked shut behind him and a single guard remained by the door, positioned with his finger on the trigger.

“Finally,” she exhaled, turning back with a gentle smile on her face that felt almost unsettling to be in such a cold and unforgiving place. “Can you tell me your name, soldier?”

“Uhh,” was all that left his lips and he hardly recognized his own voice. He searched in the back of his head for the answer, felt it on the tip of his tongue, and still… nothing. He glanced back up at her with clenched teeth because he knew what would happen next, what always happened next.

But instead of a harsh hand to the side of his face or the blunt edge of a weapon to his crown, she nodded, offered him a sad sort of smile, and simply said, “that’s alright.”

She glanced down at the clamps restraining him to the chair. His skin was raw underneath, bleeding a little, and she frowned. It crinkled up into her forehead, pursed out at her lips, and he decided he liked it much better when she smiled.

“Your name is Sergeant James Barnes,” she said fondly and it sounded familiar as she said it, but it still felt distant— wrong in some way. She seemed to notice the contemplation on his face. “It’ll come back to you soon. Might take longer than the last time, but it will. They haven’t perfected the science of the chair yet, it seems.”

There was a resentment laced into her words as she glared back at the armed man standing guard with disgust. She softened as she turned back to face the man she called James. It was within that moment the anger washed from her features, a kindness replacing the hatred, and she ran her fingers on the edge of the chair before she pulled away.

“I’m going to undo these, okay?” she told him and he was surprised that she waited for his nod before adjusting the mechanics on the machine until the metal snapped open and a rush of cold air swept against the blistering skin. He hissed at the sting of it.

“Come,” she requested, gesturing to the examination table in the corner of the room. “Let’s get you out of this thing, huh?”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t stand the sharp edges anymore or the blistering heat of the arm rests. Her touch was so gentle he wondered if it could push right through him as she bent down to help tug his right arm over her shoulders.

Just as she nearly had him positioned well enough to get him to his feet, the guard standing in the corner of the room stepped forward, gun raised.

“I wouldn’t do that, ma’am.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m fine. Let me work.”

“He’s dangerous,” the guard grunted back.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she argued. There wasn’t a trace of hesitancy in her voice, even as she turned to the man hanging off her arms. “Are you, Sergeant Barnes?”

He shook his head.

“See?” she gestured. “Now leave us be.”

The guard stepped back, lowered his weapon, and she smiled.

“Alright then, James,” she started, “think you can help me get you to that table over there? I know you’ve lost some muscle mass but you’re still pretty heavy.”

A short ghost of a laugh escape as he let himself lean on her shoulder, allowing her to guide him towards the table. It surprised him as it left his chest, the feeling of laughter, because he hadn’t so much as smiled since the fall. It hurt, almost. But it was a nice kind of hurt.

She helped him sit on the table, just high enough to give her decent leverage, and he spotted a bag filled with what appear to be medical supplies. It contained with what he would expect; a stethoscope, bandages, depressors, but there were also needles, and shiny metal tools that made him clench his hands around the lip of the table.

“I’m a doctor,” she said, noticing his stare. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Zola’s a doctor,” he muttered back feebly, sharp images of lying awake on a cold, metal table much like the one he currently sat upon plagued his mind, memories of scalpels in his shoulder and needles in his arms.

She nodded, contemplating what he said before she frowned and countered, “Zola’s a mad scientist with a God complex.”

A smile tugged at his lips. It broke a little, but it remained.

“You can call me Y/n if you like,” she said as she began digging through her bag. She found the stethoscope and placed the ends in her ears. “I’m going to press this to your chest, alright? It might be a little cold.”

She exhaled a breath on the side of it for a moment to try and warm it, rubbing it with the palm of her hand. He was mesmerized by the small details; how she positioned herself strategically between him and the armed guard behind her, how she told him exactly what she was doing before she did it, how she gave him time to prepare, how she hadn’t once touched him without asking first.

He didn’t understand her or why she was here, but he was thankful.

He nodded at her and she leaned in closer, pressing the piece to his sternum. It had a slight chill to it but he could still feel the warmth left behind from her breath. He took a deep breath in as she instructed. She took her time, slowly moving to his ribs, and then his back. He took more deep breaths, felt the pulsing of his heart steady under her touch.

“Looks good all things considering,” she told him. Her eyes drifted to the burn marks on his right wrist, fingers ghosting over the reddened marks and her lips tug down into a frown. She masked it as she faced him again, pushing out a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Might as well attend to this, too, don’t you think?”

Yeah, might as well.

He offered her his hand.

He sat quietly while she worked, listening to her hum softly under her breath. She was impossibly gentle with him, so delicate he could hardly feel it until it was gone. Her hands were a little cold but he found them soothing against the burns. The alcohol she placed on the wound stung, made him grit his teeth and grip to the table’s edge, but she moved quickly, wincing at the way he sucked in a harsh breath as if his pain meant something to her.

When she was finished, she wrapped his wrist with a bandage from her bag and gently tapped on his knee.

“Not a lot my patients would have sat still through that without some kind of numbing agent,” she grinned, praise in her voice, smile on her lips, and it sent a flutter through his chest. “You did good, James.”

He didn’t want to tell her that he’d known worse, that the pain of alcohol to his wounds was nothing in comparison to the mutilation on his arm or the electricity of the chair. So, he focused on something else, a distant memory edging its way back to the surface, something that didn’t lie within the pages of Hydra’s files.

“Bucky,” he choked out, voice a little dry. She raised an eyebrow. “My name… it’s Bucky.”

She smiled at that.

“Bucky,” she repeated, testing it on her lips, “it’s nice to meet you.”

***

It wasn’t the last time he saw Y/n.

No, he found himself under her care more days than not. It was a simple system, it seemed. Hydra would do its best to break Bucky to pieces and they’d send in Y/n to stitch him back up; glue him together with needle and thread or scotch tape and paper mâché. She did her best to heal him and while she could not cure every wound on his body, she gave him something he didn’t have before – something to look forward to.

A kind smile. A gentle hand. A voice so soft it nestled deep into his chest and warmed the hollow ache that had made a home by his heart.

Even through the pain, through the chair, through the long hours he spent overworked in a boxing ring, he knew she’d be waiting on the other side. It didn’t hurt as much when he thought of her, he realized – the only kindness he knew within Hydra.

They hadn’t attempted to use the chair on him in a while and for that he was grateful. To save him from the pain of the electricity and the emptiness that followed, but lately, to allow him to hold onto her memory. He didn’t want to forget her name, her kindness, her light within the darkest corners of hell.

He only ever saw her in short glimpses, brief moments when the guards pushed the boundaries too far and cracked open a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding or dislocated his arm again or fractured another bone. They’d drag her into his room, rough hands on her wrists that made a knot form deep into Bucky’s stomach, and give her minutes to work before they hulled her away.

He healed quickly, he came to find. Certainly faster than he should. Maybe in another world he would have been pleased with this. A perfect soldier. Always ready for battle.

In this world, it meant shorter recovery between trainings. It meant pushing him beyond his limits and testing the extent of his newfound abilities. It meant few and distant meetings with the kind doctor whose smile made it impossibly difficult to despise every last ounce within Hydra.

***

A few weeks since their first meeting, Bucky found himself dragged by his wrists on a familiar path into what looked like a room much like his own, only there were a few small comforts inside; a bed, a desk, a lamp, and a series of books piled on a small dresser.

Y/n jumped up from the desk, pen falling to the concrete as she stared back at the guards, agape. “What the hell did you do to him?!”

They dropped Bucky to the ground, his own arms too weak to hold himself up, and felt the harsh crack of concrete to his jawline. Blood dripped down into his eyes, clouding his vision with crimson pools of red, but he could hear the quick patter of your bare feet as you slid down to the floor beside him, shooing away the guards.

Hands ghosted over his shoulders before you paused, watching the way he sighed into the cool embrace of concrete. She glared back up at the guards, waiting on their answer.

“He’s weak,” one of the guards spat, thick accent spewing down to land on Bucky’s bare skin. “The fist of Hydra is an embarrassment. He crumbles under pressure. He needs to be pushed, to be taught what he is.”

Bucky couldn’t quite register the way her hands curled up into fists or how a harsh exhale burned deep in her chest, but she swallowed it the best she could as she muttered, “get out.”

A toe nudged at Bucky’s leg – one of the guards behind him – and he groaned as it dug into a dark purple bruise from the days before.

“You’ve done enough,” she pressed again, swatting away his leg as he tried to push Bucky over to his back to see his good work. "Now leave.”

“You don’t give us orders, princess,” the other guard smirked, yellowed teeth bared.

“We’ll be back for him soon,” the first one said, nudging his friend to stand down. “Make sure he’s ready to go again tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and within the echo, Bucky felt the cool touch of a breeze nestle against his skin. It was a relief, as kind as the concrete, that sat in sharp contrast to the burning heat on his skin.

“Are you alright, Sergeant Barnes?” an angelic voice called. It sounded muffled, and a bit distant, but it was one he recognized.

He nodded slowly, though the concrete scratched at his skin.

“You don’t look alright,” she countered, a touch of lightness in her tone and it came as a welcomed relief.

“You kidding? I look great,” Bucky teased, half muffled by the ground. She laughed, pressing a hand over her lips, and Bucky swore for the smallest of moments that all the pain had washed from his body completely.

He could hear her riffling around the room, gathering supplies and laying a blanket down by his side, then a pillow. She was talking to herself, words he couldn’t quite hear or understand, but they were a comfort nonetheless.

"Still with me Sergeant Barnes?"

“Bucky,” he grumbled, just as she came down to kneel beside him again. “S’my name, remember? I’m supposed to be the one with the memory problems here.”

There came that laugh again, though she tried to suppress it. “That’s not very funny, Bucky.”

“Give me an ounce of humor here, doll,” Bucky smirked. It ached in his lips where the split tore through, burned in his cheeks from the swelling on his face, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t often he had much reason to smile these days. She seemed to bring it out of him.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. “Think you can turn onto your back? I’ve got some cushioning here for you. I’m sorry I can’t lift you to the bed.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Bucky summoned as much strength as his body could muster as he pushed down into the concrete with his right hand. He started to shake as pressure burned into his left shoulder and he gritted his teeth, face contorting in a wash of pain as his smirk faded away in an instant.

She must have noticed because her hands slipped gently onto his right bicep, gently easing him to turn over the metal shoulder and lay onto his back. Her touch was so feather light, he questioned for a moment if it was even there at all, but then he felt a soft squeeze, the cool press of her palms, and he sighed.

Her hands were the only ones who did not mean him harm. She healed. She nurtured. She cared.

“What are they doing to you...”

Her voice was hardly a whisper, the shock on her face evident enough of the damage on his own. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, but he knew it was bad. It hurt to speak, hurt to even part his lips, and his vision was tunneled and dark, cast over in shadows, and somehow, she was still clear as day.

“Dunno,” he responded, recognizing the slur in his voice. “Training me for something, I think.”

She stilled; muscles rigid as she reached into her bag for something to bandage his wounds. He could see the contemplation on her face, the worry, but she swallowed it back, pushed out that gentle, reassuring smile he’d come to rely on and began to work on the cut along his cheekbone.

“It can’t be anything good, Bucky,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the door as if she were worried about what laid on the other side. He knew the feeling well.

***

He forgot her for the first time a few days later.

The scars were starting to heal; the gashes open on his face just days before nothing but a thin discoloration on his skin. He knew the look on Zola’s face as he emerged in his cell that morning - smug and grim, eager to wipe away the decorated prisoner of war and turn him into something empty and broken. The smirk that crept up his face was unsettling, jarring, as it crinkled lined into his forehead and a vile look in his eye.

They slammed him down into the chair, locked the restraints into place, and he only spotted her rush into the room as the machine powered on. The horror in her eyes as she met his, the quick transition to rage as she turned to Zola, and the pain took over until it consumed him whole.

He lost some time because the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a metal table and the room had emptied, save for a single guard standing in the corner over the shoulder of a beautiful woman who eased a soothing gel onto the burns on his wrist.

He studied her as she worked, quietly humming to herself, telling him what she was doing before she dared to touch him in a voice so gentle it startled him. It was familiar, he realized, the delicate intricacies of her tone, the warmth in his chest when she touched him. He wasn’t afraid of her like he was the others. He didn’t flinch under her touch.

“Your heart rate is still pretty high,” she noted, her fingers pressed to the inside of his right wrist. “Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

She embellished her own, chest rising high as she inhaled, air blowing out from her mouth in the exhale. She nodded for him, something encouraging and kind, until he followed suit. But even through the tender smile upon her lips there was a sadness there, a disappointment, and it hurt him deep into his chest.

“I know you, don’t I?” he finally said after he mimicked a few of the breaths as she requested.

She smiled at that and he felt an instant relief. Something warm and gentle. Kind.

He narrowed his eyes upon the slight curve of her lips, drawing up to her eyes where he was met with a linger sense of calm, of peace, of reprieve. “Why don’t I remember you?”

She sighed, a cautious glance back at the guard behind her who seemed to be watching with the intent to overhear. Her eyes were downcast, a nervous brush of her tongue over her lower lip, and she pushed out a smile for him.

“You will, Bucky.”

He hoped that were true.

***

Bucky was barely tied together with string and tape, broken and bleeding and covered in bruises, and yet, a smile etched onto his broken lips as he turned to find Y/n stumbling into his cell. She shrugged off the grip of a guard with an aggravated huff before he slammed the door closed behind her.

She was no longer shocked by the state in which she often saw him. His accelerated healing made the brutal look of his mutilation a bit easier to swallow he supposed or perhaps he was getting used to it. It was like a mask he’d come to wear, fading in and out depending on the day, but always present. It didn’t seem to lessen the pain in her eyes as she sat down beside him, extending a hand towards his face to touch gently at the markings.

“I hate that they keep doing this to you,” she said softly, though there was a rage nestled into the crook of her tone. She shook her head, a tense breath exhaled as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a few swabs of gauze and alcohol wipes.

“M’alright,” Bucky slurred and it didn’t seem to help his case.

“They’re monsters.” Y/n dabbed at the gash on his forehead as gingerly as she could manage. Bucky didn’t mind the sting of it, not when she was touching him so tenderly, like she was handling something precious.

He’d figured out a while ago that she was just as much a part of Hydra as he was. He never dared to ask, but he’d seen the way she looked at Zola, how she despised him as an enemy. He’d seen the clothes she wore and how they were tattered on the seams, how they discolored with use, how she'd wear them over and over again while the men in the room wore pristine lab coats and freshly laundered suits. He’d seen the dark circles under her eyes, the knots in her hair, the way her collarbone began to protrude the longer he knew her.

She was a prisoner of Hydra, too.

“They’re monsters,” Y/n repeated, tears burning in her eyes and it warped deep into Bucky’s gut. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. He wanted to make her smile again because she’d been nothing but a light for him and now, she was flickering and fading and he was certain it would destroy him completely until she uttered, “and... and so am I,” and his whole world fell apart.

“No,” Bucky shot back almost instantly. “Don’t say that. You’re not one of them.”

“I might as well be,” she said, brushing at the tears as they spilled down her cheeks. “I’m still complicit in what they’re doing to you – whatever that is. I’m still helping them.”

“They’d kill you,” Bucky argued. “They’d kill you if you tried to resist.”

“They’re practically killing you now! How is that any better?” She pressed her palms to her face, shielding herself from him and Bucky slid down onto the floor, kneeling on the concrete in front of her, and gently rested his hands on her knees. She struggled to catch her breath between the sobs. “I keep fixing you up just to send you back out there and—and—Bucky, I feel like I’m handing you over to slaughter and I can’t-- I can’t--”

“Stop, please,” Bucky begged. He could feel the splinter nestle into his heart, cracking at the edges as it tore a sliver down the center. It burned and ached and threatened to rip him to pieces worse than the foreign metal on his arm, worse than the guards on the other side of the door, worse than the chair that stole his name and his memories, because the woman who saved his life over and over again was crying and he simply couldn’t take it.

“Look at me,” he eased, drawing his hands up her thighs, along her arms, until he met her hands resting against her face. Gently, he pried his fingers under her palms and when he was met without resistance, he pulled them away from her face. “You are the only shred of good within this place. You are the only kindness I’ve known since they threw me on that table and remade me. You are the only thing keeping me going when they’re beating me within an inch of my life, the only thing I want to remember when they try to take away everything I know. Please, don’t think for a second that you’re one of them. You’re saving me, Y/n.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he said too much as her lips parted into shock, her eyes staring at him shocked and wide. Her breaths were coming in slow and steady as she watched him, almost as if she were waiting for him to recant, but he held his ground.

“You are good, Y/n,” Bucky continued. He squeezed her hand in his right, letting his left fall down to his side to shield her from the evil from which it was born. “You're the reason I keep coming back.”

“I’m scared, Bucky,” she exhaled, voice so low, so shaken, he could barely hear it. She squeezed his hand back. “I’m scared of what they're going to do to you.”

“I’ll have you, won’t I?” he smiled, because it was all he had left. There were no guarantees, no promises he could make to ease her fears. “As long as I’ve got you with me, I’m okay.”

He just wanted her to smile again, to be the woman who fought against Zola in a crowded room of armed Hydra agents and won, who was fearless in the face of evil, and gentle and kind in her touch.

Bucky realized that the more time he spent with her, the more she’d grown to care for him, the more he’d found himself missing her— the more dangerous they were to one another. If Hydra knew...

“You have me,” she said suddenly, a stroke of confidence returning to her voice, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the door and the men that laid beyond it. Bucky met her eye and she raised a palm to his cheek, slow and steady, always giving him the time to prepare before she touched him even when it wasn’t necessary, even after he’d grown to trust her above anyone else. She cupped the side of his face, smiling sweetly for him, sadly, as she said, “as long as they’ll let me, Bucky. You’re not alone. You’ll have me.”

Her thumb traced over old scars she’d mended, over raised edges and dried blood from the mess left behind by the dozen Hydra agents he’d met earlier that day. The tenderness within her touch was unlike anything he knew how to quantify. It sat in such contrast to the hands of men who battered and beat him within an inch of his life, to the torture of the chair, to the scalpel in the hands of mad scientists with god complexes.

There was something in her touch. Something that felt a lot like love.

Bucky found himself leaning in closer, wanting to close the space between them because any space at all was simply too much. He wanted to engulf her into his arms, protect her from the evils that waited for them outside these walls, take her away to somewhere warm and safe, somewhere she didn’t have to check over her shoulder when she smiled. It terrified him how badly he wanted it because he knew there were no fantasies in Hydra, no dreams, no happy endings. He knew it would be taken from him eventually, she would be taken from him, but it didn’t stop him from clinging on as tight as he could.

His lips touched hers, broken and splintered, and still, beautiful. He could taste the salty tang of her tears against her lips, her fingers curling around his long, unkempt hair and twisting along his scalp, breathing him in. There was a sanctuary within her arms, under her touch, that seemed impossible within these walls, and yet, here she was.

Tangible. Real. Kissing him as if he could be ripped from her at any second.

And he was.

The door swung open and Bucky jolted away from her. Y/n jumped back against the bed frame, her head hitting the cement wall.

In the frame of the door stood a guard Bucky had become familiar with; blonde, broad, reminded him a bit of Steve if it weren’t for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The burn mark across his jawline helped to obstructed the similarities.

The guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on Y/n, focusing on the quick rise and fall of her chest, the slight swell in her lips, the mess in her hair, before he gritted his teeth and turned to Bucky.

“Times up, Soldat,” he grunted, wasting no time as he pulled a wand from his belt, flipped a switch at the end, and burned the jolts of electricity into Bucky’s side. He barely registered the desperate crack in Y/n’s voice as she begged for the guard to stop.

Then – darkness.

***

“We need to be more careful.”

“They’ll find out how I feel for you and they'll hurt you.”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. Familiar voices: a man’s and a woman’s. He’d heard them spoken aloud; of that he was certain. But they were distant, far away, as if he’d heard them uttered on a film screen in passing. They couldn’t be his own memories. He was a blank slate. He was empty.

A woman stood across from him, approaching him slowly as the machine powered down. It was loud in his ears, echoing enough to pulse tremors into the back of his head. He didn’t dare show an ounce of the pain he felt. He’d come to know the consequences of that, even if he couldn’t quite remember what they were.

“I’m going to help you to the table, alright?” the woman said, gesturing to the metal desk to her left. There it was again— that familiarity.

She smiled kindly at him, as if looking into the face of a man she knew, but he did not know her. She must have sensed his hesitancy because she held up her hands out for him to see.

“I just want to examine you. Make sure you’re okay. Can I do that?”

He narrowed his eyes on the woman, listening intently to her heartbeat. It was a strange sound, one he shouldn’t be privileged to hear, but he found the skill useful. He could listen for the inflections in the rhythm, pulse points and skips that told him when a person was lying.

Hers was steady. Even. He nodded.

He was surprised at how easily he allowed her to guide him to the table, how he didn’t question as he let her place a hand on his inner wrist to check his pulse, how he didn’t flinch when she approached the scars on his shoulder. It was like he knew the routine, understood the subtle intricacies in her gestures warning him of what she was about to do before she even laid a hand on him.

A relief was evident in his muscles. He felt a calmness wash over him the longer she stood at his side, recording his vitals, running a hand soothingly along his arm. It seemed personal, the way she touched him, like she was preserving something – or guiding something home.

He wanted to ask her name, why she was treating him so kindly when all he knew within these walls was the cruelty of violent men, when the guard who stood at the back corner of the room cleared his throat.

“You almost done, sweetheart?” The guard spat the pet name like an insult and the kind woman standing beside the Soldier flinched. She tensed quickly after that, mustering out a brave face as she turned back to the armed guard defiantly.

“I’ll be done when I’m done, Bronski.”

The Soldier wanted to smile, though he wasn’t sure why. A swell of pride beamed in his chest as Bronski’s smirk dissipated, replaced with something colder, darker; a bruise to his ego. The woman turned back to the Soldier, exhaled a heavy breath and offered him a short smile; calming, reassuring. The edges of his lips started to curve in response until –

Bronski crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed a tight hold of her arm and yanked her swiftly away from the Soldier. She collided against his chest, caged against him under the firm hold of his grip.

“You think you can mouth off to me, bitch?” Bronski sneered, shoving her against the desks at the far side of the room. Viles of serums and chemicals spilled over at the impact, glass shattering, and the Soldier began to stand from his position across the room, his hand curling into fists.

“Stop looking at him! He’s not going to help you,” Bronski taunted as her eyes flashed back at the Soldier, pleading at some unknown force he couldn’t quite understand, though he listened to its call. Bronski towered over her, easily overpowering her frame, and pinned her to the wall.

The Soldier took another step forward, another inch closer to what he was sure were near fatal consequences, but there was a voice screaming in the back of his head, an instinct he couldn’t drown out, a desperate need to protect a woman he didn’t know.

“You think we didn’t notice, huh?” Bronski growled, his hand sliding down her side, tracing over the curves at her waist and the Soldier felt a sudden twist in his stomach, a dead weight sinking him into the ground at the sight. “You think we can’t tell you got it hot for the asset? He’s weak. Pathetic. Why don’t you try being with a real man instead? I’ll show you a good time, princess...”

Her eyes were on the Soldier, holding his gaze though she was shaking; trembling and afraid. He didn’t like that.

“Get away from her.”

Bronski froze. He managed a slow glance over his shoulder to find the Soldier standing just a few feet away, hands clenched at his sides, fuming as his eyes flickered between the Hydra agent and the woman he held pinned to the wall.

“Don’t be a fucking hero, Soldat,” Bronski spat back.

But the Soldier did not move.

“Get away from her,” he repeated, his voice low, mechanical. He could feel the rush of adrenaline building in his veins, the chaos of the rapid thumping of his pulse. He wasn’t used to such reactions, such intensity, when all he’d come to know was a crippling emptiness. It was unpleasant.

“What are you going to do about it?” Bronski taunted, a sick smirk upon his face. He dismissed the Soldier, didn’t dare to think he’d disobey direct orders, and turned back to the woman.

She tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on her wrists was so tight his nails had dug puncture marks into her skin. She was shaking, tears burning into reflective lenses over the gentle hue of her eyes; kind eyes that should not bare such a weight.

Bronski leaned in closer, his mouth pressing against her neck, her whole body stiffening at the touch, and the Soldier snapped.

He rushed at them, his left hand clamping down around Bronski’s neck until he started to gag. Bronski released her wrists, allowing her to sink to the floor in a fallen heap. Bronski scratched at the hand at his neck, gasping for air as his skin turned bright red, then blue, but he was only met with metal. It could not feel. It could only maim.

There was a rage storming inside the Soldier, a mission he’d assigned for himself, as he threw Bronski across the room. It didn’t take much effort. The Soldier was stronger than most men. They underestimated him, believed him to be feeble and weak because he was submissive. But not now. Not when they threatened her.

“Soldat!” Bronski choked out, his voice damaged. Broken windpipe. The Soldier smiled.

Slowly, he took a knee at Bronski’s side, grabbed a firm hold of his collar for leverage, and barreled the closed end of his fist into the man’s face until he could no longer see the smirk that had pressed upon his mouth as he dared to touch his girl. He didn’t stop until Bronski was no longer begging, until he was silent, and blood caked between the panels of metal in his fist, until he heard a voice calling behind him—

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

He froze. There was that name again...

He blinked a few times, a sharp piercing in the back of his head painful enough to obscure his vision and he dropped Bronski from his hold. A hand slid down over his shoulders, guiding him away from the body on the floor. It was that same familiar touch; one he knew well.

“Bucky, look at me.”

He did.

Her hand pressed sweetly to the side of his face, like she was trying to memorize him. He leaned into the touch, something he was sure he hadn’t done in years, and yet, within her arms it felt like the most natural thing in the world, like maybe he’d done it a dozen times before.

When he met her eyes again, he understood why.

“Y/n?”

She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms. She molded so perfectly against him, his healer, his savior. Bucky knew they wouldn’t have much time before the Hydra infantry arrived and discovered what he’d done. He didn’t dare spare a glance back at the body on the ground.

“Y/n... I—”

The doors swung open, slamming in echoing shocks against the walls, and chaos ensued. Swarms of armed Hydra agents ascended into the room and tore Y/n from his arms, separating them as they restrained Bucky back into the chair. It was the only thing that could hold him.

“Leave her alone!” Bucky roared, that same rage returning to him in fire as two guards pinned Y/n’s arms behind her back, holding her steady as she desperately fought against their hold. “Get your hands off of her!”

Zola appeared at the frame of the door, eyes narrowing on Bucky. The room fell silent.

“Impossible.” He followed Bucky’s eyes to where the guards were restraining Y/n. “The programming should not have failed so soon after he was wiped. How?”

“He’s got a crush on the doc, sir,” one of the guards reported snidely. Bucky recognized him from the many trips he spent dragged along the hallways smearing blood into the concrete before he was dropped off at Y/n’s door.

“Interesting.” Zola crossed the room, hands grasped behind his back as he paced. His eyes fell on Y/n, studying her. “And is it... mutual?”

She didn’t respond, though when her tear-filled eyes flashed over to Bucky, he had his answer.

“Wipe him,” Zola ordered.

The machine started to power up and Bucky found himself fighting against the restraints though he knew it would do no use. Tears were openly streaming down Y/n’s face as she watched him, his name on her lips as she desperately tried to break the guard’s hold on her.

Zola seemed unbothered by the scene. If anything, he was amused, like he was watching lab rats in a cage. “Separate them. I don’t want her interfering with his programming again. We’ll make use of her when the time is right.”

Bucky tried to call her name, but the electricity had already taken hold, submerging him into the darkness.

***

The Soldier was used to his routine. Breakfast at dawn. Then training. Dinner at sundown. Sleep. It was reliable. Simple. The Soldier found a peace in that.

It had been months since he’d seen anyone outside of the two guards at his cell, the parade of uncontrollable human experiments, and the short, stout scientist. It was better this way, they told him. Less stimulation. He was important, meant for incredible things to better humanity. They needed him focused and alert.

He had little room for anything else. Focus on the mission at hand. Complete the task. Reward will follow.

Something as trivial as memories got in the way of that. The Soldier could not afford such a distraction. He was not tied down by a name or a family, by relationships or desires. He was a weapon. Made to be used. He was not capable of more.

“I want to have you looked over before we send you out for your mission today, Soldat,” the scientist said as he examined the Soldier from across the room. The man carried power within Hydra but he was small, cowardly, and he would not dare enter a room with the Soldier without a guard in place. He gestured to the door and the guard with a thick burn down his jaw moved towards it. Blonde hair, blue eyes, broad. He seemed vaguely familiar, though it felt distasteful in his mouth.

A woman was pushed through the doors and into the baron room. She shook off the grip of a Hydra agent with a grunt before she realized where she was. Her eyes fell on the Soldier and he expected her to cower in fear; they all did upon seeing him. Word traveled fast of what he was capable of. And yet –

There was relief in her shoulders, a sigh. She almost smiled before Zola turned in her direction and she pushed it away into a tight frown. The Soldier narrowed his eyes.

“Get to work, Doctor,” he ordered, though it sounded more like a warning.

She nodded, stepping in closer to the Soldier though she was hesitant in her movements. She wore dark circles under her eyes, a redness within the whites. Her clothes were old, torn a little at the edges, and dirty with use. But still, she offered a kind smile as she approached.

“How are you feeling?”

The Soldier didn’t know how to respond to that. No one had ever bothered with his answer. He stayed silent.

“You can talk freely,” she encouraged gently as she approached his bedside. He sat on the edge of the cot, tension burning through his body as it always did when he wasn’t alone. One word out of turn resulted in punishment. He knew well enough not to tempt it.

She seemed to understand he would not fall into the trap, and she nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to take your vitals, alright? I’ll start with your heart rate.” She held up two fingers, gesturing as she pressed them against her own neck. Seemed harmless enough, though he suspected he didn’t have much of a choice anyway. It was strange she acted as if he did.

Regardless, the Soldier nodded.

As she touched him, something seemed to break. She clenched her jaw tightly, trying to focus on the rhythm of his heartbeat, but he could hear the distress in her own. Quick, pounding, uneven, and she pulled her fingers away before he questioned the slight tremble in her touch.

He wanted to ask if she were alright because something about seeing her upset was unpleasant for him. She wanted to say something, that much he could tell, but she bit her tongue.

“You’re here for a reason, Doctor,” Zola taunted from his position in the corner of the room. The woman flinched though she kept her back to him. Her eyes flickered to the Soldier as if he were an anchor. Zola smirked. “Go on. Test our programming. Why else do you think we kept you around?”

Then, he exited the room. The guard followed behind him until the Soldier was alone with the woman.

She swallowed; eyes cast down as if she were afraid to speak. For a while, she continued to take his vitals – checking his blood pressure, his eye movement, examining the mess of scars on his shoulder as they attempted to heal. All the while, so impossibly gentle, so kind in her touch, that he started to wonder if he’d felt it before.

When she was finished, she took a step back. It was only then that the Soldier noticed the reflective marks on her cheeks. Had she been crying? Why did the thought alone make his stomach twist into knots painful enough to nauseate him?

“Bucky?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused. She reached out for his hand, though she stopped herself before she could touch him. It seemed agonizing; the restraint visible on her features.

“Bucky, please tell me there’s still a of piece of you in there,” she begged. He found himself wanting to lie, to pretend to be this man she craved, just to make her happy. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why it bothered him to see her cry. She was a stranger.

“You don’t recognize me at all, do you?” Her voice was so small, so broken. She was never afraid of him, he realized. No – it seemed she was more afraid of his answer. He did not respond. He didn’t know how.

She nodded, clenching her jaw as tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and the Soldier managed to break the heart of a woman he didn’t know. Another casualty in his wake.

“Excellent,” Zola sneered, appearing back in the doorway. The doctor took a step back and it surprised the Soldier when the space between them felt like an assault. Zola grinned as he moved closer to the woman. “Hydra thanks you for your service.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, just before she landed a closed fist against the bridge of the scientist’s nose.

The Soldier flinched, stunned by the woman’s brazen as she stared into the face of the mad scientist. The tears hadn’t yet dried and still – she was fearless. Zola laughed as the blood dripped down into his mouth. A guard wrapped a vicious hold around her wrist, beginning to drag her out of the room, but she turned back to the Soldier.

“Don’t give into them, Bucky! You have to fight this! You’re good, do you hear me? You’re not one of them!”

Her voice echoed in the room even as she was shoved through the door and down the hall. He listened for the last remaining vibrations of her voice, of her struggling, until it was silent. He wondered about this man she referred to, why she thought he was worth fighting for. He thought about whether he was the man she spoke of.

“Distractions, Soldat.” Zola tsked. “You are magnificent. You are the fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

He nodded. It pleased the scientist.

Zola explained the mission he was about to embark on at dawn. He listened to the instructions, the details, the purpose – all the while wondering about what became of the kind doctor who called him by a name he didn’t recognize.

Then, when he was finished, the scientist left and the Soldier was alone— just as he always had been.

---

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[marvel-ficrecs]

So I haven’t been on this account in almost a year and i’ve just logged on and I gotta rant for a second about how i’m still obsessed with this Bucky Barnes Fanfiction that I keep reading and re-reading, it’s just so! chefs kiss! just amazing. I could talk about it on and on and I just wanna bring attention to it because not enough people have read it, it’s not being posted on tumblr, it’s on ao3 and it’s an xOC but can be read as a reader insert because if i’m remembering correctly the writer doesn’t go out of their way to describe appearance. It’s got all the good tropes, enemies to lovers, there’s just one bed... To quickly summarize the plot Sophie is the Winter Soldiers mission to transport somewhere and it’s pretty much a power struggle the whole way there but they’re dynamic is so addicting. Please go read it! It’s called Run With Me by Tinseltown on AO3 (please heed the TW though, the sexual assault attempt is not from Bucky)

[marvel-ficrecs]

                    VACANT MIRRORS    ;    MASTERPOST  

                                          PINTEREST    |     AO3     |    SPOTIFY

       shit’s been rough. shit was rough even before the blip. dr. hart shares an office with dr. raynor, and you share with waiting room with bucky barnes. set before and during tfatws; a friends-to-lovers, slowburn. 

—   CHAPTERS   /   updated every friday

1.    I LANDED ON YOU LIKE A SUCKER PUNCH

2.    BUT I’VE HAD WORSE NIGHTMARES

3.   SO I’LL BE PLUGGED IN AND TUNED OUT

4.   WHILE YOU AND I RIDE INTO THE SUN 

5.   PLATONICALLY SO, OF COURSE

6.   ✶    COMING SOON    ✶

—   OTHER

1.   dolly’s jukebox, an audio imagine

2.   the vacant mirrors tag

3.   readers make their rabbit!

4.   fan art & memes

5.   the glass cannon’s club set list

                                                    — birbs                            

[marvel-ficrecs]

Prospect

By WhistlingBirds

Bucky/OFC (FIC REC)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30315126/chapters/74722305

[marvel-ficrecs]

Guilt - Bucky x Reader

A/N: Here we are - the last chapter. I hope you like the ending! (:

Thank you guys for your love and support! Feel free to request any time! ❤︎

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Summary: You really hoped your anniversary would go a bit different than that.

Warnings: Violence. Near-death-experience. Self-loathing. Mild cussing. Constant change between Angst and Fluff. End gets fluffy af.

Words: 6005 Wait what?! Okay I’m supposed to do homework so I’m procrastinating lmao.

Keep reading

[marvel-ficrecs]

Threat - Bucky x Reader

A/N: Okay, so my loyal follower @vxidnik​ asked for yet another continuation with a touch starved Winter Soldier, and what else can I say? They’re speaking my language!

There will be another part after this one! I wrote so much I had to split it up smh. But I’m not really satisfied with it. :D

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Summary: The Winter Soldier gets triggered and can’t change back until he’s completed his mission.

Warnings: Well…Angst. What did you expect? You know me. Mild Violence.

Words: 3387

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