#(series)

[meowcats734]

The contest’s judge was lithe, feline, winged, and easily twice as tall as Ana and Peheri. They towered over the two human-sized competitors as they slinked out from the ceiling, settling in a dignified, seated position near the center of the room.

The show’s commentator wolf-whistled at her. “Wowie. Are there more of you at home?” Shrimp Sex—still hated that damn name—called out from the room’s microphone. The sphinx flicked one ear but showed no other sign of so much as paying attention to Shrimp Sex, which earned a flicker of genuine anger from the devil.

“Oaths,” the sphinx stated. “Grant them to me.”

“Ugh, buzzkill.” Shrimp Sex fiddled around with a sheaf of papers upon which the most horrendously, ostentatiously lazy handwriting I had ever seen was scrawled in thick black ink. “Peheri! On behalf of the Swifthealer hospital, do you swear to provide surgery and medical care for Anachel to reshape her body into the form she desires if she stands victorious at the end of this contest?”

“I swear,” Pahari said, his cloth lips smiling placidly.

“Anachel! On behalf of Anachel Anachel—that’s you—do you swear to drop all conviction against the Swifthealer hospital now and forevermore if Peheri stands victorious at the end of this contest?”

Ana’s cool, unfocused eyes met that of the golem standing opposite her, and she nodded. “I swear.”

“Contestants! Do you swear to make cuts matching that which the opponent makes on their own bodies, and accept that failure to remain within your designated area will result in your immediate forfeit of the contest?”

“We swear,” Ana and Peheri said in unison.

The sphinx spread their wings, casting both contestants in shadow. “I, Enm Cu’Domal, in my capacity as definer, hold you to your words in the spirit of which they were made.”

“Great! Fucking finally.” On my phone’s screen, Shrimp Sex launched himself from his lazy lounge into a hunched-over, vaguely upright position. The motion scattered the papers that he hadn’t so much as looked at, his grinning face parting the cloud of papers like a magician through curtains. I’d give him this much: he may have been a turd, but he was a decently polished one. “I’m gonna throw some knives at your faces now, so get ready to catch.”

Despite Shrimp Sex’s flippant tone, the standard-issue tripartite blades materialized placidly within each circle at Ana and Peheri’s feet. Runes sparked off the handles for a moment as the teleportation spell faded. Odds were the spell was losing efficiency due to the proximity of three spectives. 

“Now, I’m legally obliged to give you one last chance to talk things out like rational citizens and blah blah blah boring. Tell me when we can get on with the show, I’ve got my dailies to match.” Shrimp Sex kicked his heels up, pulling out his phone, as Peheri and Ana stared each other down.

“Believe it or not,” Peheri quietly said, “we are trying to help you. Harming yourself like this will achieve nothing.”

I wasn’t sure if Peheri was referring to the surgeries to remove the growths on Ana’s body or the medic’s duel itself. Either way, it would be solved if the damn hospital just did their fucking job and gave Ana her body back. I wanted to burst in there, to shout Pahari down, but I took a second look at Ana’s expression.

She hadn’t so much as twitched in reaction. Ana just watched Peheri, a loose, leonine readiness behind those calm, dark eyes. Ana didn’t need me to defend her, not this time. All she had to do now was endure and keep a steady hand, and she was the best in the world I knew at both. 

“Alright, you guys done?” Shrimp Sex waited a beat, then continued. “Defender goes first. And remember.” The camera zoomed in on the two little circles around Ana and Peheri’s feet. “Last one to leave their circle loses.”

Peheri hesitated, then sighed. “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me,” he said, picking up the three-colored knife. With a single swipe, he opened up the palm of his hand, cotton stuffing spilling out.

“And the defender goes for a classic!” Shrimp Sex crowed—fucking hell, couldn’t the devil have chosen literally any other name? “Challenger, don’t be shy now. Show us what’s under your skin.”

“You’ll have permanent damage,” Peheri insisted. He sewed up the cut on his palm with his other hand, and though the movement in the golem’s left palm was stiffer now, he showed no signs of being more than inconvenienced. “Drop your claim. For your own sake.”

Ana did not justify herself. She gave no explanation to the jeering announcer or the sickeningly condescending medic. She just held the blade and mimicked Peheri’s stroke, cutting her own palm open as well. She glanced at Enm, whose black quartz muzzle dipped once in acknowledgement. The cut was a valid one.

“Humans and spectives, we’ve got a game!” Shrimp Sex whooped. My fist clenched around the phone. Ana deftly bandaged her wounded hand, the golden-amber sap trickling out from her barklike skin. She met Peheri’s eyes and took out a roll of cotton, meticulously stuffing it in between her teeth, and an absurd memory of the last time we’d fucked flashed through the back of my mind. Ana pressed the tip of the tripartite knife to one of the blossoms growing out of her skin, and Peheri’s eyes widened slightly.

Then she cut the blossom off.

“Oooh!” Fucking hell, was the devil getting off on this? Shrimp Sex wolf-whistled as Ana bit down on the cotton, hard, and muffled a scream. But still she stood, her will unbroken, as she wrapped another bandage around her now-trembling forearm. “Holy shit, that has got to be the dumbest play I’ve seen this week.”

Peheri glanced at Enm, concern wrinkling his brow. “Do I… what’s the protocol when I don’t, ah, have the body part she’s cutting?”

“You will cut through the analogous space. Two centimeters above the midpoint of your left forearm.”

Peheri frowned at Ana, who met his gaze with eyes still sharp despite the pain. Perfunctorily, the golem moved the knife through the air around his arm, a rough match for Ana’s cut. Enm nodded once more, validating the move. “Why would…”

And even if Peheri didn’t understand, I did. It was a statement, not to Shrimp Sex or Swifthealers hospital, but to everyone watching the devil’s broadcast. Ana didn’t care about winning or losing, or hurting her enemies. She just wanted the flowers piercing through her skin gone, even if she had to rip them out one by one.

She hated speaking, but she communicated just as well through other means.

Something seemed to click behind Peheri’s eyes, and he reversed his grip on the knife, holding it over the tip of his chest. “You can’t win here,” he said, slightly baffled. “I gave you a chance to back out. Just remember that.”

Then Peheri plunged the blade straight into his chest.

There were no internal organs, no critical machinery of life to protect. Just white cotton that spilled out, and though its loss did seem to weaken him, he ripped the blade back out and staggered drunkenly, sewing the gaping wound back shut. 

I closed my eyes as Shrimp Sex crowed, reveling in the violence. I’d known that the Swifthealers wouldn’t play anything remotely close to fair, not when they got to choose the method of conviction. But there was a difference between anticipating foul play and seeing the Swifthealer defendant rip through the space where their heart should have been and more or less shrug it off. Peheri didn’t smile, but his shoulders sagged with the relief that one got after finishing hard labor, or finally finishing a particularly deep clean. He waited for Ana to concede, to drop the knife or step free from the circle.

Ana exhaled, tilting her wounded arm from side to side. Judging her capabilities, seeing if she was ready for what came next. Peheri took a step forward, stopped before he left the circle.

Then Ana pulled her trunk into the circle, and I heard a lifetime’s worth of artifacts rattle around within.

A.N.

This is part of a longer story, check out the rest below if you liked this one!

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Doing Time 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Sunday mornings are usually those where you wake up restless. It’s the day you work on chores. Yet when you rouse, you only want to sink back into the bed. You could spend all day in the faded afterglow. 

You roll onto your side and squeak. Your thighs are tender. Every bit of you is sensitive to the point of twitching. Even just the touch of the duvet is too much. 

Yet the man who made you feel this way is gone. Your chest tweaks. Is he gone? Was this all just a twisted plot by him? That would make your life so much easier. If this could just be a fantasy, 

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s drawl makes you tense. 

You lift your head and look at the door. He fills the frame easily. He’s in a pair of grey boxers and nothing else. His muscle-forged shoulders are round and firm, his middle thick and padded too. You can see all the strength you felt the night before. 

You sit up and hug the top of the blanket. You look around. “What time is it?” 

“Take your time,” he assures. “I was just looking in on you.” 

“Oh,” you rub your neck. “I-- I should--” you search for anything to cover yourself. “Get up.” 

You turn your legs over the side of the bed and keep the duvet up. He hums. “You don’t gotta.” 

“I do. I have to get the laundry. The dishes. And groceries--” 

“Laundry’s folded, waiting in a basket. I did the dishes. And we can grab groceries later.” 

You blink at him, “huh? No, you didn’t--” 

“You know, being locked up, the little things, they’re almost fun these days. I don’t got some guard glaring at me or barking at me for standing the wrong way,” he chuckles and crosses the room. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about all that. We got a road trip.” 

“A road...trip?” You echo. 

He sits next to you and caresses your bare shoulder, “mhmm. As much as I’d like to stay in bed all day.” 

You squeeze the blanket tighter and blush. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Going to see your brother. Like mom said we should.” 

“What?” You wince. “No, I’ll go. You don’t have to--” 

“I don’t have to. I want to. We’re together now.” 

You gulp and lean away from him. You stand up and brush by him. You take your robe off the dresser and open it. Before you can pull it on, there’s a tug on the other end. 

“Why’re you running?” He yanks until you face him. 

“I’m not,” you angle it in front of your body as best as you can. 

“You’re hiding--” 

“I’m cold--” 

“You could’ve stayed under the blankets--” 

“Steve,” you tug until he lets go. You wrap yourself up. The robe smells like him too. “You shouldn’t... come yet. It’s just Vaughn, he can be...” 

“A brat. Oh I know it. It’s why you’re lucky I was there to watch over him. But what about now?” 

You search his face. “You don’t think...” 

“I’m just saying. I was in there. He wasn’t making any friends.” 

“Steve,” you gasp. 

“I can’t lie to you, baby.” He puts his hands on your arms. “Not ever. Your brother needs a heavy boot to keep him in place. I might not be inside but I still got connects on the inside. And he needs to see that I still got his back so he stays in line. Make sure he gets out one day. I’d like our kids to know their uncle--” 

You choke. Kids? That’s not an argument for today. Hopefully, it never truly comes to a head. 

“I didn’t... I don’t have an appointment,” you say. 

“I do. Special request for a family meeting. The two of us.” 

“What? He’s not—He's not going to like that.” 

“He’s going to like what I’m tell him too,” Steve’s voice deepens and he brings a hand to your chin. “He should like whatever makes his sister happy. Especially after all you’ve done for him. And if he isn’t, well, then, I guess he’s on his own.” 

“It’s just—he's—he's just very--” 

“He needs to grow up. You go out there and see him and he doesn’t appreciate that. Well he’s going to start or he’s not going to see you anymore. You got a life to live here. With me.” He pets your cheek with his knuckles. “And I spent enough of mine behind bars. I’m not waiting any longer.” 

He steps closer and leans it, drawing you to him. You don’t stop him. You know better. He kisses you as you close your eyes, hiding the anxiety brewing in your heart. You have a bad feeling about this. 

💙

You’ve only ever gone to the prison alone. Being with Steve feels strange for several reasons. He keeps your hand in his as you step inside the visitors’ entrance and approach the front desk with its thick plexiglass windows. 

He lets you go to take out his wallet. You glance around as you sense the gazes of several guards. Even out of his prison garb, they must recognise him. As ever, his blond and silver hair is tidily combed and parted. He wears a blue-grey short-sleeve button up and a pair of grey slacks. The sleeves are tight around his biceps and a gold watch flashes on his wrist. 

You take out your ID and hand it over with his. You swelter in the judgment of the errant eyes around you. What must they think? You show up here with a former inmate... He might have been acquitted on appeal but how much do they know about that? 

“Step over on the x’s,” the woman directs. “Officers will search you and escort you in.” 

You follow her instructions. The officers sweep over you quickly but you notice the extra attention they give to Steve. He chuckles. 

“Miss me?” He asks. 

One of the officers clucks. 

“Outside’s treating you well,” the one feeling him up turns his wrist to admire the watch. 

“Well, you know, I got a good bag for the settlement. False convictions are a cash grab,” Steve scoff, “low pay for time done, though.” 

The officer huffs with a hint of doubt. 

“Alright, go in,” he points down the hall. “They’ll get you seated.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Steve salutes him and reaches for you. “Come on, sweetheart.” 

You let him drag you down the hall to the visitors’ room. Another officer greets you and checks his clipboard. He takes you to a spot at the desk with two seats and two receivers. The chair on the other side of the transparent barrier is empty. 

You fidget as you wait, staring at the white seat across from you. What will Vaughn think? What will he do? The last question worries you most. 

“Damn, I’m just thinking about the days it was me over there,” Steve chuckles and puts his hand on the back of your chair. “We’re you this nervous then? I could never tell.” 

You shrug. 

“I can tell you now. I counted down the days. I’d be on my cell bed, sat all pretty and patient for you, ‘til they sent one of these bozos to get me,” he sighs and slaps his thigh. “I can’t hardly believe I’m sitting right next to you now.” 

He plays with your sleeve. He leans over and kisses your other shoulder. You shiver and twine your fingers together tightly in your lap. 

You wince as a door shuts with a muffled thunk. You sit up as you sense the approach on the other side. Vaughn drags his feet between two guards and stops behind the chair. He snorts. 

You can’t hear through the glass as his face twists. He tenses and the guards struggle with him. You stare at him as his eyes scour you venomously, then flick over Steve. His lip curls and he tries to shake off the guards. They finally get him to sit. 

Steve clicks his tongue and sits forward, bend one arm over the table. He chuckles as he picks up the receiver. Vaughn crosses his arms and squares his jaw defiantly. You hesitate but lift your receiver too. 

Steve points through the glass. Vaughn sneers. Steve leans forward and taps the glass. Your brother rolls his eyes then reaches for the phone. The guards cautiously back off. 

“What the fuck is this--” 

“You watch your mouth,” Steve warns. “We came all this way. The first thing you can start with is thanking your sister for being here and telling her how much you love her.” 

“Fuck off, pal.” 

Steve laughs. A dark rumble that unsettles you. You’ve never heard that from him. He gets an edge now and again, the kind that makes you nervous, but this is something more dangerous. 

“I’m giving you another chance to show some respect,” Steve warns. “So clean up the language and thank your sister.” 

“You fucking him?” Vaughn sets his sight on you. 

“Vaughn, please, settle down.” You plead 

“Huh? Is that it? How the fuck did that happen? I mean--” He snarls against the phone. “I love you, sis, but I got nothing but this for a slut.” 

He swallows and spits at the glass. Steve bristles and squeezes the receiver tight. You look over as his knuckles turn white. He leans forward. 

“Last fucking chance. Apologise--” 

“Fuck you, dude. You’re out. You got nothing in here. You run shit. So I’ma say what I want to my sister and you’re going to sit there like an old decrepit man and choke--” 

“You’re walking the line,” Steve is terrifying calm. 

“Me? Me?! You’re fucking my sister--” 

“I’m gonna marry your sister. I’m a man. Unlike you.” Steve insists. 

“Marry?!” Vaughn erupts.  

He stands and gnashes his teeth. He slams the receiver against the glass. You drop yours and sit back as he hammers at the barrier until the phone breaks in his hands. The guards grab him and drag him off away from the table. 

Steve is unfazed. He watches the tantrum. You stare at the pieces of the broken receiver as the cable hangs limply. Vaughn kicks and writhes as he’s wrestled to the door. 

Steve hangs up the phone. “Ungrateful.” 

“Steve, you should’ve let me speak--” 

“And what? Let him call you a slut?” 

“I could’ve talked to him. You didn’t let me--” 

“I’m not letting anyone disrespect my woman,” he stands up. “Not even your brother. You understand me?” 

“Steve, I understand, but he’s my family--” 

“You don’t get it sweetheart,” he takes your hand and tugs you up. “You need me. You don’t take care of yourself like you should. You let them walk right over you. Well, that’s not happening anymore.” 

You get up and sniff. “I’ll come back on my own. I’ll talk to him--” 

“You’re not coming back. He can deal with consequences.” 

“Steve.” 

He squeezes your hand. You quiet. He doesn’t let up as he drags you from the room. You pass the guards with your head down. He doesn’t stop at the front desk as he marches you out. 

Finally, he stops. Right by his car. He puts his hand on the passenger door and faces you. 

“Get one more thing, doll. You don’t argue with me like that. Especially in front of other men.” 

Your mouth falls open, “I wasn’t--” 

“You were,” he puts his other hand on his hip. “I’d do anything for you but I need you to meet me halfway, got it? We’re a unit so you stand by me. Your brother wants to act like a child, so let him mope like one. He spit in your face and you’re going to take it? Nah. Not my woman.” 

“He’s upset--” 

“You’re too soft. I love that about you but it’s no good,” he tuts. He stands straight and opens the passenger door. “Come on. We got business to take care of.” 

You get in, hiding your confusion and chagrin. You knew it would go about as well as it did. So did Steve. He's not stupid. And he’s not telling you everything, not like he said he would. This business... what exactly is that? 

You would ask but you’re not sure you’d get an answer. Knowing won’t do anything to change whatever he has planned. Just like you can’t do much to stop all those big dreams of his; wife, kids... you’re caught in the whirlwind of his lost years. 

[funkelnder-stern]

foot chase

[starstruckfoxxy]

I CAAAAANT 💀

[svubensler]

[tumbling-through-deepspace]

Becoming aware (Lyssa)

Breaking the fourth wall series. Previous >>> next

From the moment the customization page popped up, she knew.

Feeling the shifts on her face, seeing the hair options, the flashing colors, and limited critiques from her counterpart, Lyssa was aware she was apart of a game.

It could be worse. At least being the main character wasn't so bad. Who was she kidding? The last thing she wanted to be was the love interest to four guys.

One was cloaked in secrets and sleeping in random places. One was a sass mouth who had brat behavior. As the main story progressed, there was one who had henchmen and seemed to be the leader of a mafia group. The doctor was the only normal one, but even he was a workaholic.

As she sat in her apartment, Lyssa evaluated the situation she was in. It was nice knowing that she wasn't some kind of damsel in distress, but the job choice could have been better and her evol type.

Then there was her counterpart, Bree. It struck her odd that the woman spoke to and about each of them like they were alive. However, she appreciated it in some way. It was hard sometimes pretending and not responding when Bree asked questions or made comments.

Lyssa gets excited when it is time to take photos. She gets to see Bree clearer, her voice isn't muffled, and gets glimpses of the outside world.

"It would be nice if the game developers could give more hair choices, especially with hair texture; you wearing braids or having more curls would be wonderful. Clothes too that offered more pants, maybe some sandals for your feet. A girl can't always be in heels or combat boots."

Lyssa agreed with the commentary.

As time passed, she learned things about Bree. It was nice learning about the woman. She was a nursery school teacher who taught a class of seventeen children (battling wanderers sounded better), was the eldest daughter and sister to thirteen siblings; she couldn't drive any form of vehicle, was a mom to an energetic baby and had an obsession with watching Korean dramas.

The woman also tends to catch a cold quite often and stares off into space from time to time.

Bree also prefers to say home more than anything else. It was just work, home, and the occasional outing to the park or visiting her siblings. It worried Lyssa a bit.

Sometimes, she wished to just say hello but knew that would freak Bree out. It would be nice not being the only self-aware character. Was it possible to find a way out of the game?

"You're thinking so hard, I can almost hear your thoughts."

Blinking, she remembered where she was currently... having lunch with Zayne. He sat across from her eating macaroons.

"Sorry. I'm thinking about a friend of mine."

He looked at her calmly. "Anything I can offer assistance with? You looked troubled for a moment."

"I don't think you can help. Unless you know how to travel to another dimension..."

Zayne raised a brow. "Dimension travel has something to do with your friend?"

She shook her head, letting out a small chuckle, "Forget I said anything."

Zayne's ears picked up on the last sentence she whispered, "Can't get to her anyways. Bree doesn't even know I exist."

Lyssa jumped in fright at the breaking of porcelain, and the table suddenly covered in ice. Her head snapped up, making eye contact with a shocked Zayne.

Before she could ask what was wrong, he firmly grabbed her wrists. "Zayne! What the hell!"

"How do you know that name? No, wrong question... how do you know who she is?"

They stared at each other. Lyssa searched his face, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then it clicked.

"You know who I'm talking about. Oh my goodness, you know who Bree is! Oh, fuck how long have you know? How long have you been self-aware!?"

He let go of her and quickly reached for his phone, placing it on speaker after dialing a number.

She nearly choked when Sylus's voice filled the space.

"SYLUS KNOWS ABOUT BREE TOO!?"

"Well, this is interesting. Hello, kitten."

"How fast can you get here?"

"A few minutes. I have your location already, so just stay put... relax kitten, the doctor and I have a lot to discuss with you."

Not waiting for a response, he hung up, leaving her speechless. Well shit. It seems she wasn't alone in this anymore.

[joonfltr]

Love love this series so far. Has all the fluff, angst, and smut you need!! I usually don’t like angst but this hurts so good lol

mutt || jjk masterlist

⤷ summary: when he’s with you, he’s like a dog with a bone

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ word count: 18.8k+ (so far)

18+ // mdni

⟶ genre: friends with benefits au, smut, angst, fluff

⟶ content: fuckboy!jk, tattooartist!jk

⟶ warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, jk is kinda toxic, jk being a bit manipulative, f*ckboy behaviour, more specific warnings will be mentioned in each part

↬ a/n: bcuz the mutt album by leon thomas is *chef’s kiss*

main masterlist ˚.⋆˚.⋆˚.⋆ join my taglist

parts: 2/3

01: mutt ── 6k+

02: answer your phone ── 12.8k+

03: sooner or later (i do)

[shibuya-111]

Breaking Bad (2008- 2013)

[bunnybuns-art]

Page 181-186

←ᑭᖇᗴᐯIOᑌՏ ╍╍╍ NE᙭T→

And YES I am still alive

[witchhkitty222]

Under His Skin - one shot

Bucky Barnes x reader

summary: Their first encounter is tense, with Y/n pushing Bucky for a connection, but he remains dismissive, hiding behind walls built from his past. After a confrontation where Bucky snaps at her, Y/n pulls back, choosing to ignore him in order to protect herself. But as she distances herself, Bucky’s control begins to slip, and he realizes just how deeply he feels for her. He finally snaps, this time in a vulnerable moment, and goes after her, determined to show her the depth of his feelings. Their bond deepens through quiet, intimate moments: from Bucky’s subtle hand on the back of her neck in the elevator, to playful teasing during training, and even in the kitchen, where their connection is undeniable. In a private penthouse, surrounded by tension, Bucky confesses his love for her, and their relationship shifts from emotional to physical. Their connection is raw, tender, and intense, culminating in a night of passion where Bucky finally gives himself completely to Y/n. Their love, built on trust, acceptance, and care, is a promise neither of them is willing to break.

warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content, mentions of past trauma (Bucky's PTSD and emotional scars), explicit language

wordcounter: 6.3k

The room was quiet, too quiet for a team of Earth’s most dangerous people. The light from the overhead panels hummed faintly, casting long shadows across the steel table where the team sat — Tony tapping restlessly on a StarkPad, Natasha watching like a hawk, Sam leaned back with arms crossed.

Then the door opened.

Bucky stepped in with Steve beside him. Shoulders squared. Expression blank. The metal arm flexed at his side — not threatening, but unmistakably present. His jaw was clenched, like he was daring someone to say something. No one did.

Until her eyes met his.

She sat toward the far end of the table — not completely apart, but not fully folded into the group either. Y/n.

Big, warm light-brown eyes, framed by thick lashes and a pair of faint freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands curled around her cheeks. He noticed all of it in an instant. But it was the eyes that got him.

They weren’t cold. They weren’t guarded. They weren’t terrified.

They were curious.

She blinked slowly, and something flickered in them — not pity, but something dangerously close to understanding.

Bucky looked away instantly. His jaw tensed.

“This is James Barnes,” Steve said. “You’ve all been briefed, but I wanted to reintroduce him myself.”

“I prefer Bucky,” came the gruff, low voice from beside him.

The room didn’t react much — just some murmured hellos, subtle nods. But Y/n tilted her head, just slightly.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” she said.

He looked back. Her voice had that same quiet warmth as her eyes. It dug into him in a way he didn’t like. She didn’t speak like she was reciting lines for protocol. It felt honest.

And for some reason, that made him feel more naked than the silence had.

The meeting continued. Steve ran through updates, ops briefings, rotating assignments — Bucky barely heard any of it. He kept feeling her eyes brush across him. Like she was studying him. But not like a scientist examines a specimen — more like an artist sketching something they want to understand.

When it was over, chairs scraped and people filed out. Bucky lingered in the corner, half in shadow, pretending to examine the wall monitor.

He could feel her behind him.

He turned.

“Hey,” Y/n said. Her voice was softer up close, but not unsure. “You settling in okay?”

He stared at her. “What do you want?”

She blinked — surprised, but not shaken. “Just checking in.”

“I don’t need checking in on.”

A beat of silence.

She didn’t walk away.

“I didn’t say you did,” she replied, with a tiny shrug. “But… I know what it’s like to walk into a room where everyone’s already decided what you are.”

Her words hit him harder than he let show.

He looked at her again — really looked. And her eyes? They were raw with honesty.

She didn’t know him. But somehow, she saw him.

He swallowed thickly and nodded once, then turned and walked away without saying anything else.

Behind him, Y/n’s gaze stayed locked on his back — and even though he wasn’t looking, he could feel it. Warm and steady. Just like her eyes.

And that haunted him more than any Hydra nightmare ever could.

------------------

Bucky didn’t seek her out.

But somehow, Y/n always ended up near him.

In the gym, she trained when he did. Sometimes in the same space, sometimes across the mat — but she was there. And she never stared, never hovered. But her presence wrapped around him anyway. Quiet. Gentle. Consistent.

And those eyes. Christ.

Every emotion that moved through her flickered right there in the amber warmth of her gaze. Determination when she sparred. Frustration when she couldn’t land a hit. Satisfaction when she cracked open a code in ops. Joy when Sam made her laugh mid-mission brief.

And every time her eyes found his, even for a second, Bucky felt the same pressure in his chest.

Like someone had reached inside and pulled on something still healing.

She was dangerous. Not because she was stronger or smarter or more skilled — though she was all of those things — but because she was patient. Consistent. Kind.

He hadn’t had that in… ever.

He caught her watching him spar with Sam one afternoon. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves of a sweatshirt, her eyes glued to the mat as Bucky moved like a storm — swift, brutal, efficient. Sam had started talking shit halfway through, laughing through his breathless grunts as Bucky swept his leg and pinned him.

“Jesus, Barnes, ever think about therapy instead of body-slamming your way through trauma?” Sam groaned.

From the sidelines, Y/n snorted. Just a quiet, amused sound.

And Bucky’s eyes shot to her — like a magnet. She was smiling. Not mockingly. Not mean. Just entertained. Relaxed. Warm.

Sam followed his gaze and raised a brow, but Bucky ignored him.

Later that day, he caught her in the hallway. She was walking with a tablet tucked under one arm, absently chewing on the end of a pen.

“Hey,” he said before he could stop himself.

She blinked up at him. “Hey.”

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Why do you keep talking to me?”

That made her pause.

“I talk to a lot of people.”

“You talk to me more.”

Y/n tilted her head again — that same quiet curiosity in her eyes that made him feel skinned.

“Maybe because I think you need someone to.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t respond.

She stepped a little closer. Not enough to crowd him, but enough to make him feel it.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky.”

“You should,” he said flatly, voice low.

She smiled — and it wasn’t pity. It was something stronger.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t.”

Then she walked away, braid swaying against her back, eyes bright with something he didn’t want to name.

From that day on, she was everywhere.

Partnered with him for field missions. Assigned to decrypt HYDRA logs with him in ops. Paired for training. She was relentless — not in a pushy way, but in a steady, stubborn way that wore him down.

He started expecting her.

He started craving the sound of her laugh from two rooms away. The way her voice dipped when she was focused. The way she’d glance at him and smile like it meant something.

She started leaning closer when they talked.

And once — just once — during a sparring session, she flipped him with a slick hip throw and straddled him across the mat.

Her hair had slipped from its tie, curling around her cheeks. She was breathing hard, a grin on her lips. But her eyes?

They were wild. Lit with triumph, yes — but also something else. Something crackling and warm and bold.

He stared up at her, frozen.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

For three whole seconds, they just breathed. Together.

Then he shoved her off — maybe too roughly — and rolled away, grabbing his towel and walking out without a word.

Later, alone in the shower, he leaned his forehead against the tile and cursed himself for how badly he’d wanted to stay underneath her.

---------------------

The walls were too close.

Too white. Too sterile. Too clean for the blood he could still feel under his fingernails.

Bucky jolted awake with a sharp, gasping inhale. His skin was slick with sweat. Chest heaving. His metal arm thrummed, twitching with phantom electricity. His fingers clenched around a non-existent trigger.

His heart wouldn’t slow down. Couldn’t.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breathing like a man drowning on dry land. The dream had been bad — brutal, vivid. Not just memories, but feelings. Commands he couldn’t resist. Screams he couldn’t block out. Faces he didn’t want to remember.

He didn’t even bother trying to sleep again.

The hallway was quiet as he made his way to the kitchen, the metal plates of his arm catching faint reflections from the night-lights along the wall. It was still dark outside. 4:12 a.m., maybe 4:30. He didn’t check.

He just needed coffee. Something solid. Something real.

But when he stepped into the kitchen — barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a dark gray shirt damp with sleep — he wasn’t alone.

Y/n was already there.

She was standing at the stove, barefoot too, with an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder and sleep-flattened curls pulled into a messy bun. Her body was swaying lightly to music playing low from her phone. Something soft and jazzy.

There was a pan on the burner. Eggs. Toast popping from the toaster.

She turned at the sound of his steps, smiling — easy, like it was nothing, like this was normal.

“Hey,” she said, voice warm with sleep. “I couldn’t sleep either, so I figured I’d make breakfast. I was actually hoping you’d come down. You looked rough yesterday.”

He froze in the doorway.

Her eyes caught the light — big and golden and goddamn open. Always open.

She plated the food, walking toward him with a quiet kind of confidence.

He didn’t move.

“You okay?” she asked, soft, stepping closer, holding out the plate with one hand.

And then, her other hand brushed his.

Metal.

The edge of her fingers grazed his vibranium arm — just a light touch. Maybe accidental. Maybe not.

And something in him snapped.

“Don’t—!” he barked, voice harsh and loud and cutting.

Y/n jerked back like she’d been struck.

The plate clattered to the counter.

Her eyes widened — not from fear, not exactly. But from hurt.

And then, right there in front of him, they glassed over. Big, shimmering, wide with the sting of what she hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t mean to—” she started.

“I said don’t touch me,” he hissed. It wasn’t her fault. God, it wasn’t her fault. But the dream was still on his skin, in his blood. He felt filthy. Like poison.

Her face crumpled.

Just slightly. Just enough.

And those eyes… they broke him.

“I was just trying to help,” she whispered. Her voice cracked.

“Y/n—” He stepped forward, hand half-reaching, regret hitting him like a truck.

But she shook her head, already backing away, hiding the tears that slipped free with a quick swipe of her sleeve.

“No, it’s okay. I get it,” she said quietly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Seriously,” she said, louder now, eyes still glassy but harder. “It’s fine. I should’ve known better. I know you’re—”

She stopped herself.

Broken.

He could hear it, even if she didn’t say it.

“You’re not broken,” she added, almost like she’d read his mind. “But I get it. I pushed too hard.”

She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his chest lightly, and this time it was him who flinched.

“Y/n,” he tried again, desperate.

She paused. Just for a second.

Then, softly, without turning around: “Get some rest, Bucky.”

The door clicked behind her a moment later, and Bucky stood there, trembling — not from rage. Not from pain.

From shame.

Because he had seen it.

In her eyes.

He had hurt her.

And he hated himself for it.

----------------------

He felt it immediately.

The absence.

Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just… quieter. Like a song he didn’t realize he’d memorized suddenly cut off mid-verse.

Y/n didn’t stop showing up. She was still at briefings. Still on comms. Still present. But everything about her was careful now. Measured. Mechanical.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Not really.

Not like before.

Where there used to be warmth, curiosity, that burning light behind every glance — now there was a wall. A polite smile. A nod. Nothing more.

And it hit him in the chest every damn time.

She still sat near him in ops, but her body shifted slightly away. Her answers to his questions were short, efficient. No teasing. No lingering.

She was still her — brilliant, quick, capable — but all the softness she used to offer him? Gone. Withheld.

And he deserved it.

He had replayed that morning in the kitchen a hundred times. The way her smile had dropped. The way her eyes had shimmered — not with anger, but hurt. Deep, shaking hurt.

It haunted him more than the nightmare.

“Dude,” Sam said one afternoon, catching him watching Y/n as she walked across the gym, head down. “You gonna mope forever, or are you gonna fix this?”

Bucky scowled. “It’s none of your business.”

Sam snorted. “You keep watching her like a kicked puppy and everyone’s gonna start taking bets on how long before she slaps you or kisses you.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but Sam held up his hands.

“Look, I don’t know what happened. But if she’s acting like that, it’s because she gave a shit. And you hurt her. Whether you meant to or not.”

“I didn’t,” Bucky muttered. “I just… I was—”

“You were scared,” Sam finished quietly. “Yeah. I get it.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

But that night, when Y/n passed him in the corridor and gave him a tight, impersonal smile, he felt the cold of it settle deep in his bones.

She used to look at him like he was someone.

Now, she looked through him like he was anyone.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky realized he missed something.

He missed her.

Not her voice or her smile or even her kindness — though God, he missed those too.

He missed how she made him feel seen.

He missed how her eyes used to soften when they landed on him. Like he wasn’t a monster. Like he wasn’t a ghost.

He needed to fix this.

Somehow.

He started small.

He brought her coffee one morning and left it beside her tablet before she came into the ops room. She thanked him without looking up.

He held a door open, cracked a dry joke, even complimented her on a clever bit of code she cracked — she smiled politely, thanked him, then left the room before he could say anything else.

Nothing broke the wall.

Until one night, he found her sitting alone on the roof of the compound — her knees pulled up to her chest, head tilted back as she watched the sky.

He stood in the doorway, watching her silhouette framed by the city lights.

“I know you’re there, Bucky,” she said without turning around.

His throat tightened.

He took a breath.

“Can we talk?”

A long silence.

Then finally — “That depends. Are you going to yell at me again if I breathe wrong?”

The jab wasn’t cruel. It was tired. Wounded.

He stepped onto the roof, slowly.

“No,” he said quietly. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Still, she didn’t turn around.

“I know,” she said. “You’ve said it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

Another silence.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “I just… I was in my own head. And you touched me and it was like I wasn’t here anymore, and I panicked. It wasn’t you.”

Y/n let out a breath — not quite a sigh. She finally looked at him.

Her eyes.

Still too expressive. Still too raw.

“You scared me, Bucky,” she said softly. “Not because I thought you’d hurt me. But because I thought maybe I’d pushed you too far. That I wasn’t helping. That maybe I just made things worse.”

He walked closer, stopping a few feet from her.

“You didn’t. You never made things worse. You were the one thing that… felt okay.”

The wind shifted her curls. She blinked, something flickering in her gaze.

“You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge.

“I know,” he said. “Let me show you better.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t walk away.

--------------------

When Y/n opened the door to the quinjet, she wasn’t sure what to expect.

He hadn’t said much. Just a quiet: “I want to show you something,” and the look in his eyes had told her it mattered.

So she followed.

She always had.

They landed in a clearing a few miles off the main road, surrounded by tall pines and quiet shadows. The sun was just beginning its descent, spilling golden light through the trees like liquid fire.

Bucky walked ahead of her, silent but not tense. The air between them was clearer now — not fully repaired, but gentler.

After a short hike, the trees opened up to a small, slow-moving river, its water glassy and dark with reflections. Smooth stones lined the edges, and tall grass swayed in the breeze.

It was beautiful.

Peaceful.

“I found it on a recon run a while back,” Bucky said, coming to a stop near the edge of the water. “It reminded me of something.”

She stood beside him, watching how the light touched his profile, how his shoulders seemed a little less burdened out here.

“Of what?” she asked softly.

“Of back then,” he said. “Before the war. Before everything. There was a creek behind the house I grew up in. Me and Steve used to sit out there, skip rocks, talk about the future. This is the first place that’s ever made me feel even a little like that again.”

Her chest ached, hearing the way he said it — low, distant. Like he was speaking to a ghost.

He crouched down and picked up a smooth stone, tossing it across the river. It skipped once. Twice. Sank.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said, not looking at her. “When I do, I see them. The people I hurt. The things I did. I feel it — like I’m still in it.”

Y/n sank to sit beside him, curling her legs beneath her. She didn’t speak. Just listened.

He threw another rock.

“HYDRA didn’t just control my body. They rewired me. I couldn’t tell where I ended and the Winter Soldier began. It was all… blurred. Blood and commands and cold floors. And then suddenly I was free, and everyone expected me to just… know how to be a person again.”

His jaw tightened. She watched the shadows shift across his face.

“I don’t talk about it. Not because I don’t want to. But because when I do, people look at me different. Like they’re trying not to flinch. Even when they’re kind — it’s there. The fear.”

He finally turned to her.

But her eyes — God, those eyes — didn’t flinch.

They didn’t pity.

They didn’t waver.

She looked at him like she always had. Like he was worth hearing. Worth knowing.

“You don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly.

She smiled, just barely. “Because I don’t see what you see.”

He blinked.

“I see someone who got dragged through hell and is still trying to be better. Still trying to protect people. That’s not a weapon, Bucky. That’s a survivor.”

A lump formed in his throat. He didn’t speak.

“And I never pushed,” she added gently, “because I thought I could fix you. I pushed because I wanted you to know someone cared. That someone was willing to fight for you.”

Her voice faltered just a little. “Even when you didn’t know how to let them.”

He exhaled, ragged.

Then he sat beside her fully, knees brushing, their reflections stretching across the river.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, voice low. “But I know that when I wake up and you’re not around, I look for you. I know that when I see your eyes, I feel like maybe I’m not alone in my head. I know that I think about touching you more than I probably should.”

She swallowed, throat working.

“And I know I don’t want to lose this. You.”

For a beat, neither moved.

Then Y/n leaned slightly into him, shoulder against his arm, skin brushing vibranium.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

The breeze moved around them. Soft. Slow. Steady.

And when he turned his face toward her — close now, so close — he didn’t kiss her.

But his hand reached behind her neck, fingers threading into her curls, metal cool against her skin.

Not possessive.

Not forced.

Just… there.

Protective.

Intentional.

Her breath hitched — just slightly.

And Bucky’s lips quirked, the hint of a smile ghosting across them.

He dropped his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and stayed there.

For a long, long time.

------------------------

It started small.

A glance held a beat too long.

A smirk when their fingers brushed as they passed a file.

Her laugh, a little breathless, when he said something dry and unexpected.

It was different now. Easier. Heavier.

Y/n had always been warm around him — but now, the warmth crackled. Now, every shared look came with something underneath it. Something neither of them had quite said, but both of them felt. Tension, sure, but also understanding. Intimacy.

Flirting.

And the arm.

God, the arm.

The first time it happened, they were walking through the compound toward the briefing room. The hallway was busy, voices bouncing off metal walls, energy buzzing after a successful training run.

She didn’t notice at first — just felt a firm, gentle pressure at the back of her neck, guiding her slightly left, out of the way of a passing cart.

It wasn’t aggressive. Wasn’t urgent.

Just… Bucky.

His vibranium hand, cool against her skin, fingers resting just beneath the curve of her hairline.

She froze for half a second — not because she was afraid, but because she felt it everywhere. The chill of the metal, the heat beneath it. The intimacy of it.

He didn’t move it quickly. He kept it there as they walked — guiding her, shielding her just slightly from the chaos of the hallway.

Like it was instinct.

Like it was his way of saying, You’re safe.

After that, it became a habit.

Every time they walked side-by-side — in the gym, on the way to briefings, through the street during missions — his metal hand would settle at the back of her neck or her shoulder. Sometimes light. Sometimes firm.

Always grounding.

Always possessive, in a way that made her breath catch and her stomach tighten.

One afternoon, Wanda caught them walking down the corridor, Bucky’s hand a lazy drape against her spine. Y/n caught the smirk Wanda sent her and rolled her eyes.

Later, in the mess, it was Sam who called it out.

“You know, most people just walk side-by-side like normal human beings,” he said, nodding toward Bucky’s hand, now resting just at Y/n’s shoulder blade as they waited for coffee to brew. “Not like some vibranium border collie.”

Y/n didn’t miss a beat. “He’s just protective of our friendship. Thinks it’s tactical awareness or whatever.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, clearly not buying it. “Sure. Real tactical, the way his thumb’s brushing your neck like that.”

Bucky didn’t even glance up from the mug he was stirring.

“If you’ve got a problem, Wilson, take it up with the arm.”

Sam just laughed, shaking his head.

But the truth was — that touch meant something. To both of them.

She never flinched from it. If anything, she leaned into it. Let herself feel the safety in it. The care.

And he never explained it.

Never apologized.

But Y/n noticed the way his gaze would flick to her whenever someone new walked into a room. The way he positioned himself slightly in front of her during field training. The way his voice dropped a notch lower when he spoke to her.

He had never been so open — and yet, there were still things left unsaid.

Words that hovered just behind the touch. Behind the look.

But she could feel it building.

Every lingering glance.

Every brush of fingers when he handed her gear.

Every time his voice dipped close to her ear when giving instructions.

It was coming.

Something was going to give.

She just didn’t know which one of them would break first.

The lab, late evening.

Y/n’s leaned over a console, tapping at a holo-display, trying to isolate the data stream from the last mission. Bucky walks in quietly behind her, pauses for half a second, and then places his hand gently at the back of her neck.

“Still at it?” he murmurs.

His thumb lazily strokes just beneath her hairline. She hums in response, not looking up. “Just finishing logs. You?”

“Checking the reports.” But he doesn’t move.

Bruce walks in, does a double take, glances at Tony. Tony, without looking up, mutters, “He’s been doing that all week. It’s like watching a wolf pick a favorite.”

Bruce sips his tea. “Should we be worried?”

Tony: “Only if she ever wants it to stop.”

-------------------

The elevator, early morning.

They’re standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Y/n’s sipping coffee, hair tied up in a loose bun. Bucky’s hand drifts up and rests against the back of her neck, thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles.

Steve steps in and freezes. Glances down. Glances up.

Raises an eyebrow.

Says nothing.

But when Y/n steps out at her floor, Steve turns to Bucky and deadpans, “You’re not subtle, you know.”

Bucky just smirks. “Never claimed to be.”

----------------

Training floor, afternoon.

Sparring drills are wrapping up. Y/n’s laughing, sweaty, flushed from exertion. Bucky steps behind her, towels in one hand, and rests the other on her neck to guide her toward the bench. It’s casual. Familiar.

Natasha arches an eyebrow from across the mat. “Cute move, Barnes.”

Y/n glances over. “What move?”

Nat: “The one where you touch her like she’s yours.”

Bucky just hands Y/n a water bottle. Doesn’t even blink.

Y/n’s ears turn pink.

--------------

Common room, movie night.

The team’s scattered across couches and chairs. Bucky’s behind the sofa where Y/n’s sitting. No one notices at first, but then Sam glances over.

Sees his arm draped over the back — fingers resting at the base of her neck.

“Bro,” Sam says, squinting. “You watching the movie or giving her a neck massage?”

Bucky: “Do you ever stop talking?”

Sam: “Not when I’m right.”

Y/n, trying to hide her grin: “It’s nothing, Sam.”

Sam, smug: “Sure it’s not, sunshine.”

-----------------

Kitchen, late.

She’s stirring cocoa at the stove, hair loose around her shoulders.

He walks in, quiet. Steps up behind her.

His hand goes to her neck — slow, instinctual. Thumb against the dip of her spine. She doesn’t even flinch. Just leans into it.

Wanda walks by the doorway. Pauses. Then calls back, sing-song: “Don’t forget protection spells!”

Bucky groans. Y/n chokes on her laugh.

In all of it, it’s never overt. Never spoken.

But it’s there.

A constant.

The way his hand always finds her. The way she lets him.

The way every Avenger knows exactly what it means.

-------------------

The penthouse was quiet. High above the city, the skyline flickered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting slanted shadows across marble and velvet. One of Stark’s more absurd hideaways — sleek, modern, sterile. Nothing like them.

They were there for a low-profile recon run, staying out of sight. Just the two of them.

And for the first time in weeks, the space between them was too close, too quiet, too heavy with everything unsaid.

Y/n was barefoot in a T-shirt that wasn’t hers — gray, worn, definitely Bucky’s — sitting on the couch with her legs pulled under her. She wasn’t reading the tablet in her lap anymore. Not really.

She could feel him behind her. His presence had weight now. Every time he was in the room, it was like gravity shifted.

He walked past her in a dark shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, barefoot like her. Hair loose. He poured a drink, didn’t say a word. Just leaned against the counter, watching her.

The silence stretched.

Her throat tightened. “You’ve been staring at me like that all night.”

His voice, low and smooth, cut through the quiet like silk. “Can you blame me?”

Her gaze flicked to his.

He looked dangerous in the soft light. His jaw was tense. His eyes dark.

“You drive me crazy, Y/n,” he said, stepping closer, voice still low but threaded with something rougher now. “You know that?”

Her pulse jumped.

“You walk around in my shirt, in my space, lookin’ at me like that, and expect me to keep pretending I don’t want you?”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He was in front of her now, towering, his metal fingers sliding under her chin, tilting her face to his.

“I’ve tried to hold back,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Tried to do the right thing. Be soft. Give you space. But I’m done pretending.”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

“‘Cause the truth is… you get me. In ways no one else ever has.”

His voice dropped, and the sound of it was almost a growl — reverent, claiming.

“My good little doll,” he murmured, thumb tracing her jaw. “So sweet. So damn patient with me. You’ve earned all of me.”

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

“And I’m gonna give it to you.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“You want that?” he asked, pulling back just enough to see her eyes — but his hand stayed on her throat, warm and firm, not squeezing, just… grounding.

She nodded, breathless.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want it. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

In a blink, she was in his lap, straddling him on the couch, his hands gripping her thighs like he’d waited years for this. His vibranium arm curved behind her, that signature touch — palm resting at the base of her neck, claiming her gently, fully.

Their mouths collided.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft.

It was weeks of tension and aching and everything they hadn’t said crashing together. His teeth grazed her bottom lip, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, like he was learning her. Devouring her.

She melted into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails dragging lightly across the back of his neck.

And all the while, his hand never left her throat.

“You feel that?” he rasped against her lips, grinding against her, breath ragged. “That’s what you do to me.”

Her body trembled.

“You let me see the worst of myself,” he murmured, “and you didn’t run. You looked at me like I was something worth loving.”

Her hips rolled against his.

He groaned — dark, deep.

“You take all my edges and make me feel human again.”

His forehead rested against hers.

“You’re mine,” he breathed.

And there was no hesitation in her voice, not anymore.

“I’ve always been yours.”

They didn’t speak for a moment.

Just breathing.

Just hands.

Just the heavy weight of everything they finally let themselves feel — lingering in every brush of skin, every low sigh.

Her fingers slid down his chest, slowly, reverently, mapping him like he might disappear if she didn’t commit every inch to memory. And his hands — both of them — explored her like prayer. One warm, one cold. Both trembling slightly.

“You always do that,” she whispered, still breathless, lips near his jaw.

“Do what?” His voice was low, gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Hold the back of my neck… when we walk. When we’re close.”

He didn’t answer right away. His lips touched the shell of her ear.

“It’s instinct,” he admitted. “Part habit. Part need.”

Her brow furrowed gently, and he shifted, nudging her back so he could look at her fully. She straddled him still, knees at his sides, T-shirt hanging loose on her frame — but her eyes, those big, soft, knowing eyes, were what undid him all over again.

“It’s the only way I know how to say ‘you’re mine’ without scaring you off,” he said. “It’s… control. But it’s care, too. It’s wanting to know exactly where you are. That you’re close. That you’re safe.”

She swallowed hard, emotion catching in her throat.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He let out a breath, something heavy leaving his chest.

“I used to think I couldn’t have this,” he murmured. “Couldn’t want things like this. Not after everything.”

His thumb traced her cheekbone, soft. Slow. “But you make me greedy, doll. You make me want to be more.”

She leaned into the touch. “You already are.”

He pulled her down again, this time not kissing her mouth — but her temple. Her forehead. Her cheek. Soft, sacred places.

Then his lips returned to her ear, and the sound of his voice dropped lower — pure smoke.

“You take me so well. Every piece. Every scar. Every damn shadow I carry.”

He kissed her jaw, lips dragging.

“Good girl,” he breathed, like it was a truth, not a reward.

Her body responded before her voice could — breath catching, thighs pressing tighter around his hips, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt again.

“You were made for me, weren’t you?” he whispered, dragging his lips down her neck. “My perfect girl. My pretty little thing.”

He nipped at her collarbone, and she gasped — soft, involuntary.

“You don’t even realize how much I’ve been holding back,” he said against her skin. “How many nights I’ve stared at the ceiling, thinking about this. About you.”

His hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt on her body, gripping her waist, grounding them both.

“You give me peace,” he whispered. “And now I’m gonna give you everything.”

And when he finally lifted her in his arms and started toward the bedroom — her legs wrapped around his waist, her lips brushing his — the only thing left between them was need.

Not desperation.

Just belonging.

A quiet, feral, aching kind of love — the kind that doesn’t ask permission anymore.

The kind that claims you, completely

The bedroom was dim, washed in the golden spill of city lights through sheer curtains. The bed, wide and untouched, sat at the center of it all — clean lines, crisp sheets, and too much space.

Until he carried her into it.

Until they filled it.

Bucky didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. He laid her down like she was something sacred, something he’d dreamed of too long to ruin now with haste.

His body hovered over hers, taut with restraint. Every inch of him buzzed with the tension he’d buried for weeks. But now there was no reason to hold back. Not when she was looking up at him like that — lips parted, cheeks flushed, her eyes pleading and sure all at once.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, trembling at the edge.

She cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the faint scar at his temple. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His mouth crashed into hers, but it wasn’t just lust — it was relief. The kind that shook him.

Clothes came off slow, but deliberate. Every inch revealed was kissed, praised, claimed.

By the time he settled between her thighs, both of them were breathless, lost, pulsing with heat. His vibranium hand gripped the headboard above her. His other arm curled beneath her shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

And then he pressed into her — deep, slow, inch by inch, until he was completely buried inside.

Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth.

His body shuddered.

“God,” he groaned into her neck. “You feel… fuck. You feel so perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his back, anchoring him there, urging him deeper.

He started to move — slow and reverent at first, like he was memorizing the feel of her, the shape, the way she fit around him like she was made to.

And then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — deeper, harder, desperate.

“You’re mine,” he growled, over and over against her skin. “You take me so well. You were made for me.”

She moaned his name, over and over, fingers tangled in his hair, her body trembling beneath him.

“You feel that?” he rasped, thrusting into her harder, every movement soaked in need. “That’s how bad I needed you. How long I’ve been waiting.”

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, hips rising to meet him with every thrust.

“Say it,” he begged. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, eyes glassy. “Only yours.”

That did it.

His head dropped to her shoulder as he buried himself deep, again and again, like he never wanted to leave. Like the world could fall apart around them and he’d still be chasing the way she felt — the heat, the stretch, the perfect fit.

And when she came undone beneath him, sobbing his name, body clenching around him like she never wanted to let go—

That was it.

He broke.

He surged into her with a raw, desperate sound — hips stuttering, arms trembling, his body pressed tight to hers like he could fuse them together and keep her inside him forever.

And as they both lay there, tangled in sweat and breath and praise, he held her face in his hands, kissing her forehead like a promise.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “Ever.”

And she smiled, exhausted and blissful.

“Good,” she breathed. “I don’t want you to.”

[moviegurl2002]

Great start to a series! Can't wait to read the rest😊

Foundations (#1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky). Smut.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 8.1.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Two years ago.

Steve crouched in the snow-dusted ruins of the Hydra facility, surrounded by the faint hum of outdated machinery and the occasional creak of the aging structure. The air in the base carried a mix of metallic tang and decay as if the building itself was holding its last breaths. He ran his gloved hand along a table coated with frost and dust before stopping in front of a row of cryogenic chambers.

Each pod told a story of Hydra’s grotesque obsession with human experimentation. Steve’s sharp gaze scanned them uneasily and when he reached the last chamber, he froze.

Encased in cryogenic suspension, there was a small boy, no older than three, with his delicate features eerily serene within the frosted glass. The sight made his stomach twist.

Natasha’s voice crackled through the comms. “Steve, what did you find?”

He pressed a hand against the glass. “It’s a boy. About… two or three years old. Cryostasis. We need to get him out of here.”

His eyes darted to a nearby desk, where he eyed a weathered folder with its corners curled with age. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents, and his stomach churned with every line. “This- he is not a kidnapped normal human boy… they’ve been using fertilization methods here. Thirty samples and only this child lived after birth. The mother died in labor. Nat-” Steve’s voice got strained. “He’s… he’s Bucky’s son.”

The line remained silent for a moment before Natasha answered cautiously. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. There’s… documentation here, DNA confirmations. God, he doesn’t even have a name. Just a designation: A-25.”

A beat of silence passed again, heavy with the implication before Natasha’s voice softened. “What do you want to do?”

Steve exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the icy air. “We can’t just leave him here.”

-----

Back on the Quinjet, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The cryo-pod rested in the cargo bay, its faint orange light casting an otherworldly glow over the steel walls. Steve sat on a bench, with his elbows rested on his knees and his hands pressed on his face, wrestling with the enormity of the decision he’d just made. Across from him, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood stiffly, with palpable apprehension.

“Captain Rogers,” one of them began, breaking the tense silence. “Moving him to the tower isn’t viable. We don’t know what kind of conditioning Hydra implemented, or if the kid is enhanced. He could be dangerous.”

Steve’s head snapped up, pinning the agent in place with his gaze. “He’s a child. And from what I read; he didn’t inherit the serum properties. Whatever Hydra did to him, it’s on us to undo it. Leaving him here or handing him over to a government lab isn’t an option.”

The agent shifted uneasily. “And if he’s unstable? Wha-”

Steve set his jaw, leaning back against the cold metal wall with determination. “Then I’ll handle it,” he cut firmly. “But we are not abandoning him.”

----

Two nights later in the common room, Steve, Natasha, and Tony gathered to discuss the next steps. The atmosphere was heavy. Tony leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a skeptical expression.

“Look, I’m not saying we keep this from Barnes,” he pointed out with a little hesitation. “But you’ve seen him, Steve. He’s barely keeping himself together most days. Throwing a kid into the mix?”

Steve’s jaw clenched, and he hardened his gaze. “That’s not your call to make. He deserves to know.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Even if it sends him over the edge?”

“He’s stronger than you think,” Steve countered firmly. “And he’s not alone, even if sometimes he thinks he is. If he decides to step up, we’ll help him. All of us. That boy is his only family, Tony. Bucky deserves the chance to decide what kind of relationship he wants with him.”

----

Present.

Two weeks into the new school year, she stood at the kindergarten’s gate, greeting the kids with a warm smile. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves, and shades of orange and gold framed the cheerful faces of the kids as they laughed and ran to their friends. Each day, they’d formed a routine, walking together through the small park leading to the school hall.

Nearly everyone had arrived when, just as she was about to close the gate, she noticed a figure approaching. Her gaze landed on a tall man with strikingly beautiful yet tired blue eyes. His hesitant steps betrayed a certain nervousness. Beside him walked a boy, the spitting image of him, with the same dark hair and soulful eyes. They were unfamiliar to her, but she knew immediately who they must be.

Thomas Barnes and, presumably, his father.

The director had informed her about the new student, explaining that, for personal reasons, the boy would start a bit later than the others. Now here they were, standing on the threshold of a new chapter.

She stepped forward with a warm smile. “You must be Thomas,” she said gently, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s gaze. Then she looked up at the man, her voice equally kind. “And you must be his dad. Welcome.”

The child hugged his father’s leg when he realized he had to go in alone. Bucky bit his lip, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Kiddo, we talked about this. I’ll pick you up at three, and then we’ll go to Uncle Steve’s,” he said softly.

Then he gave her an apologetic look. “Also, what do we always say? Manners. You didn’t even greet Miss...”

Oh. She got so distracted by the pair that her clouded mind didn’t even consider the basic introductions. “Sorry! I’m Miss Y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you two.”

The boy separated one hand from his father’s leg and, straightening his posture but with a quivering lip, offered his hand like a little gentleman. “I’m Thomas. I’m five years old, and… and I will be in your care.”

She shook his hand, surprised and delighted. “Well, aren’t you a little gentleman,” she said warmly.

The bell rang, and she straightened up. “Well, that is our cue. Would you like to come inside? There are lots of boys and girls who would love to meet and play with you,” she reassured. Then she looked at Bucky. “And, as your papa -Mr. Barnes- said, he’ll be here when we finish.”

“James,” Bucky said promptly, stretching out his hand firm but gently to shake hers. She felt a traitorous warmth rise in her cheeks when their gaze met at closer range. His tired blue eyes held more than exhaustion; something softer and more vulnerable lingered there, though it was quickly masked. Apprehension, perhaps? He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and yet, somehow, he was effortlessly handsome.

“Nice to meet you, James,” she managed, keeping her tone calm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, your little one will be fine, you’ll see.”

Bucky nodded once, briskly but slightly hesitant. “Yeah, I-I know. Alright, Kiddo,” he said, crouching slightly to Thomas’s level, in a low and encouraging voice. “You listen to your teacher and... have fun, alright? Just like we talked about.”

Thomas clung to his father’s jeans for a moment longer, small fingers clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline. His lip quivered, and he glanced back at her with uncertain eyes. For a brief second, she wondered if he might refuse to let go, but then, slowly, he released his grip. The boy stepped toward her, tentative but brave, and positioned himself by her side.

She crouched again, offering him an encouraging smile. “You’re going to have a wonderful day, Thomas. I’ll be right here with you.”

The reassurance seemed to help. Thomas nodded shyly, though he didn’t speak. When she stood again, she noticed Bucky watching his son with an expression that tugged at her heart, equal parts pride and pain.

With a single nod of acknowledgment toward her, he straightened and turned on his heel, walking away without looking back. She couldn’t help but watch him for a moment longer than she should have, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he disappeared down the path. She exhaled softly, turning her attention back to Thomas.

“Shall we?” she asked gently, holding out her hand.

Thomas hesitated, but then his small hand slid into hers. Together, they walked toward the classroom, the sound of children’s laughter welcoming them into a new day.

----

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he strolled along the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Two years. It had been two years since Thomas came into his life, and now, for the first time, he was entrusting his care to someone else’s hands, strangers, no less. It might have seemed like an ordinary milestone for any other parent, but ordinary wasn’t a word that had ever described his life.

Normalcy was a foreign concept in their household. From the moment Steve had walked into the tower with that cryo-pod and the revelation of Thomas’s existence, everything had shifted. Even in the haze of his own self-doubt and fucked up brain, Bucky had known there was only one choice to make. Despite the murmurs of alternatives offered to him -guardianship through S.H.I.E.L.D. programs, adoption options- he hadn’t hesitated.

Responsibility. He owed the child that much, even if the idea of raising him terrified him to his core. How could he possibly be a parent when he was barely figuring out how to be himself? A walking mess trying to navigate a world he no longer fit into, burdened by guilt, memories, and nightmares. But Thomas wasn’t just a child, he was his child, a fragile thread tethering Bucky to something tangible and real.

The first months had been the hardest. Thomas, scared and silent, flinched at shadows and refused to speak more than a handful of words. A traumatized child by his earliest experiences, molded by Hydra’s cruel hands, and burdened with a fragility that made Bucky’s heart ache almost everyday. He could barely bring himself to imagine what might have happened if Steve hadn’t found him in that lab.

It wasn’t a journey he could have managed alone. Living at the Avengers Tower, he had been reluctant at first to accept help from the team. Steve, of course, had been steadfast and supportive, as expected. But what surprised Bucky the most was how the others had stepped in. Natasha’s guidance when words failed him, Wanda’s ability to soothe the boy, and even Tony’s seemingly endless stream of resources, like the top-tier child therapists he’d hired without hesitation.

Thomas was lucky, in a way, that Hydra’s experiments hadn’t left him with the serum’s super-soldier effects. The organization had tried, forcing serum-adjacent treatments to awaken something dormant, but to no avail. It was a relief Bucky carried deeply, though it did little to soften his guilt for not being there to stop it sooner.

Over time, they found a constant rhythm in their lives. Bucky wasn’t perfect -far from it- but he learned how to be there for Thomas. He showed him that food wasn’t a reward to fear, that adults could offer love instead of pain, that bedtime stories were for comfort and not to kept teaching lessons until he closed his exhausted eyes. Slowly but surely, the child started to blossom, inching out of his shell, exploring the world with a tentative kind of hope.

Still, Bucky knew they couldn’t stay in the protective bubble of the tower forever. Thomas needed more: kids his age, a chance to experience life outside their small, cloistered world. It had taken time, but Bucky finally worked up the nerve to rent an apartment for the two of them and begin the daunting process of finding a kindergarten.

The search was harder than expected. On paper, the process was simple: call, inquire, and enroll. In practice, things unraveled quickly. Many schools initially expressed enthusiasm, but the moment they learned Thomas was the son of that James Barnes, things changed. “Administrative errors” cropped up, classes mysteriously filled to capacity, or calls simply went unanswered.

When Tony offered to pull strings, Bucky refused. He wasn’t about to force his son into a place where the only motivation was Stark’s money. He didn’t want Thomas in an environment where whispers followed him down the hall, or where teachers tiptoed around him out of fear or prejudice.

So, he kept searching. Two weeks into the semester, he finally found a place. It was modest, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, with no interest in his past beyond the necessary paperwork. No judgment. No lingering stares. Just a promise to give Thomas a chance, and that was all Bucky needed.

As he walked away from the schoolyard, leaving Thomas in the care of his teacher and her warm smile, he tried to shake the tension in his chest. Rationally, he knew it was the right step. Thomas deserved to experience childhood, and this was the first of many milestones.

Still, the ache of leaving was sharper than he’d expected.

----

Thomas’s first day could have been better, but it wasn’t terrible either. As expected, the transition wasn’t easy. He seemed overwhelmed by the number of children around him. Though the school was small, nine energetic five-year-olds in one room was a stark contrast to the quiet, adult-dominated environment he’d grown up in.

The morning began with a formal introduction, as she guided Thomas gently to the front of the room. “Everyone, this is Thomas. Let’s all say hello!” she announced with her ever-patient smile.

A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him in unison, and Thomas blinked, wide-eyed, shifting closer to her side. Throughout the day, he stuck to her like a shadow, quietly observing the other children. His curious gaze darted from one group to another, watching how they played together, laughed, and squabbled.

The first hiccup came when two boys got into a brief tug-of-war over a toy truck. Thomas visibly tensed, his small shoulders stiffening as he clutched the hem of her skirt. She quickly diffused the situation and offered Thomas a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Thomas, sometimes there are quarrels, but nothing to worry about,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she rested a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didn’t move from his spot.

Flora, one of the more outgoing girls in the class, made several attempts to coax Thomas into playing with her. Each time, she would approach with a bright smile and an outstretched hand, only to be gently refused as he shook his head and clung to his teacher. “Thomas is feeling a little shy today,” she explained kindly to Flora. “But I bet he’ll join you soon.” Flora nodded enthusiastically, skipping back to her friends, undeterred.

When the day finally wound to a close, the children were picked up one by one, their parents ushering them out with cheerful waves and chatter. Soon, the classroom emptied, leaving only her and Thomas. She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past pick-up time. Not late enough to be alarming, but enough to notice the change in Thomas.

The boy sat stiffly on a bench near the gate, his small chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. She crouched down in front of him, “Hey, Thomas, it’s okay. Your dad will be here soon, I promise. While we wait, want to learn a game?”

The child blinked at her, with glassy eyes by unshed tears and then nodded hesitantly.

She held out her hands and showed him a simple clapping game. The rhythm seemed to distract him, his and his breathing slowed down as he focused on mimicking her motions. They repeated the sequence a few times, and she rewarded him with a bright smile each time he got it right.

Then, footsteps approached the gate, and she looked up to see James Barnes hurrying toward them, with a concerned expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly, his blue eyes flicking from her to Thomas. “Traffic was worse than I expected-”

“Papa!” the small voice broke through as he bolted toward his father, tears streaming down his face now that the wait was over.

Bucky crouched and scooped him up immediately, cradling him close with his gloved hands. “Hey, hey, I’m here,” he murmured with guilt. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I won’t be late again, I promise.”

As he held his son tightly, he turned toward her, ready to apologize again. But when he met her gaze, something in his chest shifted, just a flicker, something too fleeting to name.

She was smiling, kind and patient, with a softness in her expression that made it painfully obvious she wasn’t upset about waiting.

That shouldn’t have stood out. But it did.

“I’m sorry for making you wait and... taking up your time. It won’t happen again.”

She shook her head with a kind smile. “It’s alright. He was fine, really. And the game helped. Don’t worry about it.”

Bucky gave her a grateful look, softening his features just enough to show how much he appreciated her patience. “Thanks... for everything.”

She was about to respond when something crossed her mind. She hesitated briefly before speaking. “Um, Mr. Barnes -James- do you think we could schedule a meeting sometime this week? I usually interview families during the first days to get to know them better, but since Thomas started a bit later, we haven’t had the chance. If you’d like, we can arrange a time that works for you.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she quickly added, “Of course, if you need to check with Mrs-”

“It’s just me,” he interrupted, firmer than intended but not unkind.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Just him.

Her expression didn’t change much, she simply nodded, adjusting quickly, but something about her expression made his throat go dry.

“Alright,” she said smoothly, “how does tomorrow at 1 PM sound?”

Bucky knitted his brows, working through something in his mind. She took the hesitation as doubt and quickly reassured him, “The interviews take place during school hours. Another teacher covers my class while I meet with parents. It’s all planned out.”

He nodded after a moment, letting the arrangement settle.

“Then it’s a date.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Silence. His own brain screeched to a halt.

Shit.

The second the words left his mouth, he froze. Why the hell did he have to use that word? He shows up late on the first day, and instead of keeping his shit together, he throws that word in her face like some creep. What is she going to think? That he’s hitting on her? That he doesn’t take this seriously? His mind started spiraling as always, and he glanced at her, waiting for her reaction, expecting something-anything- that signaled she’s offended or uncomfortable.

But she only smiled. Not a smirk, not teasing, just… warm. Like she hadn’t even registered the slip, or worse, like she had and found it endearing.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes. See you tomorrow. Bye, Thomas! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked toward the gate with Thomas in his arms. The tension in his shoulders was killing him, and his mind kept spiraling. Why couldn’t he have just said meeting like a normal person?

-----

He arrived five minutes early. Pressing the doorbell, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, exhaling quietly as he waited.

A moment later, a soft buzz hummed from the side gate, signaling that he should push to enter. The latch clicked open under his touch, and he stepped through, strolling into the modest front yard where tiny footprints were imprinted into the damp soil, remnants of an afternoon spent playing.

As he neared the entrance, the building’s front door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold to receive him.

She hadn’t expected him to be so… put together.

Her breath hitched for half a second as she took him in, her brain momentarily short-circuiting before she caught herself. He was overdressed for a simple parent-teacher chat. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail, keeping the strands away from his sharp, striking features. The crisp black shirt he wore, fitted just right, framing his broad shoulders like a second skin, the mother-of-pearl blue buttons subtly gleaming under the soft afternoon light. The contrast of the dark fabric against his fair skin only made his blue eyes stand out even more.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she had been staring, like an absolute idiot, at that.

Her own reflection in the glass door made her painfully self-conscious. She had thrown on a comfortable jumper that morning, warm and practical, paired with an open wool jacket she hadn’t given much thought to. Now, under his gaze, she felt underdressed.

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, she straightened her posture and smiled, keeping her voice even. “Mr. Barnes, right on time.”

His lips twitched slightly, almost a smile, but not quite. “James. Figured I shouldn’t be late twice in a row.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Come on in. Would you like some tea or coffee before we start?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Tea, if it’s not a hassle.”

“No hassle at all,” she assured him, leading the way inside.

As he followed her down the hallway, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This was just a meeting, a standard conversation about Thomas. That was all. She led him into the small office and closed the door with a soft click.

With him inside, the space suddenly felt even smaller, almost claustrophobic. As he settled into the chair, she turned toward the small counter, flipping on the electric kettle. With her back to him, she absently tugged at the neckline of her jumper, then glanced down, frowning as she noticed a faint smear of green tempera near the hem. Great. Just great. She tried to rub it away discreetly, but the stain refused to budge.

Forcing herself to move on, she turned around, offering a professional -and hopefully not too flustered- smile. “So, Mr. Barnes.”

“James is really alright,” he repeated. Then he asked himself if there was a rule to use the last name, and she was trying to make him notice that fact politely by still addressing him with formality.

She nodded. “Alright, James.” The name felt different on her tongue, more personal somehow, and for some reason, it flustered her to use it. She cleared her throat, refocusing. “I’m going to ask some questions about Thomas’s daily life and family status so we can start building his file.”

At that, she caught the way his gloved hands tensed over his knees. It was subtle, just the smallest tightening of his fingers, but she noticed. His expression, however, remained unreadable: calm, polite, the perfect picture of an agreeable parent sitting through a standard school procedure.

But she knew better.

Not wanting to push too soon, she offered an alternative. “Also, if you’re interested, I can tell you briefly about yesterday and today’s steps in his integration.”

Something shifted in his posture at that. Not much, but enough. A small breath in, a glance toward her, like a man bracing for news he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding. “I’d like that.”

----

Bucky felt little beads of sweat trickling down his spine. Was he trying too much?

He shifted slightly, flexing his fingers over his knees as he stole a glance at himself, just a quick, discreet look. Then, at her, and then, at the tiny office around them, shelves stacked with colorful folders, walls decorated with cheerful crayon drawings.

Back in his time, people dressed better. If a parent had to meet with a teacher, for whatever reason, it was treated as a formal occasion. A suit, a tie. The respect was shown in one’s presentation. So, naturally, he thought the right thing to do was clean up good.

Now, sitting in that too-small, squeaky green chair, with that attractive lovely lady making him tea, he felt like a goddamn wedding cake doll.

Her jumper was slightly wrinkled, her open wool jacket practical and cozy, and there was that stubborn little stain on the hem that she’d tried to wipe away when she thought he wasn’t looking. She belonged in this space, warm and natural, while he looked like he had an appointment with a boardroom, not a kindergarten teacher.

He swallowed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Alright," she said, settling across from him with a patient smile. "Where do you want to start? The interrogation about personal matters or how Thomas is adjusting to his partners and environment?"

Bucky barely hesitated. "The second one."

She smiled knowingly as if she had expected that answer. “He was a little introverted at first, which is completely normal for a child his age in a new group. Most of the kids already knew each other, so he’s still figuring out where he fits in.”

Bucky nodded, listening intently.

She hesitated for a second before continuing, careful but warm. “He’s also a bit… dependent.”

That made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.

“Which, again, is perfectly normal,” she reassured quickly, reading the shift in his expression. “Especially considering his background. I have no problem giving him the comfort and reassurance he needs throughout the day. But maybe, with time, we can work on building his independence a little.” She offered him a gentle smile. “But overall, James, he’s a lovely kid. Really.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. Lovely. Not a problem. Not difficult. Just… lovely.

She turned to retrieve the tea, and as she was about to place his mug on the table, the sleeve of her wool jacket caught on a rough splinter in the wood. The movement sent the cup tipping, and a small splash of hot liquid spilled onto her hand and the table.

“Oh, fuc-” She caught herself just in time, trading the curse for a flustered, “Oh, dear.” She hastily set the mug down, shaking her wrist slightly as she clutched her burned fingers.

Before Bucky even registered the thought, his body moved on instinct. Old chivalry, muscle memory, -maybe both- he reached out, pulling off his glove in one swift motion and gently cradling her injured hand in his own. He wrapped his cool metal fingers around hers, as an automatic attempt to soothe the burn.

She tensed.

The reaction was so small that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But he did. The slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her breath caught, the way she froze beneath his touch for a fraction of a second.

His brain caught up with his actions.

Shit.

This was something he did all the time with Thomas, an instinctive, unconscious movement, one that made sense when it was his son crying over scraped knees or bumped elbows. But this wasn’t Thomas. This his son’s teacher. A stranger, technically. And here he was, holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He winced inwardly, twitching his fingers slightly as if preparing to pull away, to apologize, to-

But then, she relaxed.

Just enough for him to notice. Her grip eased slightly as her fingers rested in his palm, still warm from the tea. And then, to his utter surprise, she let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Well,” she murmured, “I guess that’s one way to handle it. Thank you,” she said, sincerily.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He wasn’t accustomed to people thanking him. Hell, he wasn’t accustomed to people wanting to share a space with him. The proof of that was in how damn difficult it had been to find a school willing to take Thomas in without judgment.

Was it always so hot in here?

The stupid shirt Steve had lent him to look presentable felt glued to his skin, clinging uncomfortably as a fresh wave of heat crept up his neck. He let go of her hand -reluctantly- and with a quick movement, he popped open a couple of the top buttons, trying to breathe. His fingers ran absentmindedly through his hair in the process, loosening a few strands from the short ponytail.

She blinked.

Hard.

His deep voice cut through the charged moment. “Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” He murmured the words as he hastily pulled his glove back on, as if reestablishing some invisible boundary he had accidentally crossed.

It took her a second -maybe two- to remember how to speak after that sight.

“Oh, not at all,” she finally managed, waving her hand nonchalantly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, so you are perdoned.”

“Oh, good,” he added promptly.

“Yeah, good,” she echoed.

And then- silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that stretched for just a few seconds too long, making the air feel thick and awkward. It was ridiculous, really. She was supposed to be having a professional conversation, and yet here she was, staring at him like a flustered schoolgirl while he sat there, stiff and unreadable, probably wondering if she had a single functioning brain cell left.

Snapping herself out of it, she straightened in her chair, clearing her throat as she grabbed a folder and a pen. Professional. Focused.

“Let’s start with the questions,” she stated, determined to get back on track. “How is the family group composed?”

A faint tick appeared in his jaw. “Just the two of us.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “Do you receive any kind of support from extended family members or close friends?”

Bucky hesitated. “I have… friends.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “Oh, um… my friend Steve is like an uncle to him.”

She froze for half a second, pen hovering above the paper. Steve.

As in Steve Rogers.

And suddenly, the fact that James Barnes -Bucky Barnes- was sitting in her tiny office, answering questions about kindergarten pickup times and playtime habits, felt almost surreal.

But she pushed past it, nodding as if it was just any other answer. “Tell me about a normal day in Thomas’ life. From the moment he wakes up until bedtime.”

The questions continued, one after another. But to his surprise, none of them were invasive.

Nothing about him. Nothing about his past. Nothing about the child’s mother.

She was only interested in Thomas, his routines, his favorite activities, the people who cared for him. What made him happy, what calmed him down, what sparked his curiosity.

And he just felt… like a normal Dad.

She tapped the pen against her lower lip, scanning the notes she had just taken, furrowing her brows slightly in concentration.

Bucky tried to keep his eyes anywhere else; on the folder, on the damn splintered table, but somehow, his gaze flickered back to her.

Her lips were slightly parted. Soft. That translucent lip gloss she wore caught the autumn light just enough to glisten innocently. She didn’t seem aware of it, of the way the movement drew attention, of how effortless it was.

He clenched his jaw. Pathetic.

Maybe Sam had a point. Maybe he really did need to -what was how he had said it?- "get some." Because sitting here, staring at his kid’s teacher like the virgin Steve used to be back in the day, was not normal.

Especially when she was just… there. In a damn tempera-stained jumper, flipping through papers, completely unaware that his brain had short-circuited over something as simple as the way she absentmindedly pressed the tip of the pen to her lip.

He shifted slightly in his seat, making the little chair squeak under his weight. He needed to get a grip.

She looked up then, extending the forms she had just filled out. “Here, read it, and if it’s fine for you, please sign it, and we’re done.”

He reached for the papers, his fingers briefly grazing hers. She was already moving, sorting through more documents, rummaging inside what looked like her purse as he scanned the form.

A moment later, he signed it, handed it back, and stood up.

The room somehow felt even smaller with him standing.

She tucked the papers into a folder, then hesitated for the briefest second before extending something toward him. A small, brightly wrapped raspberry lollipop.

He just looked at it.

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, um- it’s just a thing we do,” she explained, feeling a little ridiculous. “Teachers give a sweet to the parent who comes in for the visit. A friendly token.”

Bucky glanced at the candy, then at her.

Slowly, he reached out, taking it from her hand.

“If you feel too old to try it, give it to Thomas,” she teased lightly. “Though I must say, they’re pretty good.”

Bucky barely managed to keep his expression neutral as an entirely inappropriate image flashed through his mind involving her slightly parted lips against the bright red lollipop, swirling her tongue over the slick, glossy-

Nope. Absolutely not. He shoved the thought into the darkest corner of his brain and slammed the door shut.

Clearing his throat, he glanced at the candy in his palm. He was pretty sure the last time he had something like this was in the ‘20s, running through cobblestone streets in short, ragged pants and scraped knees. It felt oddly foreign now, a relic of a time buried long ago.

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” he muttered, tucking the candy into his jeans pocket, trying to expel the compelling thoughts swirling at the back of his mind.

Her smile lingered a moment as she straightened the papers, and again, the moment stretched just enough to make the air feel heavier than before.

She cleared her throat. “Well, the institution will be asking for another meeting in about three months to give you an update on how he’s doing. It’s the same for all the kids,” she explained, slipping back into professional mode.

Bucky nodded, adjusting his stance slightly, like he was grateful to have something to focus on.

“I’ve also added you to the parents-teacher WhatsApp group," she continued, "as a way to communicate news, the things kids should bring, upcoming events, that kind of stuff.” She hesitated, glancing at her notes before adding, “Um… it says you don’t have the app installed, so it would be great if you could download it.”

And then, silence.

Bucky barely moved, but something in his posture changed. His gaze flickered toward the small table, where his old clamshell phone rested near his keys.

She noticed.

That was not a smartphone, and it was definitely not suited for a parent-teacher chitchat group.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “It’s a policy here, since, well… it’s assumed everyone has it.” She smiled, small and reassuring. “But don’t worry, I can send you a normal text separately with the same information. Just… without the cool emojis, I’ll have to stick to ASCII.” She winked.

That got something out of him, a faint huff, not quite a laugh, but close. His shoulders relaxed just slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Appreciate that.”

----

After a couple of months, Bucky was relieved -no, grateful- to see Thomas flourishing in his new environment.

The once-quiet, wary boy had slowly started to open up. He was more talkative now, his voice no longer a whisper but something steadier, stronger. He laughed more, flinched less. When he came home from school, he actually talked about his day, about the games they played, about Flora and Matthew, about how Miss Y/n read the best stories and always did the funniest voices.

Bucky didn’t know if she realized just how much of a difference she had made.

One afternoon, while Thomas was scribbling dinosaurs at the kitchen table, Bucky’s old clamshell phone vibrated against the counter.

He flipped it open. A general message from her number.

Dear families, our annual fundraising event is coming up! Each grade and nursery group will participate by preparing goodies to sell, baked treats, crafts, and more! We encourage everyone to take part and help make it a great day for the kids!

Bucky was already closing the phone when it binged another time. It was her again.

Don’t know about your culinary expertise, but we could really use some strong dads to help build the booths this saturday ;)

He blinked.

A just-for-him message.

For a second, he only stared at it, like his brain needed to catch up. The winking face at the end nearly made him short-circuit.

Clearly, she was recruiting him for his enhanced strength.

It wasn’t like the other parents would be thrilled to have him around. He rarely talked to them, never lingered after pickup, never engaged in small talk about school trips or birthday parties. The most interaction he got was a nod or a hesitant smile. Acknowledgment, but never an invitation.

And he understood why. He wasn’t the kind of dad people naturally gravitated toward. He wasn’t friendly like Steve, or charming like Sam. He was… him. Quiet. Intimidating. A man with too much history and too little practice in fitting into normal spaces.

So why would anyone want him there?

He exhaled sharply, glancing at the message again. Maybe she’d sent the same thing to a few others. Maybe it wasn’t just for him.

But… she had sent it. With a winky face.

And despite the self-doubt crawling at the back of his mind, he couldn’t ignore the small, reluctant warmth blooming in his chest.

Because for whatever reason, she thought to ask.

-----

When the Saturday came, Bucky was sharp on time at the open kindergarten gate, with Steve.

Not that it had taken too much to convince him. Steve, being the charitable man he was, never missed an opportunity to help. But Bucky also knew his friend well enough to recognize the other reason he had agreed to come so quickly, curiosity. Curiosity about the place Thomas spent his days. And curiosity about the “winking emote teacher.”

Bucky had two reasons for bringing Steve.

One: With two super soldiers on site, setting up the booths would take a fraction of the time.

Two: He didn’t want to come alone. Not that he’d admit it outright, but walking into a social setting full of parents and staff -people he knew saw him as an outsider even if they tried to mask it- felt a little too exposed. At least with Steve there, the focus will be put elsewhere, and he knew his level of self-consciousness will drop.

Of course, Steve suspected as much. But to his credit, he had the courtesy of not saying anything.

They hadn’t been there long enough when he spotted her across the yard, balancing a few wooden planks in her arms as she walked toward the setup area. She was focused, navigating carefully, until a rogue Lego piece nearly sent her sprawling.

In an instant Steve was there, supporting her before she could hit the ground.

She let out a startled gasp, gripping his forearms instinctively. And then, the realization showed all over her face. Because holy shit, Captain America was in the kindergarten.

“Uh- thanks,” she said, letting go of his forearms, looking a little flustered.

Steve, ever the gentleman, just smiled. “No problem.”

Then, as if remembering there were other people present, she glanced over his shoulder, and finally noticed Bucky, standing just a few steps behind, looking slightly out of place.

Her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hey! You made it. and with backup! That adds points, you know” She grinned, tilting her head playfully. “More help means more credit when it’s time to take home the leftover cakes and pies.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s a thing?”

“Absolutely.” She crossed her arms, pretending to be serious. “Hard work should be rewarded. And what better prize than free dessert?”

Steve chuckled, throwing Bucky a look. “See, now that’s motivation.”

Bucky shifted slightly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Um I thought some extra hands would come in handy, anyway.”

She nodded, rocking back on her heels slightly. “Well, I’m glad you did. We can definitely use the help, some of these booths have been in storage forever, and let’s just say… they’re not in peak condition.”

Steve smirked. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll make sure they stand up straight.”

She snorted. “That’s the bare minimum we’re hoping for, yeah.” Then she proceeded to give them a quick rundown of what was needed: booth assembly, structural support, and general heavy lifting. After making sure they understood, she left them to it, moving to a shaded corner where a group of teachers and moms were busy painting banners.

As Bucky grabbed a plank, Steve picked up another, glancing over his shoulder toward her. Then, with a knowing half-smile, he turned to Bucky.

“So… I assume she is Tommy’s teacher?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. Just gave a curt nod, with an unreadable expression.

Steve hummed. “She’s cute.”

He didn’t take the bait. Just kept his gaze firmly on the plank in his hands, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Steve pressed a little more. “Real cute.”

This time, Bucky gave him a noncommittal grunt. No eye contact. No reaction.

"Do you think the teachers might do a kissing booth?" Steve asked nonchalantly, setting a plank into place like he hadn’t just thrown a live grenade into the conversation.

That got a reaction.

Bucky’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before he shot him a side glance. “…Is that still a thing nowadays?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. Dunno if it’s as chaste as it was in our time, Buck, but it’s still runnin’. Clint told me sometimes they have them at his kids’ school.”

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, gripping the hammer a little tighter.

Steve chuckled, sensing an opening. “I mean, it makes sense, you know. A lot of divorced dads…”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Bucky cut him off, hammering a plank into place with maybe a little too much force. The loud crack of wood echoed through the yard.

Steve just smirked. “Touchy subject?”

Bucky ignored him, grabbing another nail.

"You know, Buck, I think you should ask her out."

"Shut up, punk."

"I'm serious. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Bucky turned to him, giving him a look so dry it could’ve drained the Atlantic. His next words were slow, like he was explaining something to a mentally impaired person.

"Let’s see. First of all, she’s my child’s teacher. It’s unethical."

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky steamrolled right over him.

"Two, I can barely deal with myself most days. I can’t trust my own mind sometimes. I’m trying to put my shit together because of Thomas, but you know there are days I can barely get out of bed. So adding another person into our lives right now?" He shook his head. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Steve stayed quiet, watching him.

"And three," Bucky exhaled, returning to the plank, "I don’t think she’d be interested, damn I even don’t know if she is seeing someone. And I don’t want to make our interactions weird."

Steve tilted his head, giving him a look that was both skeptical and amused but, to Bucky’s relief, he kept his mouth shut didn’t press further.

-----

After a couple of hours, Bucky and Steve eventually split up, taking on different tasks. As expected, Steve had a small crowd of parents ‘casually’ gravitating around him, helping with his station while subtly asking for pictures and sneaking in questions between hammering and measuring.

Bucky, meanwhile, retreated to a quieter corner, bending some metal pipes to straighten the framework. It was a stark contrast, really. Steve walked into a place and illuminated it, drew people in without even trying. And Bucky… well.

He worked alone, unnoticed. Or so he thought.

A sudden hand on his shoulder broke his trance, and he startled just slightly.

“Sorry!” she promptly removed her hand. “I called your name, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

Bucky just blinked, “It’s fine.”

She smiled, holding up a thermos. “Thought maybe you’d want some coffee?”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he tried to shake off the momentary stiffness. “I, uh… yeah. That’d be nice. Thank you.” His voice came out a little rough, and his eye contact was fleeting at best.

Fucking Steve. Bringing up his nonexistent love life like an asshole, and now Bucky was hyperaware of her presence. Every small shift of her stance, every little tilt of her head. It was funny -no, it wasn’t- how their roles had completely reversed.

Once upon a time, Steve had been the one fumbling, awkward, struggling to find his footing with women. And now? He was Captain America, confident and magnetic, while Bucky was… whatever the hell this was. A fucking mess.

“Thank you for coming, James. Really,” she said as she poured coffee into a small cup.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

“And thanks for bringing help with you,” she added playfully. “It seems everyone is livelier since you two got here.”

He grumbled something under his breath, bending the pipe back and forth absentmindedly, like someone fidgeting with a strand of grass.

She caught the movement and grinned. “Showoff.”

Bucky huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line to stop the small, unwilling twitch of amusement threatening to surface.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said suddenly, looking at the thermos handle. “The community here is really nice. Luckily, I’ll still be around for the event.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to her “What?”

She blinked. “I said, I’m going to miss-”

“Are you taking a vacation?” he interrupted, unable to stop himself.

Her brows furrowed slightly. “What? No-” Then, she realized. “Oh. James… Jane is coming back.”

Bucky just stared at her, the words not quite clicking in his brain. “Who?”

She tilted her head, looking almost apologetic. “Jane. The actual teacher. I thought you knew, I’m just a substitute. The real teacher was on medical leave, but she’s ready to return now.”

The words settled like a slow drop of ink into water, spreading, tainting something that had been perfect moments ago.

“I didn’t- didn’t know,” he admitted, quietly. Maybe because Thomas had entered late in the school year, they’d missed that little piece of information.

She seemed to notice the shift in him, the way his grip tightened around the empty cup. There was a certain distress in his expression, subtle but there.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently, trying to reassure him. “Jane is an excellent teacher and person. Thomas will be thrilled to have her in the class.”

Bucky nodded, curtly, handing the thermos cup back.

In all the interactions he’d had with her, the drop-offs, their little conversations, the parent meeting, the fact that she was just a substitute had never popped up.

"When’s your last day?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the twisted pipe in his hands.

“The Friday before the event,” she replied. “I’m still going to participate since I helped organize it, but by Monday, Jane will be here.” She paused, as if anticipating his reaction. “I can assure you, It won’t be a sudden change for the kids. This week, she’ll come for a couple of hours every day to introduce herself so they can get used to her.”

Bucky gave a slow nod, gripping the metal a little tighter than necessary.

It shouldn’t have really mattered. It shouldn’t have made him feel anything at all.

And yet, the news bothered him.

Because things had been fine. He wasn’t close to her, not in any significant way, but she was a constant. And if there was one thing Bucky Barnes wasn’t fond of, it was change.

It wasn’t like he had been expecting anything more than what he already had, which wasn’t much. Just crumbs, really. Small moments of connection. Casual chats, occasional teasing remarks that made something in his chest pull in a way he ignored. The way she talked to him like any other parent—like a man, not a reputation.

But it wasn’t just that, was it?

There were other things, little details that had wormed their way into his awareness without permission. The way her voice softened when she spoke to Thomas. The way her soft body looked like it would fit perfectly against his if he just- no. The way her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary sometimes, making him wonder if…

Bucky exhaled sharply, straightening his pose, forcing the thoughts back.

It was comfortable. And, somehow, warm.

And now she was going to leave.

And maybe it was stupid, but it affected him more than he wanted to admit.

Chapter 2

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[shanblackrx]

The magnetic situation between Jack's hands and Joke's neck.

Bonus:

Just a close of his bigass veiny hands because why tf not. Also a mix of this and the previous gifset.

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Knights, Kings, and Knaves (Medieval AU)

A collection of medieval themed drabbled featuring King Bucky, Duke Steve, King Thor, anon...

Bucky Barnes: Steadfast | 2 | 3

[xuperjr]

[svubensler]