#mercenary!Bucky

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (6)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: mentions of murder, death, blood, knives, dead parents; crying; self blame; injuries; fever; tension; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: I came to notice that the word counts in my chapters differ significantly from one chapter to another. I apologize if this is weird for you. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

There’s a new kind of silence between you now.

It extends and winds itself into the trees, wrapping around unsaid words like an ivy branch.

This is not a natural silence and not the kind that felt almost comforting a day ago. It’s prickly and tense and laden and you hate how restless it makes you feel.

Each breath you take seems deafening, each movement you make achingly deliberate, and every moment of eye contact is a crack of electricity with no set destination.

Turns out, Bucky has been angry at you.

And he has chastised you for joining the fight in the first place.

But not in the way you’d expected.

You had braced for it. For venomous flames sprouting from his tongue. Ready to take anything he might throw at you.

You anticipated a different kind of anger, one that was intense and vocal, manifesting through harsh words and direct blame. Your stomach was a knot of anxiety, hands clenching.

The guilt has been bubbling within you ever since hurling that dagger, and you were ready for his rage to pour over it like oil on flames, transforming it into an intolerable blaze.

But Bucky didn’t give you that.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise his voice.

It was slow and withdrawn, enough to expose the sharp rocks underneath. If anything, he sounded worn. The kind of worn that digs itself deep into a man’s soul.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he said, voice rather quiet, flat but somehow heavy. His hand has scrubbed over his face in a rough movement, as if trying to erase a hurtful memory of you standing there like the helpless girl you were, blood running over your temple. “You didn’t help. Didn’t even know what you were doin’.”

His words hurtfully slipped deep into your mind. Not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. He didn’t berate you for stepping in, didn’t accuse you of foolishness. He simply sounded tired. Like someone who’s seen this before. Like someone who didn’t have it in him to carry the weight of your recklessness on top of his own.

It hurt more than anything he could have said in anger. There was something underneath the fatigue, something defeated, but also sharp. Disappointment, maybe - at you, or himself. Or fear. Or guilt. Or everything at once.

You braced yourself against his wrath, but instead, he gave you this hidden reprimand that left you feeling small.

It made you want to say something. Offer some sort of apology to soften the ache his words ignited in you. But the words stayed stuck between your heart and mouth. I’m sorry would have been so simple to say, but it didn’t feel like enough.

And so you just nodded your head to acknowledge you heard him. That you understood. Although you did not. Although your mind was a scrambled mess.

You saved him. You acted when you thought you had no other choice. When the alternative was losing him, and somehow, that felt more unbearable than the thought of taking another man’s life.

Yet, his words rang with truth. You didn’t know what you were doing when you started scrambling for that dagger on the ground. Nothing seemed logically possible. You just were desperate to act. Desperate to be helpful for once. But were you?

You saved him, but does he feel saved?

You only watched him as he turned on his heel, the line of his shoulders as stony as could be. He began to clear the area you stayed without another word, without a single glance back at you. Though he did keep you in his peripherals.

That’s when the silence started.

Because all you could do was sit there, unmoving, your thoughts a flurry of confusion and guilt and so many more twisted versions of those emotions.

The image of the man you killed still ticked in your head, counting the minutes you were leaving his metaphorical blood on your hands. It won’t ever stop counting. It will count you dead.

At one point, you forced yourself to rise and felt the heaviness of a tired body dragged down by a stinging stab at your side.

Bucky only tilted his head in your direction but didn’t meet your eye, continuing to tie knots, secure straps with his jaw set and clipped movements.

The routine of clearing your chosen sleeping spot for the night was basically the same as the last weeks but it felt so much more different today.

The river has been cold, shockingly so. The icy water irritated your skin, currents tugging at you as if meaning to pull you under. But it somehow grounded you in a way that nothing else had since the fight. Painfully so. It cleared a narrow path in your mind, through the wildly jumping and flickering memories.

You scrubbed at your hands, your arms, the hem of your dress, but no amount of washing could take away the feeling that still holds you captive. No scrubbing would be able to wash the blood from your hands because this is rather figurative. The metallic tang of it lingers in your nose. It will always stay.

Just like the sensation of that dagger slipping from your grip, its blade penetrating flesh, the extinguishing of life in a heartbeat. The frozen expression of shock and anguish cast over this man’s face.

Bucky washed himself as well.

You heard the faint click of metal, the soft rustle of fabric, and turned to him. He didn’t seem to care that you were only a few feet away, standing in the water with your dress on. Or maybe it was a deliberate decision not to move to another part of the river to clean himself. You weren’t sure.

But he did not so much as glance in your direction as he unbuckled his armor and pulled it off. He moved methodically. Not even thinking about it.

And then he peeled off his shirt.

Your breath caught, your fingers curling against the smooth stones at the river’s edge as you didn’t take your eyes off him. The faint moonlight that had illuminated the clearing earlier was gone, the silvery glow of the moon replaced by sunlight. And it painted his skin. It played with it. Each muscle of his torso and arms etched with stark definition.

But it wasn’t even the sheer strength of him, the building muscles that drew your attention. After all, you’ve seen him use them. You’ve seen them strain his armor across his chest.

It was the scars.

The crisscrosses over his chest, some jagged and irregular, others clean and straight as though left by a scalpel.

And then there was his left shoulder.

The scars there were different, deeper, more savage. The flesh around his shoulder and upper arm was tissue, cratered, and puckered, stretching away from the shoulder like the aftermath of some violent attempt to sever his arm completely.

It’s the thought - not the sight - that made bile rise in your throat.

And he didn’t even care about you watching. Maybe he didn’t even notice.

He moved toward the river without hesitation, stepping into the icy water as though it were no colder than a warm bath. His breathing was controlled, his muscles didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed detached, sterile. Movements so robotic.

And it reminded you of something. Or rather someone. A soldier. A soldier of the navy army. Your fathers. Yours. Rumlow did say he was a soldier once.

You should have seen it earlier. Should have noticed the similarities. Should have been able to recognize it in the way he carried himself. But it was clear to say that he no longer acknowledged himself as a soldier of your army. It was clear to say that the manners of the soldier in him were something he revolted against.

He crouched in the shallows, water lapping at him the same way it lapped at you but he didn’t pay much mind to the currents. He only cupped a handful of it to pour over his head.

You shouldn’t have been watching him. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

The beat of your heart was a crazy commotion in your chest. It was shock churning with embarrassment and another feeling you could not seem to identify. Or did not want to.

These scars are stories you couldn’t begin to imagine. Stories he hasn’t dared to share and probably won’t ever bother to tell. And still, there was something sacred about watching him so completely stripped of what always seems like two layers of armor, both literal and metaphorical.

His eyes were fixed on the horizon, on something far beyond the river, something far beyond this moment. The strength of his stare was palpable, as if he was seeing ghosts that only he was able to perceive. He looked tight-lipped, his expression unreadable. But there was something sitting on his shoulders as tangible as the scars that marred them.

One hard swallow and you felt your throat closing tight. There was intrigue in the jumble of unfocused thoughts surpassing the barriers of your mind, while your rightful feelings begged for the right words to come out.

How could someone bear so much and still keep moving? How could he carry all of this - whatever it truly is - and still find the strength to protect you, to shield you, to chastise you for risking yourself for him?

You thought back to the fight although you didn’t want to. The way he moved looking so deadly, how he stepped protectively in front of you without a moment’s thought for his safety.

Just who is this man? It is a question that has been plaguing you for some time now.

Not just the man who stood in that river, water coursing over his scarred body, but the man behind the scars, behind the silence, behind the bitterness that lingers around the peripheries of all he says and does.

He turned then. And the look that cut over you was making you heat up despite the cold water. There was no surprise, no embarrassment, no anything. Just a studying look that lingered a moment too long.

“Finish up. We should keep moving.”

And with that, he stood, water streaming off his skin, and moved to the bank to retrieve his shirt and armor.

Your cheeks remained burning.

And then you were trailing him again. Through the woods.

You walked in his shadows, his presence looming even when he didn’t speak. There was something tipped about him, something like restrained that made it seem like he was trying to keep himself together. The air brimmed between the two of you with a strange energy, a fraught tension that was an uneasy, almost elemental pull.

The ache in your side flared with each step, but you didn’t complain, didn’t utter a single word.

He checked on you more often than probably necessary, his glances quick but searching. Narrowing as they flicked to your wound.

Every time his eyes met your own they carried something thick, but when he looked away he seemed to leave behind emptiness as if he was turning the locks to prevent you from coming in.

And all he said were short commands, clipped and dry.

“Sit there.”

“Hold this.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You followed his instructions without protest, without question, because the look in his eyes left no room for argument. His tone didn’t invite conversation, but it was not cruel. It was not sharp. It simply was matter-of-fact, just like everything else about him. Practical. Precise. But aloof.

The tension between you felt like it was building something, but you didn’t know what. A confrontation, maybe. Or a confession. Or nothing at all. Maybe this was how it would be now - this silence, this distance, this shared yet separate burden.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time you stopped to rest. He spouted an improvised campsite like every night - a small clearing, flanked by plump pines with their branches woven in dense roofs. The ground is mildly plush because of moss and littered with fallen leaves. Life seems to thrum in the forest around you, with crickets chirping and small animals rushing through bushes but it’s still muted by the tension yet to fold from the air.

Bucky set to work straight away, gathering firewood and checking the perimeter with sharp eyes.

You dropped your tired bones onto a decaying log, exhaustion pulling your shoulders down, mind not able to settle. You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself.

There was something about Bucky in this moment that felt unreachable. As though the man you had come to know - the man who shielded you with his body, who taught you to throw a knife, who hated seeing you fear him - was retreating. Pulling back into himself. And you hated that you didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

Your emotions swirled fiercely and unmanageable. It wasn’t just the guilty prick lying in knots in your stomach, but it was accompanied by fear and anger. Though you didn’t even know if it was directed at him, at yourself, or even the world that had shackled you into this lunacy.

When he finally sat in front of you, the fire crackling softly between you, you avoided each other’s eyes. Perhaps even each other’s presence altogether.

There was something feeling almost intimate, as though the firelight had drawn you closer even as the unspoken things between you kept you apart.

You thought about things to say that might ease the tension, but your chest felt too heavy to let any word come up.

And so you sat there, the firelight flickering in between, the forest shedding all its secrets in the dark.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how you would face it.

All you knew was that the silence between you edged on being both a barrier and a bridge, and you didn’t know which it would become.

You sigh heavily. Relieving the day in memory and emotion.

The ground beneath you feels harder tonight, the ache in your muscles sharper, the wound at your side a constant throb you’re not able to ignore.

The forest floor is rocky, the thin carpet of leaves and moss providing little cushion against the roughness of the roots and stones pushing at you against your back.

You’ve been lying here for what feels like hours, though time has lost its meaning since the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

The night is thick around you, with the stillness broken from time to time by the faint rustling of branches overhead, stirred by a wind too weak to reach the forest floor.

You know he’s there, just a few paces away. His presence is profound. As tangible as the pain in your side and the sting in your pride. He is silent. Too silent. He isn’t sharpening his knife, a sound you’ve come to associate with him as much as his footfalls when he resigns to pacing at night.

But he doesn’t. He isn’t even shifting. The rustle of his movements absent in the hush of the woods.

But you know that he’s awake. You can feel it in the air between you. A vibration, almost imperceptible.

He’s lying there too, as still as you are, but his stillness is different. Alert. Vigilant. You don’t dare turn your head to check, don’t dare disturb whatever you hold between you.

You wonder, what he’s thinking, whether he’s still angry with you, whether he’s even capable of anger right now. He seemed so tired earlier, so worn down.

You stay with your back to him, trying to match his silence with your own shallow breathing so as to convince yourself you are not even there at all. That you’re somewhere else entirely. Anywhere else.

Maybe even the palace.

It comes back to your mind immediately in vivid detail. The soaring arches of marble halls, lanterns casting their diffused glow through the gilded walls, the cool and polished floor beneath your feet.

You picture your chambers, the bed that had always been too large for a single person but always felt too small to hold your restlessness. The bed you would give anything to climb into right now.

You can almost feel the silky and soft linen sheets against your skin, pillows downy and cuddling your head. Almost hear the palace life at night, the distant sound of guards patrolling, wind whispering through stained-glass windows.

You can almost taste the security of it, the confident certainty that tomorrow would come as it always had, with the same routines, the same expectations, the same smiles.

But the more you picture it, the more it mocks you. The differences are too sharp, too cruel, too much and it makes a lump rise in your throat. A knot that feels like it’s tied to the weight in your chest, tugging you further down.

You think bitterly about the irony of wanting the home you had once longed to escape more than anything now. You had believed freedom to feel bright and airy but it only ever feels disgusting and cold and everlasting.

Out here, beneath the sky, encased in a moon of brilliant enormity, you feel incredibly small, tender to your soul, and so unanchored to anything.

You feel lost. Lost in a way you didn’t think was possible. Lost in a way no map or compass could ever remedy. You thought you already were a lost soul as the princess in the castle but you’ve been so off the rails.

Your heart seems misplaced in the way it’s beating, uncertain where to send the blood. Your thoughts are darting like startled birds, too quick to catch but too loud to ignore. But all that resounds in your mind is the reflection of your desire extending infinitely into the emptiness you have yet to flee.

You stare at the faint pinpricks of light above, stars that barely break through the tangled mesh of branches. It is beautiful in its own way. So vast and wild. But tonight, even that feels like a cage. No. It feels like you are the only caged thing in it.

A faint heat blooms behind your eyes, the pain of too much thinking with nothing resolved.

None of this makes any sense. The freedom you thought you wanted came at a cost you weren’t prepared to pay. You have nothing but the clothes on your back and the man sitting silently behind you, watching the dark as if it might rise up and devour you both.

You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted to escape the palace and see the world beyond it. You thought you understood what that meant. Oh how wrong you were.

Your lips press together as a tear slips free. It seems to come out of nowhere, tracing a hot path down your cheek like a secret you need to keep. Your jaw tightens at the vulnerability you can’t suppress, biting on the inside of your cheek, pearling saliva in your mouth. Though the harder you try to will away new tears forming, the harder it becomes to hold them back from spilling over.

More wetness pools in the corner of your eyes. This is weak. You know that. And you hate it. Because he might hear it. He might hear you losing your mind. But you can’t let him. You won’t.

You shift slightly, turning your face toward the ground as though burying it in the crook of your arm might somehow hide it. From yourself. From him. From the forest.

The grief and guilt and helplessness all twist inside your chest like a knotted rope not so easily undone. You feel so utterly adrift, like a ship lost at sea with no stars to guide it home. And the funny thing is, there are stars. But they won’t steer you home. Because there is nothing like it.

Your shoulders shake ever so slightly with the effort of staying silent. You can’t bear the thought of him knowing, of him looking at you with those eyes of his and seeing your inner turmoil, hearing the sobs that tremble in your throat. It terrifies you. Bucky has his own demons. You’ve seen them in the way he moves, the way he fights, the way his gaze would drift past anything like he was seeing something else, something darker.

You swallow hard, letting the tears fall - silently enough you hope - leaving them to soak into the earth beneath you.

Clenching your fingers into the fabric of your cloak that hangs over you, you attempt to find stability in it.

Another wave of tears spill over and you bury your face deeper into the cook of your arm, pressing hard against your mouth to muffle the sound. Bucky can’t see you this broken and so far from the person you thought you were supposed to be.

You struggle to breathe through your grief, your inhalation raspy and shaking enough to make the ground underneath you seem to tremble. Telling yourself to quit crying and mend all your broken pieces of composure, but your tears keep pooling down your cheeks in hot trails. They nearly bleach the coarse fabric of your cloak and soak into the damp earth beneath your head.

You hope you are well enough hidden in your bubble of sadness, where no one, even yourself, is welcome to look too closely.

“Princess?”

It’s low, rough at the edges from disuse, yet somehow startlingly gentle. The sound hits you like the fresh air on a day of cold winds.

Your entire body goes cold, muscles locking up, stiff as if turned to stone. Even your shoulders freeze in place. But there are still tears falling from your eyes. They don’t stop. They never do when you need them to. You start clenching your teeth, shutting your mouth down so tightly with a bit of a bite so that you can actually feel the coppery taste in your mouth.

You don’t answer.

There’s a pause, long enough that you think he’s given up. Maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t see. Maybe he’ll let this moment pass through memory-

“Are you cryin’?”

It isn’t an accusation, nor is it dripping with the condescension you’ve heard from others who thought tears made you weak. There is curiosity blended with a softness that is unfamiliar for him, as if he is surprised by the possibility but not unkindly so.

You swallow hard and press your lips together to smother any sound that would give you away, despite the fact that he already knows you are crying.

It’s your self-esteem that demands you to be quiet, but your body betrays you with each shiver, each sharp hitch in your chest.

Bucky shifts behind you. The rustle of movement reaches your ears. It grates against your nerves, making you wish you could sink into the ground and vanish from sight.

You don’t know if he moves closer, or just sits up. But it seems he prefers not to intrude upon your delicate space.

A weary sigh. “How’s your side?” His voice is quiet.

You absentmindedly touch your side, where a mix of blood and sweat has dried into a sticky mess beneath the bandage Bucky put on earlier. A hot pulse runs through the wound, prickling like raw heat. But it hardly warrants any thought amid the other pains that eat away at you.

“It’s fine,” you finally utter, though your voice is hoarse and brittle, barely a whisper. You sniff out a sob.

“Don’t make me check it out myself.” His tone is almost light, close to teasing, but with a solemn undertone that squeezes your heart.

A soft huff escapes you more as breath than laughter. “You would not dare.”

“You sure about that?”

A beat of silence falls, and you realize with a strange sort of relief that he is trying to draw you out, to break through the darkness of your thoughts.

“I said I am fine,” you say softly, sniffling into your arm.

He doesn’t press you, but you hear him shift again, as if considering whether or not to take your word for it.

His next words sound closer.

“Good,” he says simply. “Don’t need you keelin’ over on me.”

There is an air of concern in the silence between you. You feel his charged eyes on you. They won’t leave you for a second. They burn you.

The pause continues to linger once more but he seems strangely patient behind you.

He lets out a long breath. “You never stayed down,”he states then, his tone somewhere between chastisement way too soft for him and admiration way too admiring for him. “Told you to stay back, but you didn’t listen.”

His words pass right through you, piercing to the core. His tone does not mean for his words to sting but they do. Your chest is buzzing brutally. So ruefully. Disgraceful.

You didn’t listen. You didn’t stay down. You tried to help, and look where that has gotten you - wounded, broken, and sobbing into the dirt like a child who wandered too far from home.

“I was trying to be useful,” you whisper, voice hitching slightly with your breath. A sob shakes your shoulders.

“Could’ve gotten yourself killed out there.”

“Why does it matter?” you murmur, voice cracking. A shiver whacks your spine. Your fingers clench around fabric. You inhale a wavering breath.

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose. More rustling behind you. “Well,” he grounds out somberly. “M’ supposed to keep you alive, not the other way around.”

You sniff. Then huff sobbingly. Vulnerability drops from your words like the tears from your eyes. “My mother is dead. It is not like she would know if you completed your debt.”

You didn’t think your words through and now they sit uncomfortably between the two of you. You still feel his eyes on your back. But if you regret those words, then why don’t you make the effort to take them back?

“I know,” he says after a beat, quietly, nearly softly. Almost careful. There is no rebuke, no anger. It’s a simple acknowledgment.

The wind sways the trees beside you, absorbing all the emptiness left by your words. You squeeze your eyes together tightly and then rub the two fresh tears away from your skin.

“But I would,” he adds after a long pause. His voice is deep, resolute and something in it tries to form an understanding within your mind.

There’s a pause again, thick with things neither of you can bring yourselves to say.

But then you break it with a shuddering breath.

“What did she do for you?” Your voice sounds barely louder than the leaves in the wind around you. You don’t dare turn to him.

Silence goes on for long enough that you believe he might not have heard you, or perhaps ignored you altogether. But you hear him adjust his position again behind you.

“What?” His voice is rough, hinting at uncertainty.

“My mother,” you clarify, though you are sure he knows. Your heart is a balled-up pain in your chest. It strikes you with every beat. “What did she do for you? To make you promise something so huge?” You don’t have to clarify that part as well. He knows what he promised. And you still wonder if he resents that promise, if he resents you for being the living embodiment of it.

Tightly wound energy buzzes around you, coming from him. Bucky is not in your line of vision but he feels gripped with tension.

An exhale sounds out. It is measured, careful even. But so heavy. Profound. Meaningful.

You don’t want to be pushy. But his past is a labyrinth you don’t have the map for and you are tired of getting lost in it. Tired of not finding a way out. Or to the very center of it. Depending on the exits you take. Depending on the dead ends you meet. Depending on how tight the walls all around are pressing in. Every path you take just doubles back on itself, each question about him folding into another.

“She was so good,” you acknowledge quietly. Maybe even to yourself. You need to get the ache off your chest with words about the loving mother you lost. To him or yourself, it does not matter. “She always looked out for people. She gave so much of herself. I used to think it was exhausting - how much she cared. But-” you swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “Whatever she did for you must have been huge.”

The longing in the hollow between your ribs is moving to the surface and colors your voice. You see her in your mind’s eye - the way she moved through the court with so much regal grace but stopped for even the lowliest servants. You miss the warmth in her voice when she spoke your name, as if it was the most important word in her kingdom.

A sob silently muffles against your arm as you press your face further into the ground. You just exposed yourself with this confession. Being so vulnerable and fragile by crying in front of him alone.

You would have believed him to brush it off. To lay back down with an annoyed sigh and ignore you and your drama altogether.

But even if you thought he might actually carry on this conversation, never would you have imagined it to be like this.

“I’m sorry.” His words resound so deep, carry so much weight that it catches you off guard. “For your loss.” He exhales a sound more felt than heard.

It’s the first time he has offered condolences. It’s the first time he acknowledges, really acknowledges the magnitude of what you’ve lost. And it’s genuine, remorseful in a way that makes something crack behind your ribs.

The sincerity in his voice stops your breath.

You turn then, unable to stay with your back to him any longer. The ground shifts beneath you as you roll over, blinking against the brim of lingering tears.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice delicate but earnest.

Your gaze captures his and it gets strong in the air. His eyes are dark and piercing, faltering now at the sight of your tear-streaked face. He works his jaw, muscles moving under tight skin as he seems to bite down on words he does not know how to say.

The discomfort glimmering in his expression is telling, but so is the gentleness hiding underneath. Something softer, something unspoken but unmistakable.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. All that there is, all that you feel is this glance held between you two, stocked with grief and understanding and something profound. Things that haven’t been there before.

And then, after his eyes study you for a while longer, intense and all, he breaks the quiet with a resigned sigh. As if he can’t believe he is doing what he does. “She saved my family,” he murmurs roughly, clearing his throat and avoiding your eyes. “My ma and little sister. Becca. Sent 'em away to another country. Made sure they were looked after, by trusted people.”

You don’t know what sinks in first, the surprise of him even telling you, or the revelation itself. But the knowledge strikes painfully inside you. Each beat of your heart bumps against a bruise you can’t see.

Words form and dissolve in your throat, swallowed before they can escape.

You take your time to organize your thoughts.

“Why were they in danger?” You know he probably won’t answer that. This is already more than you expected, more than you ever thought he’d share.

A hand moves over his face and he rasps out a sound resembling a cough. “They’re safe now. All that matters,” he says gruffly, shaking his head and brushing it off.

He doesn’t look back at you and you almost regret asking. Something swells in your throat. Maybe your next words. Maybe the meaning of them. “She never told me,” you stammer, hardly above a whisper, voice still laced with tears.

“She promised to keep it to herself,” he utters uncomfortably.

Your chest feels as if it might burst because of the jingling of pride and sorrow and pain all mixing together in a way that now has you unable to distinguish one from the other.

You take a second to listen to the leaves in the night breeze, followed by the crackle of branches settling deeper into the earth. But it seems rather drowned out beneath the thrum of your pulse, too insistent in your ears.

Shifting your gaze to the ground, you follow the uneven patches of dirt and scattered pin-needles with your eyes. You pull the cloak tighter around yourself, half to shield your shivering body against Bucky’s gaze and half to shield it against the cold.

Bucky’s presence in front of you grazes your skin and races into your nerves.

Turns out he did move closer to you while your back was toward him. He’s not in touching range, but close enough for you to feel the warmth emanating softly from him, an assurance piercing through the chill. It is strange and reassuring and terrifying in equal measures.

Your lips again begin to tremble and you press them together to stop the quiver before it betrays you further. But it’s no use. Your heart is beating too loudly, trying to outrun the revelations now planted within you.

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment. But his gaze rests on you. The fizzling tension in the air feels anything but hostile, but it cannot be categorized. It’s subtle and soft and also intense.

You inhale a shaky breath. The sound of your ragged breaths is unbearably loud. “I am sorry,” you ground out, voice rougher than wanted.

Bucky shifts. His brows run together in a furrow. His confused eyes meet yours before you avert them again. “For what?” he asks slowly, his tone gentle but curious.

Your throat constricts. “For everything,” you say, hating the way your voice shakes. Saying it like that is easier than pointing everything out one by one. You are sorry for being reckless, for getting hurt, for dragging him into your mess, for existing as the burden he was forced to carry.

There is a long moment of silence. Bucky’s gaze is fixed on somewhere in the woods, lost in thought, and then he exhales slowly. It drags his shoulders down. “Ain’t your fault,” he mutters heavily.

There is a soft quality sounding in his tone, like he is trying to be gentle though it doesn’t come naturally to him.

Tears prick your eyes again. You blink hard, willing them into submission, but you are losing. A tear rolls down your cheek - bright and warm against the cold air. It makes you flinch slightly, hating the display of weakness.

Bucky does not move away.

The world seems unfathomable wide and unmoving but at this moment, it is only you and him.

You begin to lift your hand to wipe the tear away, but Bucky seems to be faster.

His long and rough fingers touch your skin almost in a careful way. Calloused knuckles sweep across your cheek, followed by the pad of his thumb, wiping the tear away with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. The touch is fleeting but it is left burning on your cheek.

You freeze a little, not really knowing what to do about the intimacy of the moment or if you even deserve it. The ground feels harder beneath you. Almost like an unforgiving bed for your body, and that is nothing compared to the wound twisting inside your chest.

Bucky’s hand slips back to his side and you instinctively follow it with your eyes before looking back up at him. His shadowed and shifting blues hold your own in a way that keeps you from turning away. There is that softness attached to his expression.

You swallow, the lump in your throat giving you full determination to stay. You bite down on your lower lip in hatred of how it quivers.

“Get some rest.” It might as well be a whisper spoken only for you. “We’ll have to keep movin’ soon.”

And though you grant him with a nod, his eyes don’t leave you for another few heartbeats.

****

You wake up with the sun in your face and birds singing in your ears.

The brightness of the sun stings in your eyes, still slightly swollen from crying.

Taking a deep breath, you savor the refreshing and strong smell of wood and soil, the earthiness due to the damp ground and new pine.

You blink hard against the sharp light, gritting your teeth, eyes feeling grimy after what couldn’t have been more than a few broken hours of sleep. Your muscles feel stiff and sore like every morning and you carefully move them around on the rocky ground.

Awkwardly rolling on your side provokes a jabbing pain that comes from the wound and pours itself into the very core of your bones. So incredibly uncompassionate. Wincing, you grab hold of the bandaged wound. Bucky will probably be on you right away and make sure to change the dressing again. You dread it already. Not wanting to show an ounce of weakness in front of him again. The crying was enough quite frankly.

But then confusion creeps in. Your limbs grow fidgety. Fingers tapping. Feet shifting.

Because something feels off. It’s too still, too quiet in all the wrong ways. Birds are chirping, leaves are swishing, but those are not the sounds you are straining your ears for.

Where are Bucky’s footsteps pacing the perimeter? Where is the crackle of the fire he always stokes back to life before dawn? Where is his voice telling you to pack up?

You turn your head sharply in search of him, expecting to find him standing somewhere between the trees, sharp-eyed and alert the way he normally is. But he is not there.

Your heart slips into your throat and panic flares in its place. Sweeping your gaze back across the clearing, you let it slice the air for a glimpse of his broad form.

And then you see him.

Still on the ground.

The sight makes you pause. It feels wrong. Something prickles down your spine. He’s always up before you. Always. But it seems not today. And there’s got to be a reason.

Uneasily, you sit up, the bedroll crinkling beneath you. You look over at him worriedly.

Bucky’s brows furrow in deep creases onto his skin, conflict etched everywhere. His lips twitch, forming words that never quite make it past the threshold of sound. Sweat gleams on his forehead, catching the morning light in beads that glisten. A ghost of a shudder flicks through his body.

Your stomach knots. Bucky looks in pain. You don’t know what kind of pain it is. But there seems to be an emotional component, a sort that goes deep, almost like that of someone with a hunger reaching down to eat away at the very soul - life refusing to give him a break.

The groan that slips out of him is a tortured sound.

Instinct draws you closer before you can talk yourself out of it. Your hand hovers over his shoulder, indecisive. You wonder what he would want you to do. To wake him? To let him work things out by himself? You don’t know. You never know with Bucky. He bears his burdens quietly, a fortress with walls too high to scale.

Each breath that makes his chest rise and fall is labored and strained. His fingers curl into the dirt as though he is fighting something you can’t see.

But seeing him like this - so undone - makes an ache spread across your chest that you didn’t expect. He looks nothing like the unbreakable soldier who’s been your reluctant protector. The very man scolding, bandaging, and guiding you through nights and days of peril. Bucky this unguarded is unsettling you. But worrying you even more.

You fight the urge to comfort him with whatever is stressing him out in his sleep. But Bucky is not the man to take solace easily. So what can you do?

You hover there rather awkwardly, knees pressed into the earth, hands hovering at your side.

Branches around you sway like nothing is happening.

But your heart is racing inside your chest. Tension knots your shoulders, pulling them upward, closer to your ears.

“Bucky,” you whisper, voice as hushed as the rustle of leaves.

He doesn’t stir. Well, he does, but not to the sound of your voice. Muscles tic and shudder uncomfortably and his head lolls to the side, in your direction, but his eyes stay closed. He does not wake.

Your fingers twitch with the longing to smooth the furrow in his brow, to brush away the sweat that runs down his temple. But you stay rooted in hesitancy.

Your throat bobs with a swallow but the knot stuck there refuses to loosen.

Thorned thoughts and worries lie thick and knotted, climbing up the walls of your mind and scratching against them as you stay kneeling beside Bucky.

He groans again, shifting a little. And that’s when you notice something. A dark splotch on his right shoulder. You hardly even register it at first. But it spreads. And the color demands attention. A stark crimson, savage against the muted browns and greens of the world around and the dirty grey of his shirt.

Blood.

Your breath stutters painfully at the back of your throat. Fresh blood. He’s bleeding.

It leaks wetly through the fabric of his shirt, staining the edge of the brown armor strapped across his chest, discharging slowly but it only makes your pulse pick up. It spreads like ink dripping from a feather onto parchment.

For a moment, your brain is struggling to rationalize this. The forest tilts, and for an absurd moment, you convince yourself it’s a trick of the light. Shadows, perhaps, cast by the trees overhead. But shadows don’t glisten like that. Shadows don’t spread in sinister blooms.

A sharp jolt of fear grips your chest, spreading chaos through your veins. It makes them tremor and causes your skin to prickle with urgency.

Leaning closer, you try to get a better look, tracing the rise and fall of his chest. His brown armor is scuffed but intact, yet the dark stain has crept onto the leather straps as well. He’s hurt.

How? Why? He didn’t mention being hurt. Not once. There were not even signs, no grimaces or falters in his movements.

When he washed himself in the river the day before, you noticed the blood on him. But you assumed - god, you assumed - it wasn’t his. That it belonged to the fallen men. You were distracted. By the sharp lines of his scars and the story they told. By the bulk of his body - embarrassingly. You should have looked closer. Should have seen him getting hurt this way.

Questions collide in your mind, splintering and darting and tumbling over one another. And you hate that you can’t answer any of them. How could he have hidden this from you? Is this why he hasn’t woken up before you? Is this why he sleeps so restlessly, his body shivering and stuck in whatever nightmare grips him so tightly?

You basically let him down by assuming he’s inscrutable. How foolish. How silly. Because here he is, bleeding and in pain. Silently. Because of course, he wouldn’t tell you. Of course, he would shoulder the burden alone, just as he always does. As though his pain is something negligible, unworthy of mention.

Anger pikes beneath your worry. How dare he. How dare he be so reckless with himself after all the lectures he’s given you.

Goosebumps rise as a chill snakes its way down your spine. He looks so vulnerable like this, too much so for a man like him. You don’t like it.

You let your shaking fingers hover near the stained fabric. But you don’t want to touch it, don’t want to confirm what your eyes already tell you.

The blood is not gushing, but it is fresh enough. And the coppery scent tangles up cruelly in your senses.

“Bucky,” you mumble, voice unsure.

He does not respond to you. His brow furrows deeper.

This isn’t right. None of this is right. He’s supposed to be the one who knows what to do, who keeps you both alive and moving forward. He’s not supposed to lay here bleeding and shivering in the dirt, just another thing to bear without complaint.

The skin of your palm burns as your nails press into it. You won’t let him do this to himself. You’ve already seen too much loss, felt too much helplessness. And if he thinks he can just bleed in silence and carry on like nothing is happening, he is sorely mistaken.

Your breath snags, every single one feeling sharp, splintering on the way out. Erratic and barely controlled.

The fingers creeping towards him are trembling and hesitant. You don’t know if you should disturb him in this position. But the sweat running along his face practically makes you anxious.

His lips move to utter an incoherent murmur. The sound is hoarse.

Your heart stumbles. He’s never appeared so open, so unguarded, in a way that it feels disconcertingly intimate. Sharp lines and stern resolve are what should characterize him, never this mess of tension brought low by an injury and dreams you can’t see.

The heat of his skin makes you feel nauseous as your fingers lightly graze over his temple. His dark hair is damp and sucked to his forehead and you tenderly tuck the few sticky tendrils away. Carefully, you try to wipe away the sweat with the dark fabric of your cloak. Your movements are gentle but clumsy. Your hand is shaking. His skin is feverish. It makes you chew the inside of your cheek. You only touch him as lightly as possible as though the wrong pressure might cause him even more harm.

You put off your cloak and cautiously drape it over him.

And while doing that something sitting beyond him catches your eye.

You let your gaze drift in between the trees behind Bucky, to the soft green gleam of familiar leaves peeking from a tangled cluster of low ferns. You almost let out a gasp.

Your hand falters in its path across his brow, gaze fixed on the spot behind him.

It is a narrow plant with pointed leaves, faintly shining you in the eyes. Pale white and pink flowers with star-shaped petals tucked between the greenery are swaying with the breeze. Recognition sends your heart stuttering.

Lady’s Balm.

The name blooms in you, coming into your mind with so much meaning. You basically hear your mother whisper it to you through the trees as if she were right beside you.

You remember her leading you through the palace gardens, her palm pressed warmly against your back when she would bend low to show you this very herb, nestled along others.

She would brush her fingers over the soft petals while telling you stories about ancient queens who would carry sachets of Lady’s Balm into battlefields and about healers who would save lives with nothing but their knowledge of the earth.

You carried those stories in your heart, the wonder of them filling you with something akin to admiration and belonging.

A strange, giddy anticipation wells up inside you, picking its way through that heavy gloom that has been your unwanted companion for some time now. It feels so bittersweet.

You can help him. You can do something instead of simply sitting here, wringing your hands in uselessness. You can make a tincture, or at least dress his wound with something that might actually stave off the worst of it.

Purpose hums in your body, and you steal another quick glance back at Bucky to asses his situation before starting to go for the plant. The blood has stopped spreading, for now, darkening only the patch of fabric near the wound.

The relief of that is enough to make you rise to your feet, neglecting the protest of your muscles. The forest floor feels bumpy, though you cross it with some speed, heart racing out of urgency.

Dropping to your knees in front of the plant, you let your fingers caress the leaves just like your mother used to.

It is just like you recalled. Fragrant and earthy, with a faint bitter aroma that lingers on your fingers. You gather some leaves gently in your hands, heart thumping with an unusual mingling of excitement and hope, mindful not to damage the roots. The pedals tremble as you cradle them in your hand. The clean scent wafts upward.

Glancing around, you scan the undergrowth for more treasures. If Lady’s Balm grows here, there might be other herbs nearby - ones that could help with Bucky’s pain and fever. The thought propels you forward, breath quickening with hope.

There is a strange consolation, an off kind of reclamation of loss that is making its place within you. The palace gardens may be far behind you, out of touch forever, but the knowledge your mother gave you remains. It’s something linking you to her, to a past that wasn’t always filled with tears and sorrow.

You might not have the grandeur of the palace gardens at your disposal, nor the apothecaries who once served your family, but you have your mother's knowledge.

And the knowledge alone that you even are able to do something for him kindles a spark of resilience.

After a glance back at Bucky to see him still lying there, you get pulled deeper into the woods, walking through the bushes and trees to continue your search. Picking your way over crooked roots and patches of moss, slick with morning dew, you don’t try to rush yourself to be more aware of everything you might encounter.

The leafy arms of ferns brush your fingertips. The air clogs with dampness and smells of earth upturned.

Sunlight seeps through the trees in scattered golden shafts, each catching drops of water clinging to the leaves, making them glisten like tears.

Anticipating eyes dart over patches of greenery, intently looking out for familiar shapes and hues.

Then, your fingers graze a cluster of pale green leaves, serrated like tiny teeth.

Feverfew.

The small white flowers nod in all directions. You kneel, your heart lifting with recognition. Feverfew to bring down his fever. Delicately, you pluck a few stems and tuck them into the folds of your blue dress.

Wind passes through branches above you. You continue your path, walking deeper into the woodlands. Shadows grow longer and the air begins to get cooler.

Wild mint catches your eye next. Its aroma is sharp and sweet and you breathe it in with a sigh of relief. Mint is calming and cleansing and you swiftly gather the crisp leaves and stash them in your dress.

A mass of red clover blooms stand just beyond, brilliant petals contrasting with their surroundings. You remember your mother telling you about its blood-cleansing properties, transporting the energies of fight and rescue into one's body. A warrior’s ally she had called it with a smile. The soft blossoms graze your skin when you pick them.

Somberly, you notice that this is the first time in weeks that you actually hear her voice in your head. So sweet and kind. So clear in your mind.

You picture her kneeling in the place garden with dirt under her fingernails. A queen who never minded getting her hands dirty.

It has been some time since you thought of her in this way - not as a woman cloaked in velvet and responsibility, but as the woman who taught you to recognize healing in unlikely places. The woman who regarded plants and petals with the same respect she offered to diplomacy.

It’s a strange kind of thing connecting your past to your present. You never would have imagined that knowledge born in the meticulously tended gardens of the palace might come to use in the deep and untamed wilds. But now you are following in her footsteps.

There is something grounding about it. Each plant you recognize pulls you closer to yourself, where and who you once were before everything broke apart. You feel like it makes you no longer just a runaway princess, no longer just a burden Bucky has to drag around with himself. You can actually do something, however small, to care for him for a change.

The thought is a support as you plunge deeper into the forest, eyes skimming the underbrush. There is less sunshine now slicing through the foliage above, shadowing the trees around you slightly. Wildflowers juxtapose against the green with splashes of violet, indigo, and pale yellow.

Your gaze lands on another familiar plant, wide-leaved and glossy. Yarrow. A faint smile curves your lips. “For wounds,” your mother had said with that air of confidence, “to staunch the bleeding.” she made you memorize the shapes and uses of innumerable herbs, always patient, even when your attentiveness wavered.

You don’t know if she ever believed you could actually make use of that knowledge one day. But you’re beyond thankful that she taught you anyway. And well, perhaps, she even knew that you would leave the palace life one way or another. You just don’t think she imagined it the way it actually happened.

Crouching, you pluck a few sprigs, making sure to avoid trampling the grass around. The scent lingers on your fingers - sharp, almost peppery. You tuck the narrow into your pouch with the rest. The weight of it is reassuring against your hip.

The forest around you seems indifferent to your presence but generous with her gifts. And somehow you are in tune with that.

With each step, there are new herbs catching your eye. A patch of goldenrod dances under a shaft of light, bright plumes illuminated in it. The twisted tendrils of wild thyme cling to a rocky outcrop.

Your mother would have loved this place. The thought fills you slowly, almost carefully. But it does. She would have knelt right there next to you, her keen eyes picking out the smallest details, her hands sure and deft.

Something presses against the base of your throat. It’s thick and impossible to gulp down. You force yourself to concentrate. Grief is always waiting for a great moment to rise to the surface like the horrible thing it is. But you force yourself to concentrate. It won’t serve any purpose to help Bucky now.

Nevertheless, this connection to her brings some strange comfort - a reminder that she is not wholly gone. She exists in your memories, in the knowledge she gifted you, in your bones. And here within this wild beauty of the forest, you feel closer to her than you have in what feels like ages.

So much has been taken from you - your home, your title, your sense of safety - but not this. Stubborn as the forest itself, this little gift from your past remains in your possession. And for the first time in a long while, you hold onto it fiercely.

You sweep through the bushes, looking if there is something more you haven’t noticed yet. Secretly though, you want to float out of this moment, where the burden of the world and its demands soften thanks to the flying leaves and the scent of wild things.

But Bucky waits. His fever waits. The blood staining his shirt and the torn flesh underneath wait.

Lastly, you pick some pine needles off the ground in a hurry and turn with the herbs you already collected, your heart lightening but still troubled. The path back is not marked, but you know your way. You know because it feels like the forest is guiding you as ludicrous as it may sound.

And as you make your way back, you realize that this place of nature is teaching you something your old life never could. How to survive. How to care. How to fight for what matters.

Even if that fight takes place in a shadowy forest, with nothing more but leaves and hope as your allies.

“Y/n!”

You freeze.

“Y/n!”

The calls of your name sound frantic through the denseness of the forest. They bounce off the trees, becoming tangled in the wind.

“Princess, where are you?” Bucky shouts, alarm stirring in his voice. “Say something, come on!”

A startled breath lodges in your throat, making the sounds rising to meet his desperate shouts stay stuck, leaving you to stay silent.

Your hands tighten around the bundle of pine needles and leaves in your grip, knuckles blanching as you stay rooted.

Then there’s rushed movement behind the sound of cracking branches and the scrape of bark as he seemingly barrels through the underbrush without a care for stealth or his injury. There is fear in it. He does not weigh his words and steps carefully. He is in panic.

Your name resounds in the air over and over again and the urgency in it startles you.

The way he says - or rather screams - your name stuns you. It sounds strange hearing it this way. Not in idle conversation, not in teasing disbelief, but with a gravity that matters more than anything. He says it as though it’s the only word that matters.

Another crash rings out around you. It’s nearer this time. You can hear his breathing - raspy, harsh, and wild, as if he is racing through the forest without regard for where his feet are landing. You’re surrounded by leaves crunching and twigs snapping.

“Princess, come on, don’t do this to me!” His voice wavers and cracks. Dread marks his tone. “Y/n!”

You’re not sure if you remember to breathe. Your lips part, instinct telling you to call out to him, to assure him you are here, but you don’t know why he is so worried in the first place. The call stalls halfway up your throat, dissolving into silence before it can break free.

Your legs twitch with the urge to move, to step toward the sound of him, but they lock in place.

It’s like the world closing in around you, that pine and musty smell saturating your senses. Sun rays shatter down from the canopy, drenching leaves in crystalline gold. Speak, you tell yourself. Say something.

But then he already bursts through the brush, eyes wild, chest heaving breathlessly, and looking utterly disheveled. His face is flushed, and damp with sweat that makes some strands of dark hair hang onto his skin.

His crazed eyes lock onto you in an instant and you see the exact moment relief crashes over him, folding into something aching.

“Goddam it,” he exhales, stumbling forward. His voice is thick. “There you are.”

Before you can get a word out, he crosses the distance separating you with a few long strides. His hands find their way to your face, fingers rough but careful as they cup your cheeks. He tilts your head up, urging you to meet his eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he demands breathless. Sharp eyes are searching your face, your body, every inch as though expecting you to go limp in his arms any second. “God, please tell me you’re okay! Are you okay?”

You blink up at him. Baffled at this concerned display of him. Bucky’s thumbs slide over your skin, steadying you even as his own breath shudders. His eyes are so intense, they pull you in. Every second that passes without an answer from you seems to grate on him.

“I’m fine,” you reassure, voice as weak as you feel.

Despite your answer, his eyes won’t stop searching you. His hands won’t stop holding you.

“You weren’t answerin’ me. Why weren’t you answerin’ me? And what the hell are you doin’ out here? What were you thinking, huh?” His tone drops an octave. But despite the hardness of his his tone, there is something vulnerable in the loosening strength of it due to the persistent fear and concern lingering there.

Blood rushes through your ears, so loud, it becomes deafening. “I was looking for herbs,” you manage, lifting your hand slightly as evidence. “For you. For your wound.”

Bucky’s brow furrows, confusion slanting across his features. “Herbs?”

“For a tincture,” you explain softly, voice coming easier now. “To help with the fever. And the bleeding.”

He blinks, just staring at you for a moment, trying to comprehend. His thumbs swipe your skin absentmindedly. And then his gaze drifts down to the green bundle clenched against you. His expression rearranges itself - something tender slipping into the creased lines. A brief hesitation tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He lets his hands rest against your cheeks for a moment longer, reluctant to let go. You try not to like the feeling of them, but there’s nothing you can do because it feels actually really good. Grounding. You can feel the warmth of his calloused fingers, the tremor that hints of adrenaline still coursing through him.

“Scared the hell outta me,” he mutters hoarsely. “Woke up and you were gone.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” His fingers flex faintly against your skin at the sound of his name. “I did not mean to,” you add, guilt building for leaving him alone like this. “I thought you needed the rest. And I wanted to help.”

A tightness pulls at his jaw, muscles twitching beneath his skin. There is something fraught and substantial hanging in the air between you.

He considers you for a while. Lips part, but brows soften. He seems contemplative. At a loss for words for a laden moment. You hear his breathing balance out slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he starts, almost gently, voice softer now. But there is something suppressed in it - emotions he does not want to let in. “I don’t want you to go off alone, alright?”

You nod faintly, the smallest timid smile lifting the corners of your mouth. “I just wanted to do something.”

Bucky draws in a deep breath. The movement in his throat is slow, his adams apple jerking with a swallow, as if trying to push past something sharp.

His hands now retreat slowly from your face with a breath that shakes just a little and he looks almost nervous for a second. Bashful. But he does not take his eyes off you.

The sounds of his desperate calls for you recede to your memory. The tension is still there.

Bucky clears his throat and scrubs a hand over his face and into his hair, loosening the damp strands. Perhaps he is trying to banish the last remnants of panic. A hesitant gulp catches in his throat before he can compose himself. “Wake me up next time. Don’t matter what for. Just- just wake me up, alright?” he says gruffly, some of the tension bleeding out of his voice. There is a weariness instead, a seriousness that matches his exhaustion. “Don’t want you runnin’ off alone into the woods.”

Something hot coils in your chest. Your hands turn clammy around the herbs. You nod. “Okay.”

The pause stretches interminably between you, with neither of you moving. Maybe he acknowledges how far you would go to prove yourself useful - including yourself into a fight you obviously were not capable for, killing a man, stomping through the woods alone the very day after in search of plants that would help concoct a healing tincture.

The apparent concern he felt for you does not feel like it’s choking you. Rather, it creates room for something else - something not fully developed, but real.

“I am sorry,” you whisper, earnestly, meaning it in a way that spreads far beyond this moment.

He looks at you. There is a stillness to his expression, seeming to carefully guard his thoughts and emotions. “Just don’t do that again, yeah?”

You bob your head, eyes shifting to the ground for a moment, your heart still thudding in strange patterns.

Something seems to have fallen into place between you. Something discreet yet important enough to serve as a link that connects you both, tying you together in a way neither of you can comprehend as of now.

“Forests have secrets,” he said gently. “It’s practically what they’re for. To hide things. To separate one world from another.”

- Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

Part seven

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret @singsosworld @mrsnikstan @melsunshine @hawkinsavclub1983

[meownotgood]

guys im totally serious when I say. once I'm done with this viktor fic I might brush up on my comics so I can write a fic for bucky, no idea what yet, but just. I need to. every time I play marvel rivals and he starts yelling again again again in my ear I start shaking like a fucking leaf in a storm!!!!!!

[aqueeriumwrites]

has anyone ever written a marvel/dc crossover fic with bucky x slade

cause i word vomited a fic idea for one into my ideas doc a while back and it's kinda my roman empire because BADASS GAY MERCENARIES (who are both disabled!!!) seems amazing but. it would be really long. the basic idea (i.e. the aforementioned word vomit) alone is almost 500 words. and the longest thing i've posted on ao3 was under 4k words. so, like, if anyone wants to co-write or cheer me on or smth, it would be much appreciated😭

[hotniatheron]

me with my powerpoint on how fight choreography is important because when done well, it also serves as character background and can display character relationships and evolve with the narrative:

[moeitsu]

Explaining the James Logan Howlett (Wolverine) Lore for the new fans :)

I made this as a little cheat sheet for all the new Logan/Wolverine fans, in case you’ve never seen the movies or read the comics. Hopefully it’ll help with your fanfics and understanding his character better <3

Logan is my favorite of the Marvel superhero’s, and he and I go way back….so far back that my Dad dressed up as Wolverine and I as Rogue for Halloween in 2006. So he holds a very special place in my heart.

Lore - Part 2  Wolverine Comics

If you’ve seen X-men Origins: Wolverine, I hate to break it to you, but that backstory is not canon to the X-men universe. The later movies really screwed up the timeline. So the information here is strictly from the comics.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Pre-Adamantium Binding:

His real name is James Howlett, ‘Logan’ is later used as an alias to distance himself from his past.

He was born sometime around 1880, in Alberta Canada.

He is the illegitimate son of Elizabeth Howlett and Thomas Logan. He grew up on the Howlett estate and believed John Howlett was his real father.

His mutant powers first appeared when he was a child. He has accelerated healing, heightened senses, and retractable bone claws.

The trigger was caused by Thomas Logan killing James Howlett. The overwhelming fear and anger made his power manifest, blinded with rage he kills Thomas.

As his biological father dies, he reveals to Logan that he is his true father. The event is deeply traumatizing, and Logan runs away from his family estate. His mother commits suicide shortly after.

Logan has a half brother known as Sabertooth (Victor Creed) who has similar powers to the Wolverine but is more ‘animalistic’

The details vary across the comics but the brothers are always seen as rivals. And often pitted against eachother.

Logan served in WWI, WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.

He also served in a Canadian military force known as ‘Department H’ that specialized in superhuman affairs. (This was after the experiment, I’ll go into more detail later)

Sometime before the Weapon X program: On Earth-616, Logan had a wife (Itsu) and son in Japan where he was training at the time. They were killed by the Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes)

Weapon X Program - Adamantium Binding:

The Weapon X program was run by multiple people working in secret for the Canadian government. Originally beginning in 1845, their goal was to experiment on mutants and create their own super-soldiers.

Logan was deceived and manipulated into undergoing the Weapon X experiment. He did not consent to being a test subject.

For some reason the X-Men Origins movie makes it out to be that Logan willingly chose to undergo this process, only to later reveal that he was tricked into doing so.

Before being captured, he was still struggling with his identity, he was close to 100 years old at the time. His life was filled with violence and loss. Making him physically and mentally vulnerable.

He was a prime target for exploitation.

Part of the experiment was to completely erase his memories and replace them with false ones. This allowed them complete control over him.

This also made it difficult for him to recall how he ended up in the program to begin with.

I repeat: they completely wiped his memory. His whole identity was gone.

100 years of memories were gone.

The bonding process turned his entire skeleton and bone claws into indestructible metal.

Due to his regenerative nature, Logan was not given anesthetic or put under for the procedure. It was excruciatingly painful.

Logan worked as a mercenary for private military contractors. He took on these assignments without fully understanding their implications because of his fragmented memory.

Sometime later he became a member of X-Force, a private military unit (affiliated with the CIA) that dealt with incredibly violent operations.

The purpose of the project was to create an unstoppable killing machine. With their end goal being to erase his humanity all together. However Logan’s mental fortitude allowed him to resist the conditioning and make his escape before it was too late.

After escaping, Logan developed a mistrust with authority. And just people in general. He felt deeply betrayed by the Weapon X program. And he struggles with the fear of being used as a weapon.

The escape and aftermath of Weapon X:

After everything Logan went through, the intense trauma and confusion significantly impacted his actions and mindset.

He was left with extreme psychological damage, and behaved more as an animal than a man for the first few years of his freedom. Living in the wilderness of Canada.

Quite literally a feral man. He lost touch of his humanity. Embracing his animalistic abilities, turning him into an apex predator.

Logan has the ability to enter something called “Beserker Rage” which he becomes entirely driven by animalistic instinct. Turning him into an unstoppable force and exerting himself for very long periods of time.

Think of when you see him running on all fours…

Over time, Logan began to regain bits and pieces of his humanity. He was later discovered by Heather and James MacDonald Hudson who took him in and helped him recover physically and mentally.

(Logan actually fell in love with Heather, and James became his best friend. They were the closest thing he had to a family)

After he recovered, he was recruited by the Canadian governments ‘Department H’. They were responsible for a lot of his training and became a key member in Canada’s superhero team: Alpha Flight.

This is where he took on the code name “Wolverine”

His time with Alpha Flight was short lived. And soon he was approached by Charles Xavier, who was looking for mutants to join his X-Men. He recognized Logan’s potential and offered him a place on the team as well as the promise to help him regain his memory.

Logan accepted, and his time with the X-Men marked a critical and significant moment in his life. Under Xavier’s guidance he was able to rebuild his identity and gradually piece together his past. All while fighting for the rights of mutants.

Being part of the X-Men gave him a sense of purpose and direction. Although his main goal had always been to uncover what he had lost, which was himself. He still struggles with trust and relationships, but eventually forms strong bonds with the other X-men.

His past with Weapon X still haunts him. And he has vivid and terrible nightmares about what he had done and what was done to him.

I won’t go into detail about his time with the X-men because that varies a lot across the comics. Just know that he had a love-hate relationship with them, but he ultimately loved them in the end.

Some sad facts about Logan that actually haunt me:

Logan has outlived everyone he ever loved. Family, friends, even his own children. He is so so so lonely.

Immense amount of survivors guilt. He feels unworthy of the life he continues to live.

He suffers from chronic nightmares. Often waking up in a violent and panicked state.

Deep-seated fear of abandonment that goes all the way back to his early childhood. He isolates himself to protect himself from more pain.

Tons of self-loathing. He believes himself to be nothing more than a killer. He thinks he is unworthy of love and happiness.

In the “Old Man Logan” storyline, he is tricked into killing the entire X-Men team. This event haunts him for the rest of his life.

Logan had a long, unrequited love for Jean Gray. He has watched her die multiple times, and each time a piece of him dies with her. On one occasion, he even had to kill her himself.

When he succumbs to “beserker rage” he loses control of himself. And the aftermath horrifies him. He is even afraid of himself at times and one of the reasons why he distances himself from others.

Some happy/soft facts to make up for everything you just read:

Logan is incredibly fatherly at times, often taking younger mutants under his protection and guidance. He becomes a mentor to them and looks out for their well-being.

In one of the comics he takes a young girl (Jubilee) to the mall and followers her around carrying her bags. He loves doting on her and I find it so adorable.

He also teaches another mutant named Kitty how to dance.

In one mission he is tasked with taking care of an infant, Hope. And he is incredibly gentle and tender with her. Cradling her in his arms and being fiercely protective.

He has a deep love and connection with animals. Especially ones that have been mistreated or misunderstood.

Caring for an injured wolf, he nurses it back to health and releases it back into nature.

He also adopts a stray, abused dog at one point.

In one of the timelines, he funded and ran the ‘Jean Gray School for Higher Learning’ He was the headmaster, and was dedicated to protecting and teaching young mutants.

In one scene he literally makes pancakes for all the students. I love him so much.

His relationship with Nightcrawler (Kurt Wagner) is very brotherly. They share alot of respect and understanding for each other, and Nightcrawler often serves as Logan’s moral compass.

His happiest memories are when he was training in Japan. And he has a deep appreciation and admiration for the culture. Taking on the samurai code of honor, and respecting its discipline and humility.

His entire relationship with Laura Kinney (X-23). Essentially his daughter. Taking on a father-figure role for her.

In one of the comics he organizes a birthday party for her, knowing she never had one. He goes all out and it shows just how much he loves her.

Logan has a great sense of humor. Often dry and sardonic, he’s known for his quick wit and playful banter. Which adds a layer of warmth to his otherwise tough persona.

He is very fond of life’s simple pleasures. Which reflects his inner desire for peace and normalcy. He values the little things that make life enjoyable.

His numerous acts of kindness towards strangers. Logan is compassionate at heart.

He doesn’t comfort others with his words, but rather his presence. Logan has a very unique understanding of grief and tries to give others relief in knowing they aren’t alone.

WOW okay I wrote way too much. Tbh I actually cut a ton out of this but if anybody wants a part 2 I’d be happy to share more. Shoutout to my brother for helping me source all this with his comics lol.

If you read all this, you’re a real one. And I’m so glad we’re all witnessing the Logan Howlett Renaissance

[avecra]

Dosed

summary: When you are laced with a deadly pathogen, the team finds themselves working endlessly to find a cure. Only it might not be enough.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.7k

warnings: canon level violence, illness symptoms (fever, cough, vomiting), angst on top of angst with a happy ending, bucky goes through many emotions

a/n: hi hello it has been a hot minute since I have been active im so sorry :( i had a lot of personal issues to deal with but now im hoping to be a little bit more active and post more stories :)

You could feel the heavy rumble of the jet as it landed on the muddy grounds. An overcast covered the sky and emitted a soft grey through the thick glass of the display of the jet, the light pitter of rain tapped against the window. 

Bucky’s gentle touch stole your gaze from the window to the super soldier, his fingers wrapped around the Kevlar vest and he began to tighten the straps around your shoulders, pulling them into place. 

“Do I really have to wear this? Steve said that the building is supposed to be empty,” you said, trailing a finger along the front of your vest, over the stitched ‘Barnes’ that sat over the thick fabric. 

“Yes, honey,” Bucky chuckled, tightening the straps over your back. “Just cause Steve says it’s empty doesn’t mean it is. I can’t risk anything happening to you, therefore you get to wear my vest.” He winked at you and tightened the last strap across your abdomen. “Gotta keep my girl safe, now don’t I?”

You smiled sheepishly and nodded, continued to watch him strap a few guns and knives to his body. Exhaling a tense sigh, you ran your sweaty palms down the side of your tactical uniform, Bucky noticed. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” you whispered, grabbing his hand. “I’m not exactly equipped for these types of missions, I’m just a little nervous.” 

Bucky’s eyes softened when he heard the small crack in your voice, his hands encased around yours and he tenderly pressed a kiss to the back of your palm. “I’m gonna be right by your side the entire time.”

You bobbed your head, taking in a deep breath as Bucky gently slid a gun into the holster on your thigh. “But just in case.”

The two of you had been assigned to track down a lone mercenary in the middle of western Canada. The stormy weather had made it difficult for the jet sensors to get a read on the building that sat in a nearly empty forest.

A mercenary hacker under the name Roman Donovan had been on Tony Stark’s radar for quite some time, after noticing the many sudden security pop ups, indicating that Donovan had smothered his way into Tony’s tech. Both Steve and Tony had been working relentlessly to find a position on him, until a sudden location popped up. 

You had your doubts, whether you were the best candidate for this mission, but Steve had reassured you with your technical and computer knowledge that you were the perfect fit.  A squeeze to your hand reminded you that Bucky would be with you every step of the way.

With a nod from you, Bucky placed the small comm device into your ear, tapping it a few times so he could hear the breaths that left your lips. He slipped one into his ear as well, tapping it a few times until he could catch the chatter of the two agents in the cockpit of the jet. 

“Prescott and Logan, stand by. We’ll radio you in case we need backup,” Bucky announced, pressing the button that opened up the ramp of the jet. He turned to you with a soft, comforting smile. “It’s just a simple extraction of files,” he reminded with a gentle hand to your back. “Ready?”

A final nod of your head, you looked at him. Ready.”

---

The building had been vacant this far, Bucky had led the both of you to the control room where you rapidly typed on the main computer. Bucky stood by the door, sending cautious glances over his shoulder every few seconds to survey the dark hallway. 

“I’m almost done,” you called out to him, fingers dancing across the keyboard, desperately pushing into the numbers and letters faster. “It had more firewalls than I expected.”

Bucky glanced over in your direction, a frown taking over his features. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not necessarily. Just means this guy wants to keep people like me out of his stuff,” you mumbled. Bucky chuckled under his breath.

A few more clicks to the keyboard, you powered off the system and the flash drive ejected  out of the main computer. Stepping back, you watched the monitors as the files slowly disappeared from folders and main screen savers, until all the screens went dark. 

“I think I got it,” you muttered, eyes wide as they focused on the screens. The flash drive began to flicker a blue color, indicating that the files had transferred successfully without a trace of Stark technology.

The loud slamming of a door alerted Bucky, as he raised his rifle up, pointing towards the sudden sound. You pocketed the flash drive and raised your head at the sudden sound, eyes filled with confusion as they flickered over to Bucky’s alarmed blue ones.

“Get behind me,” You quickly made your way over to him and his hand immediately darted out to grab your wrist. Though you could feel the tension riding off his body in waves, his hold on your arm was gentle. “Stay low.”

You nodded and grasped the back of Bucky’s tactical vest, fisting the thick fabric. With a cautious foot forwards, Bucky stepped out into the hallway, taking slow, steady steps into the dimly lit corridor. 

Your hands made their way from the fabric of his shirt to his vibranium hand, and you gripped as tightly as you could, in a way to ground you. He couldn’t feel the tight pressure, but he could feel the weight of your hand in his. 

The two of you stealthily made your way through sets of hallways and stairwells, inching closer and closer to the doorway, until the loud slamming of boots against the tile floors halted you in your stance. Fear corrupted every fiber of your body, you couldn’t take your eyes off the panicked look in Bucky’s blue ones. 

You felt Bucky push you away behind him, before a sudden force knocked him to the ground, grunts passed through his lips. 

“Y/n, run!”

Not looking back, you trusted Bucky enough to know that he would make it out unscathed, with only a few scrapes and bruises. You, however, were not a field trained agent, with little  combat knowledge. You bolted the other direction, on the way to warn the two agents standing by in the jet.

“I need backup! Logan, Prescott, to the northeast side of the building, now!”

It wasn’t until you felt the pull of your vest and the weight of someone did you register your head slam against the ground, rather harshly. A strangled cry left your lips when you felt a needle puncture your skin, just at the conjunction between your shoulder and neck. 

His hand pressed down on your neck harshly, cutting off your air supply, but you were frozen in fear - he head injected something into your skin. You did not find the strength to fight back.

Fear paralyzed every fiber of your body.

Grunts and strangled screams were heard, you didn’t know if it came from you, but suddenly the weight was lifted off you, though you registered nothing of it. A few greedy breaths of fresh air. The pulsing of your heartbeat rang out in your ear, chiming and pudding against your skull. You laid frozen.

“Y/n is down, I have Donovan apprehended. I need backup, please!” Bucky spoke into the comms a moment later as he threw the hacker on his stomach and pinned his wrists behind his back. He was tempted to sap his wrist, but he held back. 

“Roman Donovan, you are a hard son of a bitch to find,” Bucky growled in his ear, reaching into his vest to pull out a pair of wrist restraints, tightening them to Donovan’s wrist. The man yelled in pain and discomfort.

Bucky glanced over to you, eyes softening when he took in your fragile form on the concrete. You just laid there, almost lifeless, but once Bucky saw the rise and fall of your chest, only a little relief came to him. It quickly rushed away when blue eyes focused on the empty syringe near your foot. 

“There’s a lot more pain coming your way. What did you inject her with?” Bucky yelled viciously, grabbing Donovan roughly by the hair. But the man simply let out a dark chuckle, eyes narrowing on you. The way weak coughs passed through your lips, the way you burrowed deeper into yourself.

“I know your weak spots, James Barnes.” was all he said. 

The hurried footsteps of Prescott and Logan reached his ears and Bucky abruptly stood up  and watched the two agents haul the mercenary to his feet and slam him against the wall, patting him, finding a gun strapped to his back and a small grenade. 

“Secure him to the panel near the bay doors. Bastard can fly out for all I care.” 

Bucky wasted no time in making his way over to you. A gentle hand soothed comforting circles up and down your arm, gently coaxing you and Bucky gently lifted you up in his arms and leant you against the wall, concerned as your head lolled back. 

“Baby, are you okay?” His panicked gaze flickered from the bleeding gash on your temple, to the light bruising around your neck, the small dot of blood at the conjunction between your neck and shoulder. He sighed, bringing a hand to rest on your cheek. “Y/n, answer me baby, what hurts?”

Your eyes were clenched shut and you brought a shaky hand to rest over Bucky’s, and you lifted your gaze to meet his worried blue ones. “I’m okay… I think.”

“You think?” Bucky asked, running a hand over your hair. 

“I-I don’t know, I feel fuzzy,” you mumbled, leaning your head back against the wall. 

Taking slow, deep breaths, you felt Bucky rub slow, soothing circles up and down your thigh. There was a buzzing sensation circling throughout your temples, down to your cheeks, along our jaw until it spread through the rest of your body. 

“Deep breaths in and out, baby,” Bucky whispered soothingly, leaning down to kiss your knee.

But then, in a moment or two, you felt it suddenly disperse. As if the wave of numbness rid itself out of your body. You allowed Bucky to help you to your feet, brushing his hands over the front of the vest before making sure you had no further injuries. 

“We’ll check you over at the compound,” Bucky said as he wrapped an arm around your waist and led you down the hall, following the two agents in suit. “Let’s get out of here.”

---

Bucky watched helplessly as he and Steve watched as Dr. Cho and her team scanned over your body. He couldn’t imagine how confused and scared you were, hands gripping the sheets. Your first field mission had been a complete disaster. Bruce walked in, the used syringe in an examination tube. 

“What do you think he injected her with?” Bucky asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

“It’s weird,” Bruce began, handing the folder over to Bucky. 

“I pushed it through a scanner, to see if I could find any sort of answer to what this is. All tests come back negative for a virus or disease. Has she had any of her symptoms progress on the way home?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, she’s just been… frozen, paralyzed almost. He has injected her with something; I saw the blood on her neck and it seemed like he had tried to… kill her or something.”

“You think he would?”

“Why else would he press his fucking hand over her throat?”

“That, I am not sure. So unless she starts to show signs of some sort of sickness, I unfortunately have no answers. I’ll check in with Tony, see if he has any answers. I’ll keep you guys updated.”

“Thanks, Bruce.” Bucky sighed, watching as the doctor left. He opened the file, reading over the diagnosis levels. “I still don’t get it.”

Steve hummed, taking the file out of his hand. 

“The only thing he said to me was ‘I know your weak spots’ and then called me out by name. But I have never come into contact with this guy, not even as the Winter Soldier. The dude is early twenties and lived with his grandma in east Maryland up until two years ago, living in some studio in Princeton up in Jersey. How the hell did he end up in Canada?”

“That doesn’t track at all. Unless he has dug up on all of us. He probably just wanted to get you by surprise.” Steve said. “Real name is Benjamin Croot. 24 years old.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Dr. Cho’s voice broke through on the intercom. “She is asking for you.”

Bucky moved faster than he could process. He rushed through the doors and you turned your head at the sound of his boots. 

“Is she okay? She’s not hurt or anything?” Worried questions spewed out, his hands came to grip yours as tight without hurting you. He brushed his hand over your warm, sweaty forehead. “She’s warm.”

Dr. Cho nodded. “My team ran all the tests imaginable for this certain… situation. And everything came back negative, which worries me. If what Y/n described is true, then he must have injected her with something that is lethal or close to being lethal.

“She said to have felt numb, fuzzy almost. Those are usually the signs of a virus or even… a pathogen starts to form. But what I don’t get is that I could not find a single trace of.. well anything really.”

“Dr. Banner doesn’t have an answer either, though he’s checking in with Stark as we speak.” Bucky said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “What should we do? Keep her here?”

The woman sighed, pieces of her hair falling from the neat bun. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Part of me wants to keep her in the medical wing, just in case, but her stats are all normal, though her temperature is abnormally high.”

“How high?”

She flipped open the chart. You hadn’t really been present in the time either of them were talking. You were just so tired. Physically and mentally. 

“The last time I took it, her temperature was sitting at about 100.5, which isn’t that bad, but it’s not great either. So, I would advise to just rest for the night, and when she wakes up we will run a couple more tests, see if anything has changed.”

Bucky nodded, squeezing your hand as the doctor excused herself. 

“Whatcha thinkin’, sweetheart?” Bucky sat on the edge of the cot, brushing hair away from your eyes. 

“Tired.” He could tell your energy was scarce.

“Let’s go to bed then, hm.”

His movements started before you even had the chance to reply. As gently as he could, he slid his arms around your waist and shoulders and helped you up to your feet. The two of you made your way from the medical bay to the residential wing, to yours and Bucky’s shared room.

“Don’t you have the interrogation to do?” you mumbled, watching his features contort when he pressed his thumb against the scanner and led you into the room. In your fuzzy mind, you barely registered Bucky’s touch as he gently peeled your uniform off and slid your pajamas on.

“I’ll do it tomorrow. Besides it’s late, sweetheart and I think I speak for the both of us when I say it’s been a long day,” He gently eased you onto the bed, gently covering your form with a blanket. 

A shiver racked through you and Bucky watched with a concerned look as you tightened the blanket around your shoulders. He flicked off the lights and crawled into bed next to and wrapped an arm around your waist. 

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” You faintly nodded and relaxed into his hold, feeling his hands run smoothly up and down your arms. The faint glow of the television set and the low volume did nothing to tear you from your due slumber, though you faintly felt the coolness of Bucky’s appendage running over your hair before you slipped into a dreamless sleep.

---

Sweat coated every part of your body as you woke up with a sharp gasp of air. 

Pounding temples, you peeled your eyes open and sat up; the faint glow of the TV caught your eye. The movie Bucky played had finished and had been playing in an endless loop. 

The clock on your nightstand read 2:07am, you reached for the cup of water and took slow sips, barely and faintly registering the sounds of Bucky’s light snores. 

You felt the nausea before anything else. It ran from your stomach up to your chest and you clamped a hand over your mouth, threw off the covers and made a beeline for the bathroom. 

That was until a wave of dizziness hit you and your knees buckled. Vision tunneling, you would have fallen to the floor if it weren’t for the strong pair of arms that wrapped around your waist before you could touch the carpet. I’ve got you, a tired voice murmured, but your hazy mind didn’t hear the quiet mutter.

The warmth of Bucky’s chest touched your heated back as he sped to the bathroom, flicked on the light and watched helplessly as you crashed to your knees and emptied what was in your stomach into the toilet. 

Bucky kneeled behind you and grasped your hair in one hand and rubbed soothing circles along your back. He felt you slacken in his arms, head resting back against his shoulder and when he pressed his palm flat against your forehead, he almost hissed at the radiating heat.

“You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart,” His wide blue eyes darted to your half-lidded ones, cerulean darting over your sweaty, clammy skin. 

“I don’t feel good.” you croaked. 

It hit him in one, big wave as he took over your tattered form. The confusion, the fatigue, to your spiked fever, Something wasn’t right, considering the fact that you rarely felt under the weather.

Those are usually the signs of a virus or even… a pathogen starts to form. Cho’s voice rang in his voice

Weakly, you flushed the toilet and leaned back into Bucky. Shivers racked through your body and Bucky peeled your shirt off your shoulder to see a dark blooming bruise where Donovan had injected the needle. 

“FRIDAY, wake Steve and Dr. Cho. Tell them to meet me in the medical wing,” Bucky called for the AI and slipped his hand under your back and knees and lifted you up against his chest. 

You jolted slightly, dizziness clouding your mind as Bucky stood up. You were limp in his arms, like jell-o.

The cool air of the hallway felt like a slap in the face, you pressed your cheek into the warmth of Bucky. A low whine passed through your lips and Bucky ran his thumb just below the back of your knee. 

“Buck,” Steve called, eyes widening as they fell on your shivering form. “What happened?”

But Bucky didn’t stop his movements, he spared a glance to Steve and kept heading towards the direction of the medical bay. Steve followed Bucky’s fast pace, quickly matching his speed.

“Her temperature is too high,” Bucky said, glancing over at his friend. “When we checked into the medbay, Cho noticed that her temperature was a little higher than normal, but when she got up a couple minutes ago, she was burning hot.”

A slick sheet of sweat coated your forehead, Steve noticed, and how small tremors racked through your body every so often. His eyes fell to the darkening bruise on your shoulder, Bucky caught his eye. 

“I think she was laced with something.”

Your fingers grazed the fabric of his shirt and Bucky looked down, continuing his trek to the medical wing with Steve hot on his tail. You could feel the rapid thumping of Bucky’s heartbeat as you weakly bunched his shirt in your fist.

“Laced? Laced with what?” Steve questioned as he rounded the corner, eyes locking onto Cho’s at the end of the hall.

Bucky looked down at you, clammy skin, eyes barely open, though you kept a strong grip on his shirt. “I don’t know.”

Everything was hazy the moment Bucky set you down on the hospital bed. Though sweat coated nearly every inch of your body, shivers racked through your body relentlessly. It was sweltering and freezing simultaneously. 

Nurses rushed around you, obstructing Bucky’s view from you, one of them placed a cannula just under your nose, an IV into your arm. The thought of more needles sinking into your skin made you sick. 

The last time someone used a needle on you, he was malicious as he jammed the needle into neck harshly. The memory brought nothing but fear to you. 

You were hot. Uncomfortable. The pain in your head was nearly unbearable.

“Bucky,” you called out, only it came out more of a whimper. “W-where’s Bucky?”

Metal clamped gently on your hand, the other hand coming to smoothly brush your sweaty hair back. “I’m here baby, I’m right here.” 

“It… it hurts,” Bucky watched as another nurse attempted to put another needle through your skin, he noticed the subtle shaking of your head, the whimpers.

“Is that really necessary?” he asked with a sharp glare, it melted away when he looked over at you. “What is it, baby? What hurts?”

“My head.”

Worried eyes wandered over to Cho’s as she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant Barnes, I understand you want to offer her comfort, but I can assure she is in good hands with my team.” 

Bucky nodded, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His finger trailed over your forehead gently, and when he saw Steve and Sam in his peripherals, he sighed to himself. “I’ll check up on you later, sweet girl. I have something to take care of.”

You nodded drowsily, the dizziness taking control. 

Bucky reluctantly moved away from your bedside to his two closest friends, solemn looks on their faces. Sam kept his eyes on you, watching as the nurses took your temperature.

“How is she?” he asked. Bucky kept his eye on you the entire time, watching your tired eyes start to close. 

“It’s not looking good,” Bucky sighed. “Her temperature is extremely high, nausea, light-headed and dizziness. Whatever this bastard did to her, he has to deal with me now.”

“He’s downstairs, whenever you’re ready.” Steve said, his eyes laying on your frail body. “It is 2 in the morning and one of my teammates is lying on a hospital bed with a fever of over 100 degrees and a migraine that’s probably killing her. Let’s get this over with.”

---

Roman Donovan sat in a cold, bright room, hands cuffed to the tables with two SHIELD agents armed standing at the entrance. A smug smirk sat on his face as he fidgeted with his fingers. His head perked up at the sound of the door opening. 

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Winter Soldier, what a traitor you are to your own country, huh? I mean, working for the people who you literally fought against-” Sam walked behind him and gripped his shoulders tightly, fingers digging into his muscles. 

“I am only gonna say this once, so you better fucking listen to me. What did you do to her?”  

Donovan chuckled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

Bucky shook his head, vibranium fist clenched. 

“You know, Roman, this guy isn’t too fond of repeating himself. Especially to arrogant assholes like you.”

“What did you do to her, Donovan?” Bucky was strangely calm.. “You know the woman you attacked earlier, the one whose throat you almost crushed after you injected her with drugs? She’s got three degrees in chemistry, computer engineering and computer science, so I get why you, a man of your personality, would go after someone who is not strong enough to put up a fight against you.” 

Steve looked on through the window, phone pinging. He pulled it out, the text from Natasha sent dread through himself. 

Temperature over 105, tests coming back positive for some type of influenza. Cho is really worried. Not looking too good for her.

“Shit.”

He went on and walked into the room, leaning over to where Sam stood. 

“So aggressive, James. And for what reason?”

Sam chuckled, crossing his arms. “If you think this is aggressive, you’re in for a ride.”

“I’m gonna ask one more time, and if I don’t get an answer, that means you’re straight up out of luck.” Bucky leaned forward, black and gold vibranium reached for the chain of his restraints and pulled him down, causing Donovan to hit his head. “What did you inject her with?”

The man tilted his head, blood dripping down his cheek. “What makes you think I injected her with anything?” he cockily sneered. “I thought all the Avengers were required to be knowledgeable in the field, cause let me tell you, Sergeant, that little girlfriend of yours is such an easy target.” 

Steve nudged Sam, leaning his phone towards his eyeline, showing the text message. Sam felt a pang of worry settle deep in his stomach, sharing a worried glance with him. 

There wasn’t much time left for you. 

Steve stepped forward, pulling Bucky aside to show him the text message. 

Blue eyes raked over the words he had been dreading the most. "Not looking too good for her.”

“Well Donovan, I want my answer.”

The man smirked. “Yeah? Or what?”

Bucky’s left hand reached out and grabbed a fistful of Donovan’s hair and slammed his head against the metal desk one time only, though it was enough to break the man’s nose. Screams of pain resounded in the small but soundproof room. 

“No one’s gonna hear you, Donovan! Those guys with the big ass guns? They’re not gonna help you either. Not when one of their own is about to die in this building. And so help me, Benjamin,” Bucky sneered into his ear, the man’s eyes wide with fear, “if she dies under your hand, there is nothing on the green earth that is going to stop me from tearing you apart. I’m gonna ask one more time, what did you inject her with?”

“A deadly pathogen! It’s a pathogen that kills its hosts within 24 hours of it being administered.”

Bucky’s eyes glanced at the clock. 2:58 AM. It was a late night mission, the jet had landed in Canada at 7:45 PM. Meaning you had to have been injected with it at 8:00 or so. Meaning six hours had already passed, he had eighteen hours left. You had eighteen hours left.

“Did you know adults that experience fevers that go over 105 degrees can run into complications causing serious implications of brain damage,” Sam blurted out. “means you’re in the dog house if we lose her. And ain’t a single one of us is gonna stop that mean.”

“Is there an antidote for it?” 

Donovan nodded. Bucky slammed a pen and a notepad down on the table, causing the man to jump in fear. “I suggest you better start writing it down. Now you get to deal with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Better start writing.”

Eighteen hours would go by quickly. 

---

“Sergeant, it’s not looking good for her,” Dr. Cho said, voice breaking slightly. “This virus that she’s fighting, it’s too strong.”

Bucky looked through the window, heart shattering as his blue eyes fell on the breathing mask they covered your mouth with, the tubes that kept you hydrated. You looked so… lifeless. Natasha sat by your side, her hand gripping your wrist, though you were so out of it, eyes barely open.

“He injected her with some sort of influenza. He knows the antidote, but he has less than eighteen hours.”

She noticed the worried look in his eyes. 

“She was constantly asking for you. Even in a state of being delirious, she was still calling for you. Natasha was able to calm her down.”

The soldier gulped. “Is… is she going to die?” 

For a moment, Dr. Cho couldn’t answer. She didn’t know the probability of the antidote being made on time. 

“James, I cannot answer that. But what I can say is that I will do everything in my power to keep her alive. She’s a fighter.” With that, she excused herself. Bucky stood still for a moment before pushing the door open.

The sounds of your heart monitor and the sounds of oxygen traveling through the tubes filled the room. Natasha’s emerald eyes met Bucky’s, a small smile presented on her face. 

“Any updates yet?” she asked, but it fell on deaf ears as Bucky kneeled at your bedside, grasping your limp hand tightly in his. 

The amount of pain that swirled in his mind was almost too unbearable. Your eyes met his, though you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Tears welled in your eyes as they rushed down your cheeks. 

“It’s okay, my love. I am right here.” His voice was above a whisper and pressed a kiss to your palm. “Tony and Bruce are gonna find a cure for you, honey. I promise. It’ll all be okay.” He felt you weakly try to grasp his hand back, but the action alone made you more tired. 

“I love you so much, baby. Words can’t comprehend my love for you. I want you to know that,” Tears welled in his own eyes, his hands reached up to cradle your cheek. You leaned into him. “I love you.”

Your skin was so warm under his touch. His eyes read over the stats on the open chart, seeing your temperature rise every hour. 

“She was injected with some sort of influenza. Tony and Bruce are working right now.” 

“Did you find anything else?”

Bucky kissed your hand, gently guiding your head back on the pillows. “Son of a bitch has the antidote. Had to break his nose just to get him to spill it out.” 

Natasha placed her hand on his shoulder. “I will stay with her and I’ll alert you guys if anything changes. Just try to hurry.”

Bucky nodded and leaned down, hugging your frail, weakened body and pressed a kiss against your chapped lips. “I love you, Y/n. I’m gonna fix this.”

He did not spare Natasha a glance as he stormed out of the medical wing, boots stomping with every step he took. Long strides took him to the end of the hall, where the elevator was.

“FRIDAY, where is Stark and Banner?”

“Both are in Mr. Stark’s lab. Shall I notify them that you are coming?”

“Tell them I have a stop to make first.” Bucky slammed the button to the interrogation level. “ I’m coming with the antidote.”

---

Donovan jumped in his seat when the doors opened, revealing the shadow of Bucky’s figure. A knife sat in his hand. The prisoner visibly shivered. 

“You know what I’m here for, Donovan.” 

“Come on, man! It hasn’t even been-”

The knife that was once held in Bucky’s hand was now lodged into metal table, an inch away from Donovan’s finger. 

“You’re fucking crazy!” 

“What happened to the tough guy act, huh? You wanted to act all big and bad up in Canada. Why the sudden change of heart?” Bucky taunted him, walking closer to the pad of paper that had been scribbled on, step by step, three pages, front and back. “Remember, you’re targeting my weak spot.”

He seemed ashamed, guilty almost. But it wasn’t because your life was in jeopardy. It was because he was caught, with no one left to save him. 

“You know, you’re already facing five counts of criminal charges of unauthorized access into government systems, you wanna add a murder charge to that? Assault with intent to cause bodily harm? That sounds like fifty years to me, that is with just the unauthorized access charges.” Bucky sat down across from him. “And if this,” he held up the paper, “isn’t true or it doesn’t cure her, you’re facing a very serious murder charge of a federal agent.”

“You’re nothing but a coward, Benjamin Croot. Tough guy act falls the minute you’re faced against someone who overpowers you. You’re gonna rot in that prison for the rest of your life.”  

---

It was morning.

The sun had risen fully. 

10:47 AM

Tony and Bruce had been hard at work, trying to figure out the antidote. It was nearing the afternoon, and they had been at it since nearly four in the morning. But neither were giving up. Not when your life was on a timer.

Bucky had dropped off the paper before going back up to the medical bay, spending his time with you. He hadn’t slept since he first woke up, his groggy eyes immediately landing on you staggering to the bathroom.

He laid in the small bed with you, balancing himself on the edge, giving you all the space. He had laid a damp rag over your forehead, in hope to cool you down a little. Tremors racked through your body suddenly, Bucky jolted. 

You laid still for a moment, eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed. An unpleasant gurgling sound came from you, body jerking slightly. Bucky’s eyes widened and he pressed the call button repeatedly before running to your side. You weren’t awake, you were warmer than before, heartbeat rapid as the monitor started to go crazy, alarms blasting. Dr. Cho and a couple nurses suddenly bursted into the room, eyes wide

“What’s wrong? What’s happening to her?” Bucky cried out, helplessly watching as they pushed you on the side. 

“She’s choking. Her lungs are filling up with fluids, and if we don't drain it, she will lose her.” Bucky’s eyes filled with horror. “Sergeant Barnes, I know you’re concerned for her health and safety, but I need my full attention if I’m gonna save her. Please.”

Bucky wordlessly nodded, his eyes fixated on your body, your face. 

Eyes closed.

Pale skin.

Lifeless, almost. 

The monitor flatlined. Bucky was pushed out of the room. Sheets pulled around your bed as voices screamed and yelled, though it was all distorted. 

“Bucky?” He turned to Sam, tears spilled over his cheeks. 

“She’s…” A cry got caught in his throat. “she’s flatlining.”

Chocolate eyes widened. 

“I need to find Tony and Bruce.”

Sam loved you like a sister. The two of you had always been close, ever since you joined the team. And when Sam laid eyes on you, defibrillator pads pressed on the exposed skin of your chest, head laid back, a knife twisted into his heart. 

Neither men didn’t move a muscle until the flatline changed to a faint beeping. 

---

“Please tell me you’re somewhat close to putting an antidote together.” Bucky and Sam pushed through the doors. Tony looked up, “How is she?”

“She’s running out of time, she flatlined for a minute,” Bucky rambled out. “Please, Tony. What do you have so far?”

“It’s almost done, I think. We followed every single one of the steps, used past remedies that have helped even Thor himself from a virus. But if this guys even altered one of these steps-”

“He’ll have to face me then.” Bucky finished. “Is it ready?” Tony nodded, though he had a look of hesitancy. “What is it?”

Tony looked over at Bruce, having just placed the antidote in the freezer. “It needs to maintain a temperature of -50 degrees. Meaning…”

“You need to bring her down here, or else it won’t work. I have all the medical supplies she’ll need down here. I just need you to transport her.” 

“I’ll do it.” Bucky said, not that anyone else would have even offered. “Have every single thing ready by the time I step foot in here.”

“I’ll inform Cho.”

Both scientists nodded, scrambling to ready the emergency medical cot. Sam followed Bucky as they raced through the stairwell, racing up the stairs, though adrenaline gave Bucky all the energy in the world it seemed. 

Once he reached the room, Sam sprinted to ready the elevators, to get you to the lab as quickly as possible. Dr. Cho had removed all the tubes and wires off of you, only an oxygen mask with a tank attached. 

“Come on, baby,” Bucky strapped the oxygen tank to his back and slid his arms underneath your knees and shoulders, and ever so gently he lifted you up, grey hospital gown drenched in sweat. Your head lolled back, arms and legs completely limp. “I got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

With you laid against his chest, he moved swiftly, his pace faster than normal and it wasn’t long until he was in the elevator with you, nearly unconscious in his arms. Bucky looked down at you and rested his forehead against your sweaty hair, though it did not bother him in the slightest. 

Your brows furrowed for a moment, followed by a whimper. “We’re getting there, love. We’re almost there.”

The doors opened and Bucky made a beeline for the lab doors, immediately going to the corner of the room where they had the cot set up. As gently as he could, he cradled the back of your head as he placed you down on the mat, softly placing the tank on the ground. 

“Okay, now Tony.” Bruce unbuttoned the gown at the shoulder, revealing where you were attacked. Bucky held the side of your face, caressing your cheek. 

He had placed a part of his armor on the hand piece as he took it out of the freezer, glancing  at the space from the freezer to you, and in two big strides he held the needle just above the darkening bruise and quickly administered it into your skin. He pressed the button and a fluid was shot into your shoulder.

Your body shuddered for a moment, there was no sudden movement from you.

It was the longest minute of Bucky’s life, his eyes filling up with tears. The sudden rise and fall of your chest kept getting  stronger with every breath you sucked in. The bruise surrounding your shoulder slowly vanished, your natural skin color coming back. 

When your eyes peeled open, Bucky nearly sobbed in relief, crashing on his knees as he gripped your arms. 

“Y/n, baby, can you hear me?” he pleaded desperately. 

“B-Bucky,” your voice was raspy and raw.

“Oh my god, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he muttered over and over like a mantra, cradling the back of your head as he peppered your forehead and cheeks with kisses. You were still a little warm, not as life threatening as it was beforehand.

“W-where am I?” you tiredly asked, eyes roaming around the lab. “What happened?”

 Bucky gently took the oxygen mask off, replacing it with a nasal tube. “You were poisoned, honey.” Flashes of you flatlining not even two hours ago flooded his mind, but he shook them away. You were well and alive, breathing with a steady pulse. “You were really sick for a while, 

but Tony and Bruce here made a cure for you.”

You nodded, still a bit drowsy from the near death experience. “What about… him?” 

Though your voice was barely above a whisper, Bucky heard you clearly. “He’s already taken care of. If I had it my way, the bastard would spend the rest of his life on Raft for all I care.”

Tony chuckled, coming over to pat your hair and a quick kiss to your head. “Leave that to me, kiddo. This kid doesn’t know what’s coming to him. Get some rest, hon.”

Bruce, Tony and Sam all bidded you a goodbye, leaving the two of you alone. 

Bucky cradled your face in his hands, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “I love you, sweet girl.”

“I love you, too, Bucky.” You sounded downright exhausted. But you could finally rest. “This is why I stay behind the computers.”

Bucky chuckled and laid against the pillows, pulling you to lay on his chest. “Valid.” Your laugh was a tired one, Bucky could tell. “C’mon baby, let’s nap together.” 

You had no obligations on that, closing your eyes as you held onto Bucky’s arm, lulling to sleep. 

Finally, Bucky could rest knowing that you were at ease and finally able to rest without being in pain. His eyes drifted shut and you both finally succumbed to a well deserved rest.

--

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (epilogue)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: mentions of fire, dead parents, murder, death, ignorance, betrayal, sexism, arranged marriages; classism; feels; tension; suggestive themes; kissing

Author’s Note: Omg we have reached the end to this series. It makes me a little sad but I'm so satisfied I managed to complete this. And hell, I did not expect it to get so long. When I came up with the idea I was planning on making it a one-shot lol. Thank you so much for reading it this far! I hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your journey goes on for another three and a half days. You walk through thickets and shadow-dappled glades as before, but time bends strangely now. It feels no longer like the lonely, endless trek it once was.

It does not feel like a road paved with dread and pain. It feels like something else entirely - something softer, warmer. Like the disentangling of the past and the mending of something broken.

Bucky is always close. Not just in the way he was before, walking beside you, always in your eye line - but in the way he feels close. The way his hand brushes against yours as you trek side by side, fingertips grazing, neither of you acknowledging it out loud, but neither of you pulling away. The way his gaze lingers so unashamed, unreadable, yet soft in a way you are not sure he quite realizes.

The nights are no longer cold.

The forest air is crisp and the earth unforgiving, but you haven’t felt cold since the first night you let yourself fall asleep curled against his chest.

His arms drape around you every night like they were made to hold you. He always mutters that he is not supposed to sleep, that he has to keep watch, and you know he has never been the kind of man to rest easily.

But then, minutes later, his breathing slows, deepens, his body molding against yours, his lips pressed into your hair as if the scent of you alone lulls him into slumber.

Sometimes, in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, he mumbles things into your skin - your name, half-formed words, things you wish you could catch before they are lost to the night.

He clings to you and buries himself in you like you are something to be sought out even in the darkness of his dreams. His hand finds the curve of your waist, fingers splay out over your ribs as if grounding himself, and he breathes you in.

He wakes in the mornings with a deep inhale, lips finding your shoulder before his mind even fully registers that he’s awake. And it is soft. It is slow. The kind of gentleness you never imagined a man like himself capable of.

But Bucky Barnes is a man of contradictions.

Just as he kisses you tenderly at dawn, he kisses you with reckless, insatiable hunger in the next breath.

One moment, you are walking beside him, mindlessly following the path, and the next, your back is flush against the bark of a tree, Bucky’s hands bracketing your face, his breath warm against your lips before he takes them in a kiss that leaves no room for air, no room for anything but him.

It’s fierce, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desire that sets your veins alight.

His hard thigh slots between your legs, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

His hands would dip to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he devours you, drawing out a sound from deep in your throat that you didn’t even realize you were capable of making.

His breath hot against your lips as he exhales a soft, gravelly curse.

But it never goes further than this.

No matter how heated, no matter how desperate, he always stops.

His hands never stray past the places he’s already touched, never cross the threshold into something that would tip you into the point of no return. Not yet.

He made his promise - to make it good for you, to wait for a better time.

And Bucky Barnes, after all, is a man who keeps his promises.

So he pulls back, even when his chest is heaving, even when his pupils are blown wide with want. Pressing his forehead against yours with a shuddering breath. He only drags his thumb across your swollen lips and smirks at the way you chase after him.

The fire at night is different now, too.

Before, you used to sit in front of it, staring into the flames with an open wound in your chest that you thought would stay hollow and bleeding for the rest of eternity.

Now, you still stare at the fire, but this time with a weight at your back - Bucky sitting behind you, his chest pressed against your spine, his arms wound around you in a tender hold. He rests his chin on your shoulder sometimes and murmurs against your skin - tired yet, sweetheart? - and you shiver at his lips on your neck and shake your head, because how could you ever be tired of this?

The fire crackles and it’s not the only source of warmth anymore. Bucky’s arms tighten. And the hollow place inside your chest is filling slowly, surely, with something meaningful, something fervent.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like him.

There is something different in the air now, too.

You don’t know if it’s the season shifting, the air growing a little warmer, fresher, or if it’s something in you that has changed.

Maybe it’s the way the wind no longer feels like it’s pushing against you but instead lifting you forward. Maybe it’s the way the sky looks a little wider, a little vaster like it belongs to you now.

For years, you lived with the certainty of a future that was never truly yours. A path laid out before you like a straight line - one that led directly to a fate you never wanted.

You were raised to believe that love was not yours to seek, that choices were not yours to make, that freedom was not something women like you could have. You would be given away, just as your mother was, just as so many others before you were. A transaction. A signature on a parchment, your body and soul the fine print of a deal you didn’t want. A deal between men who had never once asked what you wanted. Never cared about it.

Only to be a prize for a man who had done nothing to earn you but exist in the right family, with the right title, with the right wealth to buy your hand.

You tried to convince yourself that it was inevitable. That maybe you could learn to accept it.

But that never happened.

And when Lord Ward spoke these ugly words about marriage something inside you rose like a beast with bared teeth.

Never had you wanted to end up with the life of a wife to a man who would never know you. Who would never see you.

Would never kiss you like Bucky does - like he’s breathing you in, like he’s savoring something rare, something he will never find again.

Would never hold you like Bucky does - tight, protective, almost desperate, almost possessive. Terrified the world might steal you away from him.

Would never look at you like Bucky does - like you are something untamed, something wild, something so far from the obedient, well-mannered woman you were raised to be. But he relishes it. He does not try to fill that flame. He lets you burn.

And now, here you are.

Not in a castle or a palace, not in a cage refined by luxury, not dressed in stiff silks, not standing in front of an altar beside a man whose hands would never be gentle, whose eyes would never soften when he looked at you.

No, you are out in the wild, the scent of pine and earth and Bucky thick in your lungs, with tangled hair, dirt on your dress, and under your fingernails.

And you have never been lighter.

When you dreamed of freedom, you always pictured yourself alone.

The idea of escaping had always been something singular, something you would carve out with your own two hands, even if it left them bloodied and bruised. Never had you imagined that freedom might come with someone beside you. That it might come in the shape of a man whose past is war-torn, whose hands are rough with calluses and sins but who holds you like you are something sacred.

You don’t know what to call this. You don’t know if there is a name for the way his lips trace over the back of your neck in the early hours of the morning, for the way his voice goes warm and husky when he mutters your name. For the way he watches you - really watches you - like he is memorizing the way you move, the way you breathe.

You don’t know what to call the way he lets you take up space.

Lets you question him, tease him, push at the edges of his patience. Lets you be difficult and vulnerable and does not try to shape you into something easier to control.

There are no words big enough for it yet, no name that fits neatly into your mouth.

But whatever it is, you know you don’t want it to end.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

Bucky makes everything feel more.

The silence of the woods isn’t lonely with him there. The fire isn’t just warmth, it’s a place where you rest, where you curl into him and breathe in the scent of leather and steel and him until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

The simplest things are different now.

The air tastes sweeter, the wind feels wilder. Your chest feels lighter.

Your food tastes better, even if it’s nothing but charred meat and stolen apples because Bucky makes you laugh between bites. When he makes some dry, wicked comment that should not make your stomach jumble the way it does but you never put in much effort to stop it.

The night feels less like a thing to be wary of and more like a shroud that envelopes the two of you, keeping you hidden in a world of your own.

Your body feels different.

Because of the way he looks at you, the way his fingers graze your skin absentmindedly when he’s half-asleep, seeking you out even in his dreams.

Because of the way your blood sings when he pulls you into an unexpected kiss, when he presses you against a tree, or the ground and growls something against your lips that makes your knees weak.

Because of the way you feel in your own skin now - like it belongs to you, like your choices are finally your own.

And that’s what this is.

Choice.

For the first time in your life, no one is making it for you.

Not your father, not even your loving mother, not some nobleman with a name older than the stones of his estate, not an entire court that speaks of duty while drinking their wine.

You chose this.

You chose to run.

You chose to fight.

And now you are choosing him.

It is the thrill of being wanted - not as a bride, not as a duty, not as a treaty, but as a woman. As a person.

It is the way Bucky does not possess you - but he holds you like you are something worth keeping.

And you think, perhaps you might believe you are.

****

“Bucky!”

“Bucky!”

Two gleeful voices, high-pitched and brimming with joy, call his name in unison, and before you even register what is happening, two boys come hurtling toward the man beside you like arrows loosed from a bow.

Bucky barely has a moment to brace himself before they collide with him, small arms wrapping around his torso with so much force that he stumbles back a step.

A surprised chuckle rumbles from his chest as he catches them, his hands ruffling through unruly heads, squeezing them against him in a hug.

You don’t move.

You stay where you are, frozen, watching as something in Bucky softens. He crouches slightly, to be more level with the boys, shaking his head with mock exasperation, but his face is split in a smile that might just blind you.

“You’re back!” one of them exclaims, clinging to him.

“We missed you,” the smaller one adds, eyes wide and earnest.

“Steve said it could take longer and that we have to be patient, but we knew you’d come back soon,” the first one says, so proud of himself, his words spilling over each other in his excitement.

Your stomach tumbles - not unpleasantly, but in that strange, fluttering way that comes with being overwhelmed.

You knew Bucky had friends, knew that wherever he was taking you, you would not be walking into a place full of strangers to him.

But this is something else.

Because they love him.

And they are not the kind of people you imagined Bucky Barnes might surround himself with. These children adore him, are safe with him, and throw themselves into his arms without hesitation.

Your throat closes up as you shift, not knowing what to do with yourself.

Your nerves had not touched you this morning, as you lay in Bucky’s arms. Not when he murmured against your skin, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder, voice slow and sleep-thick.

“Won’t be much longer now, darlin’.”

You hummed.

“Just a few more hours, and we’ll be there.”

You felt his smirk against your neck.

“You nervous?”

You thought about it. The idea of stepping into a new place, meeting new people who knew him, who might not trust you, might not like you. But it was hard to be nervous with the way Bucky was touching you, tracing patterns over your bare arm, kissing your hair, holding you close like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

“Tell me about them,” you whispered, half to distract yourself, half to just hear his voice a little longer before the day truly began.

And he had.

“Steve’s a pain in my ass. Got that whole ‘honor and duty’ thing goin’ for him. Thinks he’s gotta save everyone. Stubborn bastard.”

You had laughed at his crude language and he just kissed you some more, sporting a proud grin.

“Sam’s loud as hell. Talks too much. Thinks he’s funny.” He sighed dramatically, the vibration of it tickling against your ribs.

“Is he?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, and you realized it was almost a laugh.

“Sometimes,” he grunted out gruffly, but there was something fond in it. He placed a deliberate kiss just below your jaw. “But you better not tell him I said that.”

“He’s got a sister. Sara. She’ll probably try to feed you the second she lays her eyes on you. Got a good heart.”

“Noted,” you whispered, fighting a smile.

He brushed his nose against the curve of your cheek. “Natasha’s a little sharp. She’ll size you up, but don’t let it get to you. It’s just her way. She’s got a good read on people. But I got a feeling she’ll like you.”

He kissed you, slow, savoring the way your lips parted beneath his, the way you let him pull you closer.

“Bruce is quiet. One of the smartest people I know. You’d like him.”

His fingers traced unhurried circles against your waist, his touch warm and possessive without meaning to be.

“Peter,” he sighed. “Kid’s a menace. Talks too fast. Asks too many questions. Has no idea how to shut up.”

You smiled. “But you sound fond of him.”

Bucky groaned dramatically, letting his head softly fall onto your collarbone. “Damn kid grows on you.”

“Wanda’s a little different. Maybe a little odd. She’s got a heart bigger than she knows what to do with. M’ sure you’ll like her.”

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could study you in the dim morning light.

“Vision’s…” he adds, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t really explain him. But he’s a good man.”

“And Tony’s an ass.”

“That’s it?” you laughed.

“That’s all you need to know.”

You traced the shape of his jaw with your fingertips. He leaned into you, eyes drooping. Your voice grew softer. “But he’s your friend.”

A pause. A sigh. “Yeah, I guess he is,” he admitted grudgingly.

Then you kissed him again and he certainly did not object.

It felt so intimate then, the way he spoke, the way he let you into something personal. His family. You hadn’t been nervous then. Not when he was so warm against you, not when he whispered promises of breakfast and stolen kisses and safe places against your skin.

But now, watching these two children light up at the sight of him, watching Bucky melt and soften, you start to feel the nerves.

The enormity of what you are stepping into.

You are not just entering a place.

You are stepping into his world.

These people are not just his friends. They seem to be his family.

And they seem to live a comfortable life, judging the clustered timber-and-stone houses before you. Slanted roofs are layered with thatch, their wooden beams weathered but sturdy.

A large two-story tavern sits at the heart of the settlement, its balcony draped with drying herbs and bundles of corn.

The earthy scent of bred and corn and ash and tilled soil all mingles in your nose. You breathe it in.

You watch a woman lean out of an open window, shaking dust from a rug.

A great tree stands a little off, roots twisting into the soil like fingers gripping the land, branches stretching, leaves flying in the light breeze. Wooden tables and benches sit unevenly on the dirt ground. A group of men sits hunched over one of those tables, mugs in hand, deep in conversation.

Horses are tied to a hitching post near a small stable, flicking their tails. Chickens peck at the dirt, completely unmoved by their surroundings.

Garlands of wildflowers and wheat hang from beams and doorways.

Nearby, a wooden stall displays golden rounds of bread stacked high, the crusts crips and sun-warmed.

This does, in no way, come close to how you have been raised and lived your whole life. Nothing like the sterile corridors of the palace, where voices were kept soft and every step was measured.

This place is unrefined, full of noise and movement, loud laughter, and unguarded conversations.

It’s the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

“Who are you?”

The sharpness of the question snaps you from your swirling thoughts and drops you harshly into the present.

Your gaze turns down to meet dark and narrowed eyes. The kind of look you would expect from a man twice his age, not a boy of the age of perhaps 10.

There is suspicion in the hard set of his mouth, in the furrow of his brow. His thin shoulders are squared, his stance too defensive for someone so small. Too wary for someone so young.

He is looking at you like he is judging you. Assessing you. Ready to cast you out.

You don’t know what you expected from those little boys who nearly took out Bucky with a hug. Curiosity perhaps, maybe even excitement, because what child is not intrigued by someone new?

But this boy has learned caution young.

Bucky had not mentioned him, nor the other who is still clinging to Bucky’s side and watches with wide, observant eyes. They seem to be brothers.

You inhale and part your lips, ready to offer something - your name, perhaps, or some reassurance that you mean no harm - but Bucky steps in.

“Hey,” he chides, voice carrying a note of authority, but it is still easy. As though he expected this reaction. “C’mon now, AJ,” he says, ruffling dark strands. “That any way to treat a guest? Hm?”

The boy scowls, wriggling his head free of Bucky’s grip and standing a little straighter, eyes still on you.

“I have questions,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

You blink.

This boy is so small, and yet so serious, staring you down like you are his enemy.

Bucky sighs dramatically beside you, shaking his head.

“You hear that, darlin?” He turns to you, blue eyes glinting. “Little punk thinks he runs the place.”

You smile amused and tilt your head slightly. “Does he?”

The little guy seems taken aback for a moment, like he hadn’t expected you to address him so directly, hadn’t expected you to engage instead of deflect.

But then he squares his shoulders again.

“I do when Steve isn’t here,” he informs you seriously, sharp eyes on you.

Bucky chuckles.

“So?” the boy presses. “Who are you?”

You take a breath in.

“She’s mine.”

The words, low and firm, come from Bucky.

You turn, startled, but Bucky is not looking at you. He is looking at the boy, at both of them, his expression unreadable. But his jaw is set.

“She’s with me,” he tells them.

But that makes the older boy before you narrow his eyes further.

“You brought her here?” he asks, and there is an accusation in it.

“I did,” Bucky confirms, voice turning a note harder. “And you’re gonna behave, alright?”

“Why?” the boy presses. “You don’t bring people here. Ever.”

That catches your attention. You glance back at Bucky, but he still doesn’t look at you.

He opens his mouth, about to crouch down to his eye level.

“Oh, mother of gods, James Buchanan Barnes, you did not!”

Your head snaps up at the harsh exclamation, dragging your attention to the woman storming toward you. She has fire in her eyes and disbelief clear in every step she takes. The fabric of her dark skirts rustle with the force of her marching steps, her expression caught somewhere between outrage, horror, and exasperation.

Bucky sighs beside you.

The woman sweeps her gaze over you, fast but uncomfortably precise, drinking in the tangled mess of your hair from wind and sleep, the dirt staining the folds of your gown, the frayed laces at your bodice. They hang limply around you.

Heat wanders along your skin, creeping up your neck. Your fingers jerk against your skirts.

You are painfully aware of how you must look. Not a princess. Not the picture of nobility. And it makes you feel exposed.

She then latches her burning eyes on Bucky, who for his part looks painfully unbothered by the way her glare could send him to his grave.

“The princess?” she hisses, incredulous, her voice barely contained. “Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky exhales softly. “Sara-”

“No, no,” she cuts him off, throwing a hand in the air. “Don’t you Sara me, James. What- What in the name of every god above and below were you thinking?” She jabs a finger at him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what kind of mess this is?”

You recoil slightly.

Bucky doesn’t.

Sara exhales sharply and fixes her gaze on the two boys. “Aj, Cass,” he says, voice edged with maternal authority. “Inside.”

The younger boy scrambles away, while the older one hesitates. He looks at you. And you watch the realization of who you are dawn like a slow and creeping sunrise. Color drains from his face, only to be replaced by a deep, mortified flush. He hurries off after his brother.

A low whistle sounds out.

“Well damn,” follows a smooth, almost delighted drawl. “You kidnapped the princess? Man, that is a whole new level of crime - even for you.”

Your eyes shift toward the new voice.

A tall man steps up beside Sara, arms crossed over his chest, a wide, amused, and toothy smile on his face.

“You know,” he muses, glancing at you before looking back at Bucky, letting out a chuckle. “I figured you’d eventually get yourself into a mess you couldn’t talk your way out of, but this?” He gestures at you, at all of you. “This is next level, man. This ain’t just thieving a couple of horses or lifting some noble’s coin purse.”

“I didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky growls, exasperated.

“No?” The man lifts a dark eyebrow. “Then what is it I see before me? Huh? Certainly not the missing kingdom’s princess, looking all rugged and dirty, standing next to the only fool dumb enough to waltz into the palace and take her right from under their noses.”

“Sam,” Bucky warns.

Sam ignores him. “God, I can’t believe this. You kidnapped the princess.” His eyes practically dance with amusement. “Really, man?”

“Didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky repeats, tone and eyes dark.

Sam snorts. “Alright, then.” He shifts his attention to you now. You are only able to listen to whatever this is with wide eyes. “Your Highness. Blink twice if you need rescuing.”

You glance over at Bucky helplessly, but he only runs a hand down his face and shakes his head.

You straighten, eyes going back to Sam, composing yourself as best as you can despite the dirt on your skirts, despite the strange, unmoored feeling of being in this place, surrounded by these people.

“Sir, I-”

But Sam interrupts you, keening with laughter.

It’s full-bodied. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping his ribs as if the sheer force of his amusement might crack them open.

You startle, staring.

“Oh, hell, yeah.” He wheezes through his laughter, eyes gleaming with delight. “D’you hear that, Barnes? Your girl called me sir.”

Bucky glares. It’s nothing short of murderous.

Sam laughs harder, nearly doubling over, slapping his thigh like this is the greatest moment of his life.

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides, fingers curling, and for a second, you wonder if he might actually lunge at the man.

“You wanna keep runnin’ your mouth, Wilson?”Bucky grounds out, voice flat, but there is something dangerous in it.

“I apologize for the trouble, your Highness,” Sara says, voice full of exasperation, though it is not directed at you. Her sharpest ire belongs to Bucky. She shoots him a look so blistering it could peel bark from a tree. But he only rolls his shoulders like a man unbothered. “You’re lucky she doesn’t look half-dead, Barnes.”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “She’s fine, Sara.”

“Fine?” she echoes, eyes flaring. Hands settle on her hips. “Fine is not what I’d call a girl dragged through the wilds, looking like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days.”

You wince, self-conscious.

She notices.

Her gaze softens. “My apologies, your Highness,” she says, sincerely, directed at you this time. “You must be exhausted. Have you eaten? Drunk anything? Lord above, Bucky, did you even let her rest properly?”

Bucky folds his arms over his chest with a huff. “She’s not a child, alright? She’s handled herself just fine.”

Sara glares him down.

You take a step forward before she can start another round of chastising him.

“You do not need to apologize,” you say softly. “I have been taken care of.”

You see Bucky smirk in your peripherals.

Sara pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling long and slow, before turning back to you.

And this time, when she looks at you, there is no suspicion, no frustration.

Now, there is just worry.

Not the worry of someone who sees you as a liability, a mistake, a problem to be solved.

But the aching worry of someone who sees you as a person. As a girl who has run a long, long way from something big.

Shaking her head, she fixes her eyes back on Bucky. But they are softer. Her voice is calmer when she speaks again, but no less chastising. “The princess, Bucky? Of all the reckless, ill-thought-out things you’ve done-”

“Alright-”

“I chose to come with him.”

Bucky falls silent.

You don’t know why Bucky hadn’t explained this himself. That he didn’t force you into anything, or even kidnap you. Perhaps he still can’t believe that you said yes to him. Or he didn’t want to put those words into his mouth because they should be yours.

All eyes turn to you.

Sara’s brows lift slightly in surprise. Sam, who has been watching with a grin of pure entertainment, lets out a low whistle.

But it’s Bucky’s gaze you feel the most.

You sense the shift in him, the way his eyes find you with an intensity that has you clenching your fingers around the fabric of your gown.

“I wasn’t taken. Especially not by him,” you continue, gaze sweeping from Sam to Sara and back again. “I left of my own accord. It was my decision. And Bucky-” You glance at him for a brief moment, before setting your eyes forward again. “-he kept me safe.”

Sara exhales sharply, hands on her hips, lips pressing together in thought. She studies you, weighing your words against whatever she has imagined. You cannot make a lot of her expression, but there is respect in the way she looks at you.

Bucky doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze on you like a touch. Heavy and lingering.

Sara’s hand on her hips tighten. “That may be,” she allows, her voice slow. “But I find it hard to believe you were given many choices to begin with.”

“Sara,” Bucky warns. But his voice is thicker now.

Sam doesn’t relent on his toothy grin and Sara flicks him on the back of the head. “Alright, enough,” she says, then turns to you. “If you’re staying, we need to get you cleaned up and fed.” She eyes your dirt-streaked gown and your disordered hair, her concern slipping back in. “Gods, you must be exhausted.”

You stiffen.

Not at her words, but at the way something deep in your chest trembles in response.

Because, yes you are exhausted.

You have been for as long as you can remember. But never like this. Never in a way that feels earned.

This exhaustion is not the kind that comes from waiting - waiting for a decision to be made for you, waiting for a fate you have no hand in shaping.

It is the exhaustion of moving forward, step by step, of carving a path where there was none before.

It is real.

And for the first time, it does not feel like a burden.

You do not know how to say this. So you say nothing.

“Come inside. Eat something. Get some rest,” Sara offers gently.

Like she has already decided she will take care of you.

You have spent your entire life refusing. It is a habitat ingrained in the very marrow of your being. To be polite, but never imposing. To be gracious, but never in need.

But you are not in a palace now.

You are in a place where people say what they mean, where laughter is loud, where Bucky Barnes holds children to his chest and lets them believe he is something softer than the world has made him.

A place that is not yours, but could be.

You do not refuse.

Because you don’t want to.

Fingers graze the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch. A question.

And you answer without words, letting your fingers brush his.

Bucky’s shoulders loosen. His jaw unclenches.

You smile up at him. He smiles down at you.

Sam is gaping.

****

You inhale the food as if you have not eaten in days - because, in a way, you haven’t. Not like this. Not like something that tastes like home, like care, like hands that have kneaded and stirred and seasoned with the intent of nourishing, not just sustaining.

The wooden bowl in your hands is warm, the simple stew inside thick and hearty, brimming with root vegetables and tender meat that falls apart on your tongue.

The broth is rich, salted just enough to bring out the depth of the flavors, but not so much that it overpowers the natural earthiness of the ingredients.

At the palace, everything had been delicate. Well-considered. Gilded dishes prepared for their beauty before their taste. Sauces too intricate, wines too aged, plates of food so finely arranged that they resembled paintings rather than meals. Adorned with edible gold and the finest spices from across the kingdom. They had been created for show, for excess, for appearances.

But this is food meant to fill you.

The bread that Sara placed beside your bowl is dense and still warm from the hearth, the crust slightly cracked from the heat, the inside soft as a cloud. You tear a piece away and dip it into the broth, watching as it soaks up and turns heavy in your hand before bringing it to your lips.

The taste spreads warmth through your bones.

There is no grace to your eating, no careful sips or polite nibbles. You do not have to sit straight-backed in an uncomfortable chair, do not have to mind the placement of your hands or the pace of your bites.

You simply eat.

And for the first time in your life, food does not feel like an obligation. It feels like comfort.

You sit at a wooden table. The texture of the wood is uneven beneath your fingertips, worn and etched with knife marks, scratches, faint grooves from elbows propped against it.

This cabin is small, but it breathes.

The walls are made of sturdy logs, darkened from years of firelight and time. The stone hearth is still slightly glowing with embers from where Sara had cooked, projecting shimmering golden light against the walls.

A simple woven rug lays before it, slightly askew, as if someone has kicked it on their way past.

It is nothing like the palace.

The palace had been marble and silk, cold stone and uncomfortably ringing echoes from footsteps. Walls that expanded too high, chandeliers so grand they could never be touched, windows so polished you could see your reflection clearer than you could see yourself. Every corner a testament to wealth, to power, to the careful orchestration of control.

But this is lived in.

This is home, even if it is not yours. Yet.

And you love it.

You love the way the cabin smells of woodsmoke and earth, of herbs hanging to dry, of something baked earlier in the day.

You love the way the chair beneath you creaks slightly when you shift, the way the light is softer here, golden rather than cold.

You love the way your own body feels here.

Because here you are not wearing a gown that feels like a costume, corseted and pinned and stitched into a silhouette.

Here, you are still wild from the road, still warm from Bucky’s touch, still catching your breath from all the ways your life has changed.

Your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon in your grasp, the thought of Bucky bringing something else entirely to the warmth inside you.

He left moments ago.

Not without touching you.

You stood beside the table when he stepped close, when he tilted your chin up with the barest press of his knuckles, his other hand warm at your waist.

“Eat, sweetheart.” His voice has been soft, softer than his usual rasp. “Take your time.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

Not deeply, not claiming or desperate, just so incredibly tender, something that felt like a promise. A press of his lips that lingered, that tasted like all the words he did not say.

His fingers brushed against your jaw so delicately as he pulled back, his breath warm when he whispered. “I’ll talk to the others. You eat somethin’ and get some rest, yeah? I won’t be long.”

And then you were alone.

And what feels like for the first time in your life, no one is watching you.

There are no guards, no courtiers, no looming figures waiting to tell you what you must do next.

You are alone.

And it is wonderful.

A slow breath fills your lungs. You let it out slowly, feeling your shoulders loosen, your limbs grow heavier with something softer than exhaustion.

“You must be starving.”

The voice - deep, smooth, touched with humor - startles you so thoroughly that your spoon slips from your grasp, clinking against the rim of the bowl before settling with a soft plop into what’s left of the broth.

You snap your head up, heart lurching, body still half-wired for a fight that is no longer necessary.

A man stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, framed by the golden light of the setting sun behind him.

He is tall. Not just in height, but in presence. His shoulders are square, built with strength, but there is something calm in the way he carries himself. His blond hair is slightly tousled from the breeze outside and his blue eyes scan you.

His expression is unreadable at first, gaze sweeping over you, taking in the way you hover over your food like it might be taken from you, the way your hands twitch before stilling, the way you study him as though he might be another threat.

He lets out a short, remorseful breath but smiles at you then. Warm. Open. Easy.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting a hand as if to show he means no harm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. You take him in for a little while longer.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. “You must be Steve.”

His expression shifts. His brows lift just slightly, eyes glinting with something wry and knowing, but also a kind of surprise. As if it isn’t normal that Bucky talks of him to people who don’t know him already.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a beat longer, like he is trying to place something about you.

Then he drops his head a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips. He glances around the cabin like this is a place he knows, a place that has always been home to him.

“Had to see for myself,” he starts, stepping closer, “what kind of thing Bucky’s gotten himself into this time.”

There is no accusation in it. No sharpness. Just a lightness, an understanding - something that makes you feel like this is not the first time he’s had to check in on Bucky’s reckless decisions.

“It was my decision,” you retort before he can go any further. “He did not take me. He did not force me. I chose this.”

You expect surprise. Like the others.

But Steve just nods. As if it makes sense. As if he might already have known that.

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, before lowering himself into the seat across from you. The chair groans slightly under his weight, and for a moment he just studies you.

Not in the way people at the palace or castle did. Not with judgment, or scrutiny, or expectation.

Just curiosity.

“Bucky’s done some rash things before,” he then muses. “I had to make sure you aren’t one of them.”

It is said without malice. Just a simple, honest statement.

He doesn’t dance around it. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t concerned. And strangely, that puts you more at ease.

You exhale, your fingers brushing the rim of your bowl.

“I appreciate the concern,” you say carefully. “But I meant it. This is my choice.”

Steve smiles.

Not a small smile. Not an uncertain or fake one. It is true.

“Then I guess that’s all I needed to hear.” He shifts, pushing his hands against the arms of the chair, preparing to stand. “I should let you rest.” He says it with a kind of old-fashioned politeness that reminds you of a man who has spent his whole life minding his manners. “Didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time, your Highness.”

But before he can rise, something in your stirs - curiosity, but something else, too.

“Wait.”

Steve pauses and raises a brow as he looks at you. But he eases back into his seat. Blue eyes flicker with interest.

“What did you mean?” you ask quietly.

Steve tilts his head. “About what?”

You hesitate, but the question is already lodged in your chest, needing release. “You said Bucky has done a few rash things before. What kind of things?”

A short laugh shakes the chest of the blond man. He leans back slightly, shaking his head and resting one ankle over his opposite knee. He crosses his arms over his chest and regards you with a look that is both amused and considering.

“You really wanna know?”

You nod.

His lips quirk and he lets out a slow breath, rolling his jaw, weighing whether he should actually tell you anything. He contemplates for a moment.

“Alright,” he relents. “I suppose I can tell you something.” He leans forward slightly, forearms braced against the edge of the table. His eyes glint with something that seems nostalgic, fond, but at the same time exasperated.

Then, he chuckles, obviously thinking of something. “Let me tell you about the time he stole a nobleman’s prized warhorse because some poor stable boy was about to be flogged over it.”

You blink, eyebrows shooting up, not even noticing that you are leaning in yourself. Watching him intently as he speaks.

“We had been passing through a town. Saw a stable hand, just a boy, barely a teenager being dragged out into the square because the noble, some smug son of a bitch-” he winces. “Pardon my language, your Highness.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head.

“The noble he worked for claimed the kid had let his prized horse go missing,” Steve continues. “That boy was about to be publicly whipped.”

You frown, heart seizing.

“Buck broke into the nobleman’s stables,” he says with a disbelieving laugh, “stole the very horse they were fighting about, and rode it right through the center of town, causing a distraction long enough for the kid to escape.”

Your lips part.

Steve watches your reaction with a grin.

You don’t think you have ever been this invested in a story as of now.

“Of course, half the town guard ended up chasin’ him for miles,” he continues, amused smile on his face. “His plan, mind you, was to just return the damn horse the next day, all casual like nothing happened. Didn’t wanna keep it, he told me. Just wanted to prove a point.”

Steve’s gaze softens as he watches you take it in.

He leans back again then, palms planted on the table. “Well, the horse did send him flying straight into a pile of mud. So maybe that’s the true reason he wanted it gone.”

A laugh bursts from your lips.

Steve’s eyes are glinting. “Left him sitting there, covered in filth, swearing up and down that it wasn’t his fault.”

You press a hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Steve seems even a little proud. Satisfied, with the way you are laughing so carefree. He lets a few beats pass.

Your ribs ache pleasantly.

It is rare, this kind of lightness, this kind of ease.

It is especially rare that you let yourself feel it. Let yourself sink into it. Relish it.

Suddenly, a shift in the air tugs at your awareness, a pull, like something in the room has changed shape without a sound.

Slowly, you turn your head toward the doorway.

And there he is.

Bucky leans against the frame, one shoulder pressed casually against the wood, arms crossed over his chest.

Candlelight catches on the lines of his face, casting a glow over the edges of his cheekbones.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t made a move to interrupt. He is just watching.

Watching you with something in his eyes that makes the giggles in your throat falter - not because they fades, but because they become something different.

He looks at you like he is seeing something he didn’t know he needed to witness.

Like he is listening to the sound of your joy and tucking it away somewhere safe.

It is in his eyes. This softness, something golden that flickers like a flame caught in the cradle of his chest.

His mouth is curved at the edges, not a smirk, not quite a grin. Just something fond, something private.

Your heartbeat slows into something deeper, warmer. A flush creeps up your neck that has nothing to do with laughter.

He has been standing there, silent and content, just watching you laugh so brightly with his best friend in a place he calls home.

“Bucky.” His name slips from your lips as you shift in your seat. “How long have you been standing there?”

Something shines in his gaze, something unreadable but vast. The space between you seems to hold more than just air.

His lips press together, holding back a chuckle. Pushing off the frame, he ambles toward you. “Long enough to wonder what kinda shit Steve’s tellin’ you ‘bout me.”

You try to suppress a smile, glancing over to the blond man, who only smirks, clearly enjoying this.

“He told me about you falling off a horse.”

Bucky lets out a groan, but his smile never wavers. He steps over to you unhurried, like he is savoring the moment, having all the time in the world.

He drags a hand down his face as he stops beside you, but the exasperation in his sigh is a lie - his smile still does not fully vanish.

His fingers find your shoulder as if drawn there naturally. His touch is light, absentminded. He rubs slow circles with his thumb before trailing down to your arm, his palm coming to rest warmly at the bend of your elbow. It sends something skittering down your spine.

Leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, the look on Steve’s face turns downright knowing.

Tilting his head, Bucky shoots the blond a look that lands somewhere between betrayed and amused.

“Really, punk?” he groans. “Coulda told her anythin’.”

Steve shrugs, unbothered and smirking. “She should know what she’s gotten herself into.”

Bucky scoffs.

Steve then pushes up from his seat, muscles in his arm bulging under his shirt. “I should leave you two to it,” he says but his gaze lingers on Bucky, before briefly switching between you two. His gaze is warm with something satisfied, something knowing, something relieved.

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here, Rogers.”

Steve smirks and turns toward the door, clapping a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder in passing. Before he steps out, he throws another look over his shoulder at you.

“It was good meeting you, your Highness,” he says, and though there is respect in his tone, there is something else. Something approving.

You nod, smiling warmly. “And you, sir.”

Steve chuckles. Bucky sighs.

Then he is gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Bucky doesn’t say a word at first.

He only guides you up from your chair, touch warm at your arms, just enough to maneuver himself into the seat. He doesn’t sit a second before pulling you onto his lap with a kind of possessiveness that feels more like safety than restraint.

A hitch disrupts your breathing.

You sit sideways, his arms winding around your waist, drawing you close, settling you comfortably against him.

The moment feels intimate. It’s as if time and space have thickened since Steve left. It’s slower and it sinks into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs, something deeper pressing in. It feels delicate and releases a pleasant tingle along your skin.

Bucky looks at you.

His eyes are softer now, the smirk something half-forgotten in the face of whatever this moment is becoming. So focused, so without teasing. His gaze moves over your face, slow and searching, reading the shape of your expression, as if he is trying to pin down whatever thought lingers in your eyes before you can speak it aloud.

There is almost something like wonder in his eyes as if he is still not used to this - to have you here, in his arms, so close that the space between your breaths barely exists anymore.

You swallow, fingers twitching where they rest against his shoulders.

You feel him in your pulse, in the warmth of your spine where his arms brace you.

Softly, as if not to disturb the air too much, you speak up.

“I like him.”

Bucky’s smirk twitches wider, but it is gentler now. Not sharp. Not cocky. Just fond.

His nose skims along your temple, featherlight, and he exhales warmly against your skin.

He hums, low and gruff but amused like he already knew it before you said it.

He inhales, slow and deep, as if breathing you in, as if you are something he can’t quite get enough of.

“Knew you would.”

And then, so gently, his lips meet your cheek in a kiss. Soft and lingering, and you close your eyes for just a second, letting yourself fall into it. Letting yourself feel him.

You lean into him, the weight of your body pressing more fully into his, and it feels like home.

He hums against you again, pleased, the vibration making you shiver. He feels it.

His voice is lower when he speaks again, his breath warming your skin as he smooths his words there, slow and teasing but full of something truer beneath the surface.

“Still gonna have a word with him, though. Can’t have him fillin’ your head with stories ‘bout me I ain’t got a chance to defend myself against.” Something about the way he says it feels important.

You lift your head, enough to meet his eyes, your fingers tracing absently along the line of his collar, your touch light, thoughtful. The depth in his blues nearly makes you forget what you were about to say.

“I like knowing more,” you basically whisper, only for him.

Bucky’s smirk fades into something quieter, something that makes your stomach churn in a slow and uncomprehending way.

His hands tighten where they test on you, fingers tenderly digging into your waist.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He is reading you, something in your face that you don’t even know you are giving away.

And Bucky kisses you.

Slow and meaningful.

Like he knows there is no need to rush, that he has all the time in the world. Certain of the fact that he’ll get to do this again. Again and again and again, as often as he wants, as often as you’ll let him.

And you will.

His lips move against yours, coaxing, claiming - but it doesn’t feel claimed. It feels given. Offered. Cherished.

He is taking his time learning you, savoring you, not because he is afraid this might be the last time, but because he knows it won’t be.

He kisses you with a softness that contradicts the strength in his hands, the way they hold you - sure, definite, fingers curling just enough to tell you he’s here, but not so tight that you ever feel caged.

His fingers slide against the fabric of your clothes, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Where you want to be. One of his thumbs brushes slow strokes at your ribs as if he can’t help but touch, as if he needs to keep that connection even as he has his mouth firmly planted on yours.

His tongue sweeps against yours, the heat of it making your stomach tighten, something deep inside you ignite and spread low in your belly.

And then, softly, from deep in his chest, he lets out a groan - so content, so relaxed. Right against your lips, against your skin, shuddering through you like the quietest kind of need. It’s him sinking into this moment just as much as you are. You feel it vibrate through him, through you, pooling somewhere deep and warm and thrilling.

By the time he pulls back, you are lightheaded.

He doesn’t go far. Doesn’t let you go. His forehead meets yours, and it feels like a moment held in stillness. His breath is warm. His lips are swollen.

“You eat enough?” His voice is husky.

You nod. Or maybe you think you do. You’re still dazed, still floating somewhere between his kiss, his scent, and his voice.

“You drink something?” he murmurs next, the concern filling up his tone so seamlessly. His fingers tighten slightly and then start to trace shapes along your back.

Another nod.

His lips curl, just slightly, like he is amused by how wrecked you already look from a single kiss.

“You wanna get some rest?”

He says it so sweetly, so soft and careful, already preparing to gather you into his arms and lay you down himself if you so much as waver.

You blink at him, at the softness in his voice, the way he is still so close, his lips just a breath away.

“Not just yet,” you whisper.

His lips curve fully this time, his breath escaping in a breathy chuckle, warm with affection. Dipping down again, he presses another kiss to your temple. Then, another just behind your ear. And one against your jaw. Unhurried.

You almost forget the question forming on your tongue, almost forget the reason you wanted to ask in the first place.

“What did the others say?” you ask quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, thumbs remaining to glide idle patterns over you.

He tilts his head, considering his words. “They had questions,” he answers, tone light, but there is something thoughtful in it. “They just wanna understand.”

His eyes are intense, gauging your reaction.

“They wanna meet you,” he goes on.

You exhale a breath, but it doesn’t seem enough to push some of your lingering nerves from your chest. You swallow hard, and he catches it. He sees the way you shift slightly in his lap, the way your hands tighten where they rest lightly against his chest.

“But I told ‘em they’re gonna have to wait,” he adds, his tone firm now like the matter’s already been settled. “They know what they need to know and you’ll talk to them when you’re ready.” His gaze holds steady. Unblinking and piercing. “Not while you’re still catchin’ your breath.”

A part of you wants to say that you’re fine.

To brush it off, to tell him you can handle a conversation right now, that you’ve been handling things your whole life.

But you don’t say it. Because it’s a lie. And Bucky would know.

You are tired. Your mind is still catching up with the reality of where you are and what you left behind and the unknown of what is ahead. And it is so much, so much more than you ever thought you’d allow yourself to have.

Bucky shifts, leaning in and smoothing his palm down your back in grounding strokes.

“We’ll figure everything out,” he assures you, voice sure, but gentle.

Your pulse picks up.

It’s not a grand declaration. Not a sweeping promise of a happy and prosperous future. But it comes from him. And he is genuine. Solid.

There seems to be no doubt in his mind that this is right for you.

He believes in this.

In you.

And then, he pulls you closer. His breath fans warm against your skin, you feel his chest move as he speaks his next words.

“You’re safe here, darlin’,” he whispers. A hand reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I promise.”

You believe him.

Maybe because of the way he says it so earnestly, unshakable, determined.

Maybe because of the way he holds you as if you mean more to him than anything else ever did.

Maybe because of the way his strong heartbeat beneath your palm is so reassuring, so passionate.

Maybe it’s just him.

After all, it has been him since the first moment your eyes found him. A man standing rigid and intimidating, his silhouette cut from the very shadows that enveloped him.

His gaze alone sent a tremor through you, those many weeks ago, in the tunnels of the palace, as if he already decided your worth before a word had even passed between you.

The hatred in his eyes had been undeniable, a roaring fire fed by years of betrayal and injustice, all hidden behind a mask of indifference.

But something else had lurked there. Something wounded, something searching, something that you would come to understand.

It has been him when you found out where his hatred was rooted.

Born from the sins of your father, in the broken promises of a ruler who swore loyalty to his men only to cast them aside when their usefulness was deemed expired.

A soldier betrayed, a man left with nothing but scars and grief and the knowledge that his devotion had been answered with silence.

Bucky Barnes has fought for your kingdom. Has bled for it. Has faced death for it. Has believed in it.

And in return, he has been given exile, stripped of his honor, and robbed of the people who mattered most - his mother and sister used as a leash to keep him compliant.

Your mother ensured their safety and sent them far away, but he still has to live with their absences, the uncertainty of how they are doing, and where they reside.

The anger that has festered in him was not misplaced. It was justified. You know that now.

And you know that if there is anyone who should reunite them with him, it is you. The idea has taken root inside of you, latching onto your ribs like vines, growing stronger with each passing day.

If your mother had the power to save Bucky’s family from your father's hands, then surely you can find the strength to bring them back. You don’t know where she sent them, where she thought they would be safest, but there has to be a way.

A letter, a name, a whisper of a clue waiting in the dark. You will find it. You will search every inch of this world if you must.

Because it is not just about justice. It is not just about redemption. It is about him.

The man who has been forced to protect a princess born from the same bloodline of a man who has stolen something irreparable from him. The man who once looked at you like you were the sum of every lie he has been told, the man who now watches you with something softer, something hopeful. The man who has kissed you like a promise, who has held you like you are something precious, something he wants to keep. The man who has chosen you when he has every reason not to.

Bucky Barnes deserves to see his family again. He deserves to know they are safe, that they live, that they are not lost to time and cruelty. And you will be the one to give that to him.

You are certain of that.

“Bucky.”

It’s barely a word, spoken so softly, but Bucky hears it.

His brow furrows ever so slightly at your tone, concern rushing through his eyes for a second, regarding you with attentiveness.

His hands continue their exploration, fingers smoothing over your waist, mapping your form.

“What is it, darlin’?” he asks patiently, nodding for you to go on.

You swallow, heart twisting as you gather your thoughts.

“I need to say this,” you start, but his brow only furrows deeper. His hands stop on your hips, waiting for you to continue. “I cannot express how sorry I am for what my father did to you.”

The blue of his eyes darkens. He parts his lips, ready to dismiss it, ready to push it aside like he has done with so many wounds inflicted upon him.

But you press on.

“I know I’m not him,” you continue, meeting his eyes. Voice a little frail, but remaining resolved. “And I know I cannot undo what he did - cannot rewrite the past or erase the pain he caused. But I hate that it happened. I hate that I was ignorant for so long, that I did not ask more questions when I should have.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, muscles ticking beneath his skin and his gaze lowers.

His expression is unreadable at first, carefully guarded. Like a man who has spent a lifetime learning how to keep his pain behind locked doors. But you don’t want him to do that with you. Not anymore.

The fingers on his chest start to trace a careful path over his left shoulder. Even through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the uneven texture of marred flesh, a reminder of the pain he had endured, a reminder of something he can’t escape. Your heart bleeds for him.

Bucky’s breath catches, shoulders tensing up slightly, but he doesn’t stop you. Just watches you, searching for something he won’t ever find. Disgust. Fear.

He exhales after a beat, something deep and profound, before reaching up to take your hand gently in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles and he takes your hand off his shoulder to bring it to his lips, kissing your skin there tenderly.

His eyes find yours again, something shimmering in their depths. Something breaking and rebuilding all at once.

“You don’t owe me an apology, sweetheart,” he quietly says, his voice a thick rumble. “Not for him. Not for what you didn’t know.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry, Buck.”

Bucky stiffens. Just slightly.

His fingers twitch where they hold onto yours and when you take a better look at him, you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck, settling at the tips of his ears.

He blinks, then glances away for the briefest moment, trying to compose himself.

You bite back a smile.

He exhales a breath that is almost a laugh, but there is something softer underneath it. He turns your hand over in his and presses another kiss to the center of the back of your hand. You bite your lip.

“Buck?” he rasps out, clearing his throat. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Steve said it earlier. I liked it,” you declare, grinning softly.

There is a tug at the corner of his mouth, but the color on his face hasn’t entirely faded. If anything, it deepens when he meets your gaze again, something affectionate flashing in his stormy blue eyes, the simple act of you calling him that seems to have rattled him more than he might have expected.

“Yeah?” He lets out another breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe you, as if you managed to unearth something in him he long had buried deep. A kiss meets your nose.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

It is a strange thing, this feeling inside of you.

Strange because it is so unfamiliar, but even more so because it does not frighten you. It is something so new, so boundless, and you feel like it should be more overwhelming than it is right now, should make you hesitate.

But it doesn’t. Not in this moment at least.

Rather, it embeds itself within your bones, your skin, and the spaces between your ribs, establishing a residence there as if it was destined to be.

It is not the fleeting kind of lightness that comes with bringing a forced discussion with some Lord to an end or the temporary relief of fulfilling an obligation.

This lightness is deeper, so warm and weighty, like the glow of the first morning sun spilling through trees and making the earth all shiny. It fills you up, but it does not press down on you. It lifts you. Like a breeze curling under the wings of a bird in flight.

The tight pull of breath always caught too high in your chest is getting released. You feel like you exist without effort, at least right now. No knots in your stomach waiting to tighten. Nothing to brace yourself against here in Bucky’s arms, here in Bucky’s lap. You are simply being hold, by this incredible man and the earth and you are finally light enough to notice.

You think, perhaps, that this is what contentment is supposed to feel like. Not the shallow kind you have convinced yourself you’ve had before, but real and true contentment. It is not desperate or fleeting. It is secure and whole. It lingers in spaces where doubt once lived, replacing it with something softer, something stronger.

And you want to get used to it.

Not just the feeling of Bucky’s warmth against you, his hands on your waist, his breath ghosting over your skin as he watches you with eyes that see more of you than anything ever has.

It is what comes with it - the stillness inside you, the feeling that, for the first time, you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

You never want to stop feeling like this.

There is no fear in that thought, no apprehension, no indecision. Only the truth as sure as the beat of your own heart. A truth that you do not need to run from. A truth you want to hold onto.

You have always felt so helpless, a pawn in a game played by men who viewed you as little more than a bargaining piece.

You had believed for so long, that your fate was sealed - to be given away to some lord, some stranger who would claim you as his possession, who would shape your life to fit his desires.

You never thought you had a choice.

But now, especially here with Bucky, freedom no longer feels like a foolish dream.

But you are not dreaming anymore.

You are no longer walking through marble halls and seeing a ghost in your reflection in the polished floors, your presence announced before you even entered a room.

You had been told your life that power is your birthright. That it is simply something you have because of your blood.

But you have never felt less powerful than when you sat on a throne, looking down at a world you were meant to govern someday but have never touched. Never walked through. Never lived in. A kingdom only yours by name but not by heart.

But here - in this place, this home that is not gilded but real - you feel power for the first time.

Not the kind that demands respect through titles and gold-threaded sashes. Not the kind that is wielded from a seat high above. Not the ornamental power of a princess, where everything was dictated to you, where your hands were kept clean while others did the work.

But the kind that is earned.

The kind that festers in your hands as you work alongside others, as you listen, as you see. The kind of power that does not isolate you, but makes you into something greater than yourself.

You are no longer watching the people you are supposed to rule from afar. You are among them. You are one of them. And that means you can help in ways you never could before.

Not by signing decrees in a gilded chamber, but by standing beside them, hearing their worries not through secondhand whispers but through their own voices, spoken under the same sky, breathed into the same air.

There is nothing grand about this worn-down cabin, its wooden beams creaking faintly due to the wind outside. But here are the walls close enough to feel like an embrace. The fire burns because someone built it, not because a low-respected servant lit it for them. The food is made with hands that know hunger, not by unseen kitchen staff preparing feasts for people who will never truly taste them.

For so long, your life has been a thing of ceremony, of distance.

You smiled in silence at elaborate gatherings while outside the palace gates, there were people who had nothing. You had been dressed in fabrics woven by hands you never saw, had eaten from plates polished by people who were invisible to you.

You were a symbol. A statue.

Here, you are a person.

You are listening. Learning. Understanding. With the will to help.

And you owe them.

You owe Bucky, who risked everything, who once had nothing by the hand of your own father, who still gave.

You owe Sara, who looked at you with concern instead of resentment.

You owe Sam, who teased and laughed when he had every reason to scorn you.

You owe Steve, who came looking for you to make sure you are here because you want to be.

You owe all of Bucky’s friends, who are willing to take you in.

You owe AJ and Cass and all the other children, who are young but already know the world better than you did when you were their age.

You owe the townsfolk, who live with a laugh in their breaths and callouses on their hands, who bake bread and spin needles and sell belongings to earn their living.

You have spent your life wearing a crown, but now you are learning what it means to deserve one.

It took ruin for you to find your purpose.

It took fire to finally wake you up, to finally make you see.

It took the scent of smoke in your lungs, the acrid sting of burning silk, the sight of your world collapsing in embers and ruin to strip you down to something exposed and wholehearted.

It took the echoes of screams, the witness of death, and the brutality of your so-called power stolen by force to finally open your eyes.

It took blood running in the luxurious corridors of your palace, seeping into the cracks of the very foundation that held up your name.

It took watching torches burning high in the night.

It took the fall of a kingdom - the death of a king whose sins caught up to him, a queen who had tried to shield her daughter from the truth but could not protect her from the consequences.

You had never fought for anything before. You had been raised to believe you wouldn’t have to, that battles were waged in war rooms with ink and parchment, that change was something slow and distant and impersonal.

But it never was. It never was supposed to be.

It was blood on marble floors. It was your parent's life’s taken in the dark. It was hands grabbing you, dragging you away from the only life you had ever known. It was hatred in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you, sharpness in the way he treated you, old wounds bleeding into every moment, every breath between you.

Bucky Barnes had not wanted you. Had not wanted this burden, this reminder of the very throne that had once crushed him beneath his weight.

He had looked at you with cold indifference and that simmering loathing buried behind those storm-dark eyes, seeing nothing but the ghost of a man who stole his life.

But fate thrust you into his hands anyway.

It forced you into the shadows of his world, into the villages and the backroads, into the lives of the very people you had spent your whole life standing apart from. it stripped you of titles, luxury, of safety. Of all the things you took for granted.

You had spent your life being something beautiful, something untouchable. But beauty did not save you. Elegance did not keep you from falling. Manners did not stop the fire from devouring your home.

You had burned that night.

Not just your home. You. The girl who has never asked questions. The princess who has accepted the world as it was given to her. The daughter who has not known the sins of her father.

She has burned away, turned to ash with the palace that has stood for centuries.

Now, you are something else.

You are rage tempered into steel.

You are grief sharpened into resolve.

You are ashes turned into kindling, waiting to catch fire.

And you will rise.

Not as a queen draped in gold and jewels, sitting high on a throne of empty power. But as something stronger. As the force that destroys the old world and builds a new one from its remains.

Something built from the bones of the past, something shaped by loss and truth and the unrelenting fury of a fire that refuses to die.

You will wield it.

You will not let the past define you. You will not let their sins be yours. You will fight. For freedom. For justice.

For the people who took you in when they had every reason to turn you away.

For the mercenary who should have hated you forever but now watches you like you are something worth believing in.

You will be born anew from the ashes of what once was.

You will not let the flames consume you this time.

You will not be caged.

You will set the world alight.

You will rise.

Like a phoenix.

“She survived the war; many times over. And she still somehow looked like royalty.”

- Lalah Delia

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[anonymityisfunwriter]

hear me out... sunshine meets deadpool 😭

deadpool and sunshine? i mean... YES OF COURSE!!

We shall dub them... SunPool? DeadShine? I'll let you guys decide. Thanks for the ask! 💛

Finder's Keepers

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist | Grumpy Sunshine Series Masterlist Pairing - Grumpy!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Reader

“What in the fuck knuckles is this?” Sam hears a voice echo through the halls of the Avengers Compound.

“This is the Avengers Compound,” you exclaim.

“You guys get a Compound, the X-Men get a fucking school, and what do I get?”

“An incredible sense of humor?”

Sam’s pace quickens as he hears your voice slowly getting further and further away. He rounds the corner, stopping before you and the red suited mercenary. “Who the hell is this?”

“Sam, this is Wade. Wade, this is Sam.”

Sam rests his hands on his hips, “What did I tell you about bringing home strays?”

You shrug, “He’s not a stray, technically.”

“She’s right, you know. You may have this Compound, but I have a blind roommate with a massive coke problem.”

Sam immediately shakes his head, trying to usher Deadpool out, “Okay, no, he cannot be here!”

“But Sam… he needed help.”

Sam juts his thumb at Deadpool, “If Bucky finds this guy here, he’s gonna kill him.”

“Bucky? Bucky Barnes? Oh, I’m a big fan of that guy. You know the whole metal arm, raining bullets down, ugh,” Wade dramatically shudders. “Yup, I think I’m in love with him.”

You snap your head in his direction, “Hey!”

Wade shrugs, “Too late I called dibs. Finder's keepers, it's the law.”

“Are you gonna tell me exactly how you’re helping him?”

“Why? Are you gonna help us?” Wade asks, plucking Sam’s goggles from his waistband. “You know, I think these could really add to my look.”

“I’m not helping you,” Sam snatches back his goggles. “I’m helping her.”

“Well, we just need to get him into the armory.”

“You want to give this random stranger access to the Avengers’ armory?”

“Well, we can watch him. It’s fine, Sam. He’s trying to be one of the good guys.”

“Trying to be? What does that even mean?”

Sam’s question goes unanswered as you stand before the reinforce armory doors. You rest your hand against the keypad. From above, FRIDAY chimes, “Voice activation required.”

“Pinkie Pie,” you call into the voice pad.

“Access granted,” FRIDAY calls.

“Pinkie Pie?” Wade scoffs. “You’re telling me this author couldn’t come up with anything better than a line I used three movies ago?”

“What is he talking about?” you whisper to Sam.

Sam shrugs, a concerned, borderline disturbed look on his face, “I have no idea.”

“Hey, Wade?” You gently rest your hand on Deadpool’s shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

He continues glaring off into the distance, “The fourth wall.”

“Sure, Wade, come on, let’s sit you down.”

“You know, you’re kinda sweet.” Wade gently boops your nose. “I think I might keep you. Finder's keepers.”

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Grumpy Sunshine Series

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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[the-winter-spider]

Waiting Room | 2/3

Bucky x reader (as always )

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Angst i guess sorta

A/N: So this is the next part to waiting room that was suppose to be just a One Shot but in easily convinced lol and I didn't really have a direction for the story to go in and this is where I landed, so hope you enjoy. There will be maybe another part or two so I can wrap it up. 

The night was cool as you walked away from the compound, the silence almost soothing despite the ache in your chest. You hadn’t made any plans, hadn’t packed anything more than a single bag. You just knew you couldn’t stay in that place anymore—not with the memories pressing in around you, with the sense that every hallway, every room, was echoing with what used to be between you and Bucky.

The city lights were ahead of you, casting faint glows against the dark sky, and for the first time, you felt completely unmoored. Your thoughts tangled in every step you took, as if each pace was a step away from the life you had built with the Avengers, and more painfully, from Bucky.

Hours passed as you wandered the city, barely aware of where you were going. You ended up at a small motel on the edge of town, paying cash for a room that barely had any light, just a bed with thin sheets and an old TV on a dresser. The emptiness of the room felt like it mirrored the hollow ache in your chest.

You set your bag down on the bed, letting out a sigh as you sank onto the edge, staring at the wall as thoughts of Bucky washed over you in waves. Images of him smiling, his quiet laughter, the way he’d hold your hand when no one else was around—all of it clung to you, heavy and unrelenting.

Pulling out your phone, you scrolled through your contacts to his name, thumb hovering over it. You knew he wasn’t waiting for your call; he’d made that clear. But part of you, the part that still remembered what it felt like to be wrapped in his arms, wanted him to pick up, to tell you this was all just a mistake.

Instead, you tossed the phone aside, burying your face in your hands as tears began to fall. You wanted to scream, to do anything that would make this feeling go away. The anger, the heartbreak, the deep sense of loss—the betrayal it all felt like it was crushing you.

The next morning, you took a breath and tried to piece together a plan. If Bucky wanted nothing to do with you, if the team was moving on without you, maybe it was time for you to do the same. You didn’t know how, but you’d figure it out. And maybe, someday, the memories would hurt a little less.

Days turned into weeks, and you managed to stay under the radar. You took on a few odd jobs here and there, avoiding anywhere that felt remotely familiar. You kept your phone turned off most days, keeping a low profile as you tried to settle into a new rhythm.

But at night, alone in that tiny motel room, everything came flooding back. The emptiness, the loss of the life you’d left behind, and the hollow ache that reminded you of the man you’d once thought would be by your side forever. You didn’t wanna feel anything at all anymore.

The motel was your base for now, a temporary haven between jobs. You knew eventually you would have to move but for now the dull hum of a broken fluorescent light above the bed was your only company most nights. You’d buried your old life, the Avengers, and everything you once fought for. Your existence was pared down to survival and the cold efficiency of violence.

You used old contacts from your past—people you’d hoped never to need again. Mercenaries, informants, shadowy figures from the underworld who didn’t ask questions as long as you delivered. And you did. Each contract was a blur, each mission a mechanical task you completed without hesitation or remorse. Slowly you were becoming less of who you were and more of what you were supposed to be before him.

Your skills made you valuable. Assassinations, high-stakes retrievals, contract killings—you took them all. It was work, and it kept you moving. You didn’t feel anything anymore, not the fear, not the guilt, not even the satisfaction of a clean job. You became a ghost, slipping in and out of places, leaving behind a trail of red.

Every kill was precise, methodical. You didn’t stop to consider who your targets were or what they’d done. The moral compass you once clung to was shattered, left in pieces back at the compound. You moved like a machine, your thoughts dulled by the monotony of violence. The whispers of self-destruction were your only companion now.

Weeks blurred into months, the days bleeding into each other. You didn’t follow the news, didn’t check your phone, didn’t want to know what was happening in the world you’d left behind. You didn’t see the press conference Tony had to hold, standing stoic as reporters peppered him with questions about your sudden disappearance.

“Agent Y/N has taken a leave of absence,” he’d said, his voice cool, calculated. “For personal reasons.”

That was all he gave them. No details, no promises of your return. When the questions turned toward your mental health, your stability, Tony’s jaw tightened, and he ended the briefing. Behind closed doors, the team was scrambling, doing everything they could to track you down. But you were a ghost, and ghosts didn’t want to be found.

In the quiet moments between jobs, you sat in the shadows of your rented room, staring at the ceiling. The weight of your kills didn’t register anymore; it was just a tally in your head, numbers climbing higher each week. You didn’t care who you were working for, as long as they paid and kept you busy. The emptiness was consuming, but you welcomed it. It was better than the pain.

You stopped dreaming. Stopped thinking about him, about any of them. The warmth of Bucky’s touch, the safety of his arms around you—it was a memory you refused to let surface. You buried it deep, alongside every other part of yourself that once cared, once felt.

When you weren’t working, you spent your time in dingy bars or cheap motels, drowning in silence. The weight of your solitude was your only companion. You avoided mirrors, avoided looking at the hollow shell you’d become. It didn’t matter anymore. You didn’t matter anymore.

Back at the compound, things weren’t much better. The team was holding together by a thread, every day marked by your absence. They didn’t talk about it openly, but everyone felt the weight of the void you’d left behind. Tony buried himself in his work, throwing up defensive sarcasm whenever your name was mentioned. Steve was more reserved, quiet, his concern etched into every line of his face, his thoughts a constant whirl of guilt, of what if, he was your leader, your friend, your family he should have done better. Natasha, Clint and Sam worked tirelessly to trace your steps, but you were always one step ahead, your trail going cold each time they got close.

Bucky, though—Bucky was a different story. He was unraveling. The stoic front he tried to maintain crumbled more each day. He’d catch glimpses of your room, still left untouched, and it felt like a dagger in his chest. Every lead that turned up empty, every mission he went on without you, only deepened the chasm of guilt and regret.

He didn’t show it around the others, but late at night, when the compound was quiet, he’d sit in the dark, gripping his dog tags as though they could anchor him. He replayed every moment, every word he’d said to you, the pain in your eyes when he told you it was “for the better.” He’d thought he was protecting you, sparing you from a life tethered to his darkness. But all he’d done was push you into your own.

Meanwhile, you continued to slip further into the shadows, your humanity fading with each passing day. The girl who once fought alongside Earth’s mightiest heroes was gone. Now, you were just a weapon, a tool for hire, drowning in blood and regret.

And you didn’t care if you ever came back.

The common room was silent, the atmosphere suffocating. The team sat around the dining table, their plates mostly untouched. It hadn’t been the same since you left—no, since you vanished almost a year ago. Conversations were hollow, laughter a distant memory. Every mission, every meeting, carried the weight of your absence.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, his eyes fixed on his plate, though he hadn’t touched his food. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the clink of utensils against ceramic as Sam and Natasha picked at their meals. Steve was deep in thought, brows furrowed, while Tony sipped at a cold cup of coffee, his usual bravado long since dulled.

Suddenly, Tony’s tech pad beeped, pulling him from his thoughts. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing as he read the data. Without a word, he stood abruptly and made his way to the common room, his pace quick and determined.

“Guys,” he said, voice sharp as he entered, the pad clutched tightly in his hand. The urgency in his tone snapped everyone to attention. “I think we’ve got something.”

The team immediately straightened, all eyes on him. Bucky’s heart lurched in his chest, a flicker of hope and dread surging through him.

“What is it?” Steve asked, his voice steady but tense.

Tony didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tapped on the pad, and a hologram appeared above the table—a blurry snapshot of surveillance footage. The image was grainy, taken in some dimly lit warehouse, but there was no mistaking the figure in the frame.

It was you.

Your hair was shorter, your face leaner and paler than they remembered. Blood spattered your cheeks and clothes, your eyes sharp and cold. You looked like a ghost, hollowed out and deadly, a shadow of the person they once knew.

The room went deadly quiet, the weight of the image sinking in. Natasha leaned forward, her jaw tightening. Sam cursed under his breath, while Steve’s grip on the edge of the table tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“Is there video footage?” Steve asked, his voice low, barely concealing the mix of hope and fear in his tone.

Tony nodded grimly. “FRIDAY, play the video.”

The hologram shifted, and the grainy footage began to play. The scene unfolded in a dingy, run-down warehouse, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Armed men moved through the space, clearly preparing for some sort of deal. But then you appeared, stepping out of the shadows like a wraith.

You were fast, efficient, and terrifyingly calm. Without hesitation, you took out each man with precision—gunshots, blades, hand-to-hand combat. It didn’t matter how many came at you; they all fell. The blood spattered across your face only made your pale skin look more ghostly, more detached from humanity.

What shook them most wasn’t the violence—it was you. Your expression never wavered, your eyes cold and emotionless. It was as if you were on autopilot, a machine programmed to kill. Even when a bullet whizzed past your face, barely missing you and sending a strand of hair flying, you didn’t flinch. You simply moved on to the next target, cutting through them like they were nothing.

Bucky’s stomach churned as he watched. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his breathing shallow. He could barely process what he was seeing. This wasn’t you. This wasn’t the person he’d loved, the person he’d pushed away to protect. This was someone else entirely—a hollow shell, deadly and unrecognizable.

When the video ended, the silence in the room was deafening. Tony rubbed a hand over his face, his usual sarcasm replaced with grim resolve. “That’s the most recent hit we’ve got. It’s from a week ago.”

Steve was the first to speak, his voice strained. “She’s not just surviving out there. She’s… she’s lost herself.”

Natasha crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “She’s always been a fighter, but this? She’s not fighting for anything anymore. She’s just… existing.”

Sam shook his head, his voice low. “She didn’t even blink when that bullet came at her. It’s like she doesn’t care if she lives or dies.”

Bucky pushed himself back from the table, standing abruptly. “We need to find her, I got to find her” he said, his voice rough, barely containing the storm of emotions threatening to spill over. “Now.”

Steve nodded, his resolve hardening. “Agreed. We’ve waited long enough.”

Tony tapped on his pad, pulling up a map. “I’ve got the warehouse location. It’s a start, but if she’s smart—and we all know she is—she’s already moved on.”

Natasha stood, her eyes locked on the map. “Then we track her. We use everything we’ve got.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with thoughts of you. The footage replayed in his head, the cold, detached look in your eyes, the way you moved without hesitation or fear. He knew he’d pushed you away to protect you, but now… now it felt like he’d only sent you spiraling further into darkness.

And he wasn’t sure if he could bring you back. But he’d die trying.

The hologram of the warehouse lingered in the air, casting a dull blue glow that accentuated the tension in the room. Tony continued scrolling through surveillance feeds, his movements precise but edged with frustration. No one spoke at first, the weight of your absence hanging over them like a storm cloud.

Sam finally broke the silence, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “Where is she even finding out about these deals? She’s not exactly walking into a coffee shop and picking up intel from strangers.”

Clint, seated at the far end of the table, narrowed his eyes, his mind already turning over possibilities. “Maybe old contacts?” His gaze shifted to Natasha, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, and her face was set in a mask of unreadable tension.

She didn’t look at him immediately. When she did, her eyes were distant, filled with memories she rarely allowed to surface. “Yeah,” she said quietly, almost reluctantly. “That’s likely.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Someone from your Red Room days?”

Natasha hesitated, her jaw tightening as she nodded. “Before SHIELD. Before the Avengers.” Her voice was cold, clinical, the tone of someone recounting a story they wished wasn’t their own. “There’s a guy… a fixer. He operated out of Eastern Europe, connected to black market arms deals, high-profile hits, anything illegal you can think of. If she’s working for him now…” She trailed off, swallowing hard.

Sam leaned forward, frowning. “Anything you’d like to share with the class, Nat? Because this feels like something we should’ve known before.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, her gaze flickering toward Clint before settling on the table. “Before SHIELD, before Clint and I found her… she was lost. When she escaped the Red Room, she had nothing—no resources, no one to turn to. This guy took her in, gave her jobs, gave her a reason to keep moving. But it wasn’t a life. It was survival, barely.”

Clint leaned in, his voice lower now, as though he didn’t want to disturb the fragile truths being unearthed. “She was in deep. Mercenary work, hits, anything he wanted. She carried everything she owned in a backpack. She was running on scraps and rage. And the person she was back then compared to the one we know now…” He shook his head. “Night and day.”

Natasha’s expression darkened. “She was like a machine. On autopilot. He kept her that way with modified Red Room mind control.” Her voice softened, though her words cut like a blade. “Not enough to erase her, but just enough to suppress doubt, hesitation. Enough to make her compliant.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Bucky, standing slightly apart from the others, stared at the hologram of your face, his jaw clenched. His chest ached, a sick mixture of guilt and disbelief twisting in his gut.

Tony’s voice broke the quiet. “That wasn’t in her file.”

Natasha smirked bitterly. “Of course it wasn’t. Fury redacted it. He thought it would protect her if it ever came up.”

Clint’s voice dropped further, the weight of the memory heavy in his tone. “When Nat and I got her out, it was like detoxing someone from a drug. She fought us every step of the way. We had to tie her down to keep her from running back to him.”

Natasha nodded grimly. “She didn’t sleep, didn’t eat unless we forced her to. She was reciting mission protocols in her sleep like she was still under their control. It took months to bring her back to herself. And even then…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Even then, it was fragile.”

Steve’s eyes shifted to Bucky, whose hands were gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Buck, did she ever tell you any of this?”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged slightly, his face shadowed with pain. He shook his head, his voice hoarse. “No. Not like that.” He paused, swiping a hand over his face as he blinked away tears he couldn’t stop. “She… she never pushed me to talk about my past. She let me open up in my own time, my own way.” He let out a shaky breath. “I thought… I thought she’d do the same eventually. And she did, bits and pieces. But it was always vague, like she didn’t want me to see just how bad it was.”

He looked back at the hologram, the image of your face burning into his mind. “She risked her life for me, over and over again. And I didn’t even know the extent of what she’d been through.” His voice cracked. “She deserved better than that.”

“And now,” Natasha said softly, her eyes fixed on him, “she’s back in it.”

Bucky’s head dropped, his fists clenching as he whispered, “Maybe worse this time. She’s not just surviving—she’s destroying herself. And it’s my fault.”

“Buck,” Steve said gently, but Bucky shook his head.

“I thought I was protecting her,” Bucky said, his voice louder now, trembling with emotion. “I thought pushing her away would keep her safe. But all I did was push her right back into the darkness she fought so hard to escape.”

Natasha’s voice softened further, though it carried an edge of warning. “If she’s with him again, he won’t hesitate to use that mind control on her. And if he has… there’s no telling how far she’ll go before she burns out.”

Tony paced, rubbing his temple. “We need to find this guy. Shut him down. If she’s working for him, she won’t stop until someone makes her.”

Steve straightened, his face hardening with resolve. “Then we find him. Find out where he’s operating now.”

Clint nodded, pulling out his tablet. “I can dig up some old intel. He moved a lot, but if he’s still running the same kind of jobs, I can find a pattern.”

Natasha glanced at Bucky, her tone quieter now. “We find him, and we find her. But she’s not coming back willingly, Bucky.”

Bucky lifted his head, his eyes dark and resolute. “I don’t care how far gone she is. She’s still in there, and I’m not giving up on her.” His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “She has to be.”

Tony tapped the screen again, zooming in on the hologram of your face. “Then we better move fast. Because from the looks of it, she’s already gone too far.”

The team exchanged grim looks, the unspoken weight of what lay ahead settling over them. For Bucky, though, there was no hesitation. No doubt. He would bring you back, no matter what it took.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through the night sky, a stark contrast to the tension filling the cabin. The team was locked in silent focus, each member mentally preparing for what they might find at their destination. Natasha sat at the controls, her face unreadable, though her grip on the steering controls was tighter than usual. Clint was beside her, reviewing maps and old intel on the fixer, his expression grim.

Bucky sat alone, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His metal hand flexed and clenched rhythmically, the only outward sign of the storm raging inside him. His thoughts churned relentlessly, replaying every moment since the breakup, every mission where he’d chosen to keep his distance, every chance he had to reach out and didn’t.

Steve, seated across from him, finally broke the silence. “We’ll get her back, Buck,” he said quietly, his voice steady but reassuring. “She’s still in there. We’ll bring her home.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his jaw tightening. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “And what if we don’t?” His eyes flicked up to meet Steve’s, and they were filled with a raw vulnerability that Steve hadn’t seen in years. “What if she’s too far gone, Steve? I thought I was protecting her, keeping her safe by pushing her away. But all I did was shove her right back into the darkness.”

Steve sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “You did what you thought was right. You were trying to protect her from getting hurt.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And now she’s out there, risking her life every day because I made her believe she wasn’t worth saving.” He paused, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t bring her back. If she’s too far gone…Steve if we cant get her back….”

Steve reached out, placing a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s not gone, Buck. She’s still in there. We’ve seen her come back from worse, and she’s stronger than you think.”

Bucky’s eyes fell back to the floor, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his guilt. “I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me. Hell, I’m not sure I can forgive myself.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the cabin, calm but commanding. “We’re coming up on the last known location of the fixer. This isn’t a guarantee, but it’s our best shot.” She glanced back at Bucky, her expression softer than usual. “You’ll get your chance to fix this, Barnes. But you have to be ready. She’s not the same person you knew.”

Bucky nodded, his resolve hardening. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

The quinjet began its descent, the lights of a small, industrial city coming into view below. Natasha expertly landed on the outskirts of the city, near an abandoned factory that matched the coordinates from her old intel. The team geared up quickly, their movements efficient and quiet.

As they approached the factory, Clint pulled up the blueprints on his tablet. “Looks like a standard setup—main entrance, back exit, and a few access points on the roof. If he’s still using this place, he’ll have guards posted. We’ll have to go in quiet.”

Natasha nodded. “I’ll take point with Clint. Steve, Bucky, cover the rear. Sam, Tony you’re our eyes in the sky.”

Bucky didn’t say a word as they moved into position, his focus entirely on the task ahead. His grip on his rifle was tight, his breathing controlled. But inside, his mind raced with what they might find.

As they entered the factory, the air was thick with dust and the faint smell of oil and metal. The sound of distant machinery hummed through the walls, but the place seemed otherwise deserted.

Clint scanned the area with his thermal scope, whispering, “Two guards up ahead, near the control room.”

Natasha nodded, and within moments, the guards were taken out silently, their bodies crumpling to the floor without a sound. The team moved deeper into the facility, tension building with every step.

Finally, they reached the main floor—a vast, open space filled with crates and scattered equipment. And there, in the center of the room, was a man seated at a desk, his back to them.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “That’s him.”

The fixer turned slowly, as if he’d been expecting them. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. He smiled, a cold, predatory grin. “Well, well. The Avengers. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Bucky stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Where is she?”

The fixer chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, you must mean out little shadow, our ghost. Quite the asset, isn’t she? A real work of art, that one.”

Bucky’s fists clenched, and Steve put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. “Where is she?” Steve demanded.

The fixer sighed, feigning boredom. “She comes and goes as she pleases. I simply provide the opportunities. She’s quite effective, you know. Doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question. Just like old times.”

Natasha stepped forward, her gun trained on him. “What have you done to her?”

The fixer’s smile widened. “Only what she wanted. She came to me, broken and desperate. I gave her purpose, focus. She’s free now, free from all those messy emotions that held her back.”

Bucky’s voice shook with rage. “You didn’t free her. You turned her into a weapon.”

The fixer shrugged, unbothered. “She’s exactly where she wants to be.”

Bucky stepped forward, his voice deadly calm. “And where’s that?”

The fixer’s grin faltered for the first time. “You’ll never find her. She doesn’t want to be found.”

Bucky’s eyes burned with fury, but before he could move, Natasha pulled the trigger, shooting the fixer in the leg. He cried out, clutching his wound as he glared up at her.

“Where. Is. She?” Natasha repeated, her voice ice-cold.

The fixer coughed, blood dripping from his mouth as he chuckled weakly. “She’s already gone. But you’ll find her soon enough. If she wants you to.”

The quinjet touched down silently on the outskirts of the city. The team disembarked quickly, weapons drawn and senses on high alert. The abandoned office building loomed ahead, its shattered windows and graffiti-covered walls a testament to its long-abandoned state. Inside, though, it was anything but empty.

Tony’s voice was a low murmur as he held up his tech pad, showing the heat signatures inside. “Multiple targets on the top floor. Armed, moving in formation. Y/N’s in there, too.”

“Looks like another hit,” Natasha said grimly, her eyes scanning the building. “She’s taking out another crew.”

Bucky clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “We’re not letting her walk out of here alone.”

Natasha nodded, her voice steady. “Stay focused. We get in, neutralize the situation, and bring her back.”

The team moved as one, slipping into the building and making their way up the crumbling stairwell. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps echoed from above, the tension rising with every step. When they reached the top floor, they could hear it clearly now—the sharp commands, the clink of weapons, and then, suddenly, a scream cut short.

Tony raised his hand, signaling them to stop. He brought up the thermal view on his pad. “She’s already started.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as they crept toward the open doorway. From their vantage point, they could see you in the center of the room, moving with deadly precision. You were a blur of efficiency, taking out the armed men one by one, each movement calculated and lethal. Blood spattered across the floor and walls, and your face, but you didn’t falter.

The last two men in the room scrambled to take aim at you, but you were faster. You disarmed one with a quick twist of his wrist, driving a knife into his chest without so much as a flicker of emotion. The final man backed away, terror in his eyes as he aimed his gun at you, his hands trembling.

Before he could pull the trigger, you grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. His struggles were futile, and the sound of his choked gasps filled the air.

“Y/N!” Bucky’s voice rang out, desperate and raw, cutting through the chaos.

You froze, your grip tightening on the man’s throat as your eyes snapped to Bucky. For a moment, the room seemed to stand still. The team watched, their weapons drawn but hesitating, waiting to see what you would do.

You stared at Bucky, your face blank, eyes devoid of the warmth they once held. Slowly, deliberately, you tightened your grip, and without breaking eye contact with him, you snapped the man’s neck with a sickening crack. His lifeless body fell to the floor with a thud.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. “Doll,” he said again, his voice trembling. “What are you doing?”

You stood there, blood splattered across your face, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Your eyes flicked over the rest of the team—Steve, Natasha, Sam, Clint, and Tony—all standing ready, but hesitant to make a move.

The room was suffocatingly silent, the air thick with tension as you stood amidst the bodies of the men you’d just killed. You looked at them—at all of them—as if they were nothing more than an inconvenience. Your once-bright eyes were now cold, lifeless, your pupils blown wide, a sharp contrast to the dim light of the room.

Sam was the first to break the silence. “Her pupils are huge,” he said, his voice low, uneasy. “That’s not normal.”

Natasha’s face tightened. She took a step forward, speaking in Russian, her tone steady but filled with quiet authority. “Ты идешь со мной, младшая сестра. (You’re coming back with me, little sister.)” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Ты сделаешь это легко или трудно? (Are you going to make this easy or hard?)”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you nudged the last man’s lifeless body with your foot, shoving him out of your way with a detached, almost bored expression. Then, finally, you spoke, your voice flat, emotionless.

“ Трудно(Hard).”

Steve sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “Are we really doing this? All of us, against her?”

Natasha didn’t break her gaze from you. “No. Just me.” She reached for her baton, switching it on with a low hum of electricity. “Let me try.”

Clint, standing off to the side, silently switched the arrow in his quiver to one tipped with a sedative, his fingers steady but ready. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were locked on you, his movements precise and deliberate like he’d done this before, which of course he has.

Natasha stepped forward slowly, her baton raised but not yet striking. She muttered under her breath, almost to herself, “Дежавю. (Déjà vu.)” Then, in a softer tone, she added in Russian, “Я тебя люблю. (I love you.)”

The words didn’t even register. You moved without hesitation, launching yourself at her with lethal precision. Your first strike was a blur, and Natasha barely had time to block it with her baton. But you were faster, stronger, and more relentless than she remembered. Within seconds, you had her on the defensive, your blows landing harder and faster than she could counter.

Natasha grunted as you landed a kick to her side, sending her stumbling. “Something’s off,” she groaned, clutching her ribs as she stood. “You’re stronger than before.”

Bucky had been standing on the sidelines, his fists clenched, watching you tear through Natasha with ease. His heart broke with every blow you delivered. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward, his voice cracking slightly.

“Sweetheart, please,” he said, his voice filled with desperation. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

You turned toward him, your face still expressionless, and in one swift motion, you pulled a knife from your belt and hurled it at him. Bucky’s reflexes kicked in, and he caught the blade mid-air, but the force of the throw pushed him back a step.

He dropped the knife, his hands raised in a defensive posture. “I’m not going to fight you,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the pain in his eyes. “But I’m not letting you hurt anyone else.”

You didn’t hesitate, launching yourself at him. Bucky blocked every strike, his movements precise, never once retaliating. He didn’t want to hurt you, but you gave him no choice but to defend himself.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted over his shoulder as he deflected another of your attacks. “It’s the serum! She’s got some kind of super-soldier serum!”

Steve’s eyes widened, his grip tightening on his shield. Sam glanced at Clint, who still had his bow drawn. “Will that sedative arrow even work on her if she’s got the serum?”

Clint shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

He loosed the arrow, and it flew toward you, but you moved faster than expected, catching it mid-air. The tip still grazed your arm, injecting just enough of the sedative to make you falter slightly. You wobbled for a second, your movements sluggish, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. You turned the arrow back around, flinging it directly at Clint with lethal precision.

Steve’s shield flew through the air just in time, blocking the arrow before it could hit Clint. The sound of metal striking the arrowhead echoed through the room, but before anyone could make another move, Tony stepped forward, his repulsor glowing.

“This is enough,” Tony said, his voice cold and decisive. He raised his hand, preparing to knock you out.

But before he could fire, Natasha, now back on her feet, grabbed a heavy metal pole from the wreckage around them. She moved quickly, her face set with grim determination.

You turned back toward Bucky, ready to swing at him again, your eyes still filled with that cold, mechanical focus. But Natasha was faster. She swung the pole with all her strength, aiming for the side of your head.

The impact was immediate. Your eyes widened briefly before your body went limp, collapsing to the floor in an unconscious heap.

The room was silent except for the sound of everyone’s heavy breathing. Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he gently cradled your head.

Natasha dropped the pole, her chest heaving as she looked down at you, a mixture of relief and sorrow in her eyes. “Я сожалею, сестра. (I’m sorry, sister.),” she whispered softly.

Steve stepped forward, his shield still in hand. “Let’s get her back to the jet. We’ve got work to do.”

[hellsbedroom]

call out my name

pairing: winter soldier!bucky x f!reader

word count: 4k

summary: as an assassin for hire, you often worked alongside the Winter Soldier. immediately after the events of CA:TWS, that soldier shows up at your doorstep needing help. and he thanks you in a very particular way

warnings: 18+, nsfw, brief mentions of violence, mild alcohol consumption, heavy petting, hair pulling (m receiving), p in v, porn with actually a lot of plot, angsty ending because i couldn't help myself, google-translated romanian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The frantic knocking at your front door shouldn’t be happening. Even though Hydra’s secrets had been blown open a couple days ago, your name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Mercenaries’ names never are. So how could anyone find you?

You slow your breathing to counter the adrenaline as the knocking rattles the hinges again. Clutching your gun tighter, you throw the door open and aim into the night.

The barrel lands against a man’s chest and takes you both by surprise. You pull the gun away when a familiar pair of blue eyes blinks back at you from underneath a ballcap. His face isn’t one you ever expected to see again, especially after the carnage in DC.

“Soldier?” You’d never known him by any real name.

“Can I come in?”

“Am I gonna get killed for it?”

He glances behind him and tugs his backpack tighter. “Not if I’ve done my job.”

That’s enough of an answer. You wave him in with the gun still cocked in case it’s a trap. But after you lock the door, you turn to find him staring at you and all at once the gun is no longer necessary.

His eyes are different. You’d seen them empty, you’d seen them focused, you’d seen them angry, you’d even seen them lust-blown as he thrusted into you in some alleyway after a mission. But you’d never seen them scared.

And he is terrified.

“I need your help. I have to get away.” Vigilance strings his shoulders taut and you wonder how many sleepless nights had led up to this.

“Okay, my cover’s not blown and I’ve still got my contacts. Is the west coast far enough? Canada?”

“No. Farther.”

“London’s pretty big.”

He grips your forearms in a flash, gruffly pleading an inch from your face. “Somewhere they can’t find me.”

The intensity freezes you for a few moments before you nod. Wordlessly you cross the room and rummage through papers strewn across your desk. Identities, informants, any connections you still have. Anybody they can’t get to.

“Does Romania work?” You proudly hold up some papers with illegible scrawls. “I can get you out at dawn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

His sigh of relief leaves you comfortable enough to grab a couple beers from the fridge. Might as well drink when it’s clear that he’ll stay the night. But when you try to hand him one, he’s staring off into space and doesn’t seem to notice. You aren’t the best at comforting people, especially not Hydra’s former war dog, but you clasp a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.”

He snaps back into the moment, nodding in thanks as he takes the beer and opens it with a simple flick of a metal finger. He rubs the other hand down his face, dragging away the last of whatever thoughts had distracted him.

“Yeah.” He still stands resolute in the center of the room, even as you sling yourself into a chair. “Sorry for grabbing you. I just—”

“It’s alright, Soldier. I’ve been roughhoused before.”

“It’s actually Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name is Bucky. I didn’t know that for a long time. Hydra’s doing.” He sinks onto your couch, still weighed down by the revelation.

You immediately sit up straighter, the gears in your head trying to make sense of it. The whole story comes out with just a bit of prodding. World War Two, his capture, his fall, Hydra’s brainwashing, all of it. You sit in stunned silence through it, nodding in support every now and then. He finishes after the second round of beers and checks the magazine of his gun from force of habit. You do the same, then venture with a question itching to be answered.

“Do you remember anything you did?”

“Some of it. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t...I didn’t want to stop it.” A guilty silence follows and you hear the distinctive whirring of his metal arm as he clenches his fist.

You laugh to lighten the mood. “Hey, that’s better than me. I chose to do this shit and got paid for it.”

Bucky nods solemnly, staring down his empty bottle. Then he flicks his gaze back up to you. “I also remember you.”

“On a mission? Marrakesh was pretty memorable.”

“Yeah. But I remember us doing some other stuff, too.” A smile ghosts his lips for the first time that night.

Memories of him sucking angry marks into your neck as you writhe on his cock come flooding back, making you cross your legs. You clear your throat and try to seem nonchalant.

“I hope that’s not something the brainwashing made you do,” you joke.

Bucky’s eyes are sharp as knives as they cut across the room. “It wasn’t. And I didn’t want to stop that either.”

“Oh. Good.”

The next silence thunders with anticipation but you don’t push your luck. Instead you focus on clearing away stray dishes and papers, flitting back and forth and trying to remember how to play hostess. You cross in front of Bucky and easily lift the bottle out of his hand. But before you can step out of reach again, he takes your arm.

This time his grip is gentle, nothing like the way he’d ever touched you before. You swallow thickly and dare to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Soldier?”

The gentleness is abandoned as his mouth crashes into yours. You knock off his ballcap in a rush to card your hands through his hair, desperate to have him closer. It’s all practiced and familiar, tilting your head to deepen the kiss and his teeth nipping at your lower lip.

His scruff burns against your jaw and then he’s kissing in its wake, lips and teeth devouring down your neck as his hands dive under your clothes to brush at your waist and hips. The skin-to-skin contact lights you on fire and you help him lift off your shirt in a flurry that’s followed by his own jacket and shirt. The fleeting moment spent apart is enough for you to catch your breath and shiver at the desire swirling in his eyes.

You collide into his chest again, wasting no time in dragging him backward with you toward somewhere, anywhere sturdy enough for support. It’s like you’re back in Mumbai or São Paulo or Kosovo, desperate to find a pleasurable release at the closest available location where he could grind his hips into you. This time it happens to be your kitchen island, a throne of granite onto which Bucky lifts you and your legs easily split, letting him settle between them and pull you so that his bulge presses just so against your core.

You're grabbing his shoulders — clutching flesh and metal — and that familiar coolness of his titanium arm curving around your back brings heat pooling between your legs. He captures your lips in an eager, fluid motion, tongue darting out to graze yours. Expert at killing, expert at kissing. The tendrils of his long hair tickle your forehead just like you remember.

With the usual haste and fervor, you grind against his solid hips in search of friction and he obliges by slipping his hand down to rub through your pants.

Soldier...you nearly moan, but stop short. You don’t have to settle for this kind of quickie. He isn’t just Soldier anymore, and you aren’t under the pressure of a mission.

“Bucky,” you murmur against his lips, grounding him to something besides what you both once were. “Bucky, wait…”

He slows down, his grip moving to your thighs, two heavy palms weighing down on you. Then he looks up slowly — his gaze could crack you in half. There’s a vulnerable tenderness in his eyes, clouded over by the bewilderment of what being Bucky once was.

“Bedroom,” you order gently.

“What?”

“Let’s do this in the bedroom.”

He has a lot of unlearning to do after so many years of Hydra control, so maybe you can help him with this one thing. You aren’t sure why you want this extra layer of intimacy, but it feels right.

Your insistence makes him wary. His eyes dart around, calculating whether or not this, too, is an attempt to capture him. Anyone could be in on it.

“It’s not a trap, I promise,” you coax, holding your hands up. “It’ll be better like this. I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t move as you slide off the island, brushing against him and letting the moment linger. You leave your eyes locked on his as you turn and take a few inviting steps down the hall, not abandoning the gaze until his doubts subside and he follows you.

The sparse bedroom is suddenly alive with electricity as you kiss him again to pick up right where you left off. Your grip dives into his hair, pulling in the way you remember makes even the stoic soldier moan. The liplock is blinding and his hands mold to your waist and hips and everywhere, keeping you close as the last of the clothes are haphazardly tossed away. Once you’re bare it’s a short stumble onto the bed and he falls on top of you with his metal arm braced in the unmade sheets.

Somehow Bucky looming over you, sinking down with every delectable muscle, is more breathtaking than the Winter Soldier fucking you senseless against a brick wall that digs into your back.

You don’t get a chance to catch that breath before his hand snakes down to toy with your clit, expertly coating it with your slick with a particular brush of his finger that he knows works so well. The gasp wracks your chest — you’d been ready for this since he admitted remembering every salacious encounter — and you almost give in then and there.

But where’s the fun in that?

Your thighs are locked around his hips and you swiftly flip on top, sitting up to settle on his lap. You’re naked, with no chance of hiding weapons, so he quickly relaxes and focuses on how new this is. Studying your form, from draped legs to raised brow. His hand lifts and you catch it in sync, bringing it up to your breast where he rolls your nipple instantly, carefully watching the arch of your back in response. Bucky is nothing if not a quick learner.

He’s hard, aching underneath you, and the tug in your core calls for the same thing. He helps lift your hips and you brace on his chest and then you’re slowly sinking down on his length to draw out the sensation.

It’s a pretty thing to watch his lips curl as he hisses out your name — your real name, not just one of your aliases — and your own sigh flies out when you reach the hilt. You take a few moments to adjust and then start rocking to an inaudible beat. Or maybe that’s your heart thrumming with pride.

It’s different this time. Everything is still eager and strong and deliciously satisfying but this isn’t just a convenient tryst. That has its time and place, like a muggy Havana afternoon after a vicious shootout. This time there’s something in the way Bucky rubs along your thighs while you lean in close, the rhythm of the thrusts keeping you just out of reach of his lips and yet leaving you anchored to those blue eyes.

He cradles the nape of your neck, watching your face morph in pleasure while the tension builds. You can’t help kissing him then and there and everything winds tighter and tighter until the climax takes you, your open mouth grazing against his as bliss washes all over. His name is a whispered prayer from your lips.

Your stuttering hips drag him into the throes a moment later and his gasp rushes past your cheek. A moan rumbles through his chest and you collapse on it, daring to smile as you breathe him in.

God that was good. The two of you still have it.

You unceremoniously roll off and into the sheets before another thought strikes. You’d never had to deal with Bucky in the moments after a good fuck. You always went your separate ways down dimly-lit alleys or out of a jungle. But here he is, stretched out beside you, with no prerogative to leave until morning.

Apparently the same thing was on his mind because he suddenly sits up and tugs a weary hand through his hair. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No.” You catch his wrist before you know what’s happening. “It’s alright, stay. You need a good night’s sleep. Getting to Romania is gonna be a hell of a ride.”

His eyes sweep over you but there’s no wariness this time. Instead he blinks slowly, giving a half-smile as he settles back down and pulls the covers up. It’s quiet for a few moments, comfortably so, and his arm brushes yours without pulling away.

“You should come with me,” he finally says, voice raspy with sleep and sex. “You need to get out, too.”

It isn’t the first time that thought has crossed your mind but it suddenly feels much more serious. A real chance to escape. Your fingers trace the sheets and mattress below, a place to lay your head that you had never really called home. Of course you have a bag packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice, every good mercenary does — but are you ready to be on the run? To live your life at the whim of whoever finds you in every city?

Bucky has already dozed off beside you, his gentle breathing interrupted by furrowed brows and an occasional shake of his head. He has no choice but to run, though you doubt he’ll outrun the nightmares anytime soon.

Sleep does its job of lulling you, too, and you decide to make your choice in the morning.

***

Two Years Later Bucharest, Romania

The rusted faucet gives a weak stream of water but you still rinse off the dishes, watching stray peelings and seeds whirl down the drain. Big bowls of fruit are your staple breakfast now that you have the time to enjoy them.

The apartment is silent except for the gentle ceramic clinks, with Bucky having stepped out to the market next door to pick up more plums — the favorite household snack.

As ex-assassins, calling your arrangement “dating” feels childish. You and Bucky sleep in the same bed, fuck regularly, cook each other meals, watch each other’s backs, and take turns cleaning the arsenal of weapons. So whatever the term for that relationship is, that’s what you have. You need each other.

With the dishes clear and reading to catch up on, you step into the bathroom in the back of the apartment to grab a clip for your hair. Can’t have the locks in your way when novels await.

You hear the front door open and a smile tugs at your lips. “Ce mai faci?” you call. (How are you?)

The Romanian greeting is part of yours and Bucky’s precautions — a code for when one of you reenters the apartment, just in case. You expect to hear the coded answer: Voi fi mai bine mâine (I will be better tomorrow).

But there’s no reply. Only muted footsteps toward your kitchen.

Your heart slams into overdrive. There’s a handgun hidden under the bathroom sink and it’s cold in your grip as you level it at the door, cautiously stepping into the small hallway. No one is immediately visible but your senses don’t fail you. Someone’s there.

“Reieşi!” you spit. “Come out!”

Still no answer but a careful shuffling of feet just out of sight. You hunker at the wall for only a moment and then fling yourself around the corner, barrel first.

Standing by your refrigerator with arms warily raised is Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. You recognize him from both the news and Bucky’s attempts to piece his life together. He cocks his head in surprise — whatever intel had let him here, it hadn’t mentioned you.

But he keeps his voice steady as he breaks the silence. “Where’s Bucky?”

You don’t answer. It’s pointless to lie, since he somehow found the apartment, but you know better than to tell the truth. You can’t claim ignorance anyway — the unwavering handgun in your grasp says otherwise.

You stare back in silence and take a couple calculated steps forward while trying to figure out what the fuck to do. Despite the proximity Steve lowers his arms, correctly guessing that if you haven’t shot yet, you won’t do so without warning. Killing Captain America isn’t exactly the best way to keep people out of your life anyway.

“I just need Bucky. People are coming for him.”

That raises goosebumps along your arms. It makes sense, Steve only finding him when someone worse is on the way. You’re about to demand more answers when footsteps reach the outside of your apartment and pause, no doubt noticing the door slightly ajar.

“Ce mai faci?” It’s Bucky’s strained voice trying the code. Then he more urgently adds, “Esti in siguranta?” (Are you safe?)

“Da,” you call quietly, keeping your eyes trained on Steve. “I’m alright, Bucky. We have a visitor.”

Bucky carefully treads in, his eyes darting between you and Steve and the gun in your hand. The air stings with confusion. But eventually he crosses to you and closes his hand over the barrel to make you lower the gun, and not even your incredulous gaze changes his mind. He simply nods and runs his hand down your back. Trust me.

He pushes a newspaper into your lowered hands and you look down at the words plastered across the top: ‘Winter Soldier Bombs UN Headquarters’. The newspaper crinkles in your tightening grip. Underneath the headline sits a photo of Bucky’s face, clear as day, when it isn’t possible for him to have been there. You’d come out of hiding to vouch for it yourself.

But that wouldn’t matter, you know better. The little world that you and Bucky carved out is caving in fast.

“Do you know me?” It’s the intruder, his gaze no longer fixed on you or your weapon but on his long-lost friend.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

A pause. Steve clenches his jaw. “I know you’re nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

He pauses again as the comms unit crackles in his ear, probably warning of the distant commotion now rumbling up the building from many floors down. You sneak a glance at Bucky and the grim set of his mouth.

“I’ve got him here,” Steve says into his radio. “He’s with someone. Unclear whether she’s a hostile.”

He clips that last part at you, demanding your intentions as you still bristle at him. But you don’t get a chance to threaten him again before Bucky steps in front of you.

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore. Neither does she.”

“Well the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive,” Steve adds, the gravity in his voice sinking deep into your chest.

“That’s smart, good strategy.”

Bucky’s right. Special forces are always taught to eliminate a threat, not wait for heroic negotiating. That doesn’t happen in the real world when real consequences are at stake. A rattling shakes the staircase outside your apartment door, the telltale sign of heavy men and heavy guns on their way. You quickly realize that whether or not Steve is on your side, he’s a better option than what’s waiting out there.

Steve softens. “It doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

Bucky takes off the glove concealing his titanium hand, flexing the joints and heaving a sigh. He looks at you and tips another nod. Get ready. You grab another magazine of bullets for your gun.

“It always ends in a fight,” Bucky murmurs.

“That’s why we ran, you know. To try and stay away from the fight.” You cock the gun, staring Steve down. Blaming him for this situation is wrong but damn it feels right. “But when it comes to our door we have no choice.”

Steve gets agitated, glancing between you and Bucky and trying to piece it all together. “Bucky, you pulled me from the river. Why?”

Bucky stays still. “I don’t know.”

The thundering footsteps get closer, louder and louder like in every nightmare you’d had about being found. You walk to the windows, looking for any trace of the enemies no doubt rappelling down the building at that instant. There are more weapons hidden on that side of the room anyway, and you gather what you can.

“I hate to break this up,” you quip at the men behind you, “but we can’t keep standing here playing high school reunion.”

“She’s right, Buck. We have to go.”

“She’s coming with us.”

You spare Bucky a grin over your shoulder. Of course you’re going with them, but it’s good to hear him say it.

Steve steps closer, faint warnings still being yelled into his comms unit. “They aren’t looking for her. She’ll be safer away from us for now.”

That makes your breath catch. Arguing with Steve will make the oncoming fight that much more difficult. You turn, a sneer already waiting on your lips, but Bucky once again interjects. He catches your shoulders and his gaze sinks deep into yours.

“Steve’s right.”

“What?”

“They’re after me for the stuff in Vienna. You need to get out.”

“Bucky, I’m not —”

Crash! Grenades come flying through the windows, shattering the tension with shards of glass. You knock one right back out and Bucky kicks the other to Steve, who covers the blast with his shield. Bucky is two seconds ahead of you and lifts the mattress to cover you both from a third grenade tossed in. The explosion is hot against your back and your muscles tremble. With his free hand Bucky throws the steel table at the door, blocking it and buying a few minutes before the tac team can bust through.

Rappelers burst through the windows and Steve kicks one down, his gunfire raining into the ceiling instead of your flesh. You return fire to another, clipping his knee and shoulder, while Bucky yanks the third and knocks him against the wall. Two more come swinging in — your adrenaline kicks up another notch — and a scream grates your throat as you land a few good punches on the closest one. You hadn’t fought for your life like this in a long time, but it’s a skill that comes back quick as lightning.

Bucky dashes over to Steve, forcing the other rappeler out of his grip and onto the balcony with a swift knee to the chest.

“Buck, stop!” Steve calls. “You’re gonna kill someone.”

“I’m not gonna kill anyone,” Bucky grunts. Floorboards splinter under the force of his punch and he pulls out his backpack before tossing it onto the roof of the adjacent building.

You take a respite from watching for more assailants and step over downed bodies to reach him. The other backpack lands heavily in your hands and despite the chaos, the rest of the world briefly fades when Bucky drags you closer.

“Go, you have to get out!”

All air vanishes. “No. I’m not leaving —”

“Please.” Bucky’s voice is small against the rushing of blood in your ears. His iron grip pulls you toward the windows and he hands you a rappelling rope. “I’ll find you later.”

You know there’s no choice. And arguing further will put everyone in danger. You attach the rope to yourself and the balcony, still pulling Bucky with you as you back onto the ledge. Shotgun blasts at the hinges of the door across the room draw Steve away and you know this is your last blessed moment alone.

Whatever version of Bucky Barnes this is — the man out of time, the assassin, the shell of a vintage hero — you don’t care. This version is yours, and you love him.

You kiss him, hard. He returns it with fire, his hand tangling in your unkempt hair. A sad smile creeps onto your lips when you pull away and Bucky nods solemnly. One gentle push later and you drop from view.

[pommeauromarin]

Bucky Barnes ✪

for the love of the game @pellucid-constellations

(series)

Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it.

no such things @sanguineterrain

(series)

You’ve been assigned to write a column for your school paper on the team’s spectacular running back. You don’t care very much for your university’s football team; you just can’t understand the hype, okay? Turns out your distaste for football bigheads was exactly on point: James Barnes is insufferable.

weakness @marvelstoriesepic

(one shot)

You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass

like a phoenix

(series)

An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

supposed distraction

(one shot)

It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare

something more @marvelwitchergilmore

(one shot)

Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Since you met Bucky, he's always looked at you with...something more. And you never knew why. One day, you finally find out what he means by it.

a million summer @intrepidacious

(one shot)

Something shifts between you and Bucky when he comes back home from college.

first date, last night

(one shot)

You were supposed to go on a date tonight, but Bucky just had to interfere. It doesn't make any sense, either. It's not like there's anything going on between the two of you.

nine lives @thebarneschronicles

(one shot)

Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

[cece693]

hii can you please write another part for “where’s the trust”!!

Where's The Trust? Pt. 3

tags: mission gone wrong, perhaps Tony set things up to get you two talking, reconciliation, second chances, bucky is a mess, heart on his sleeve, talk about feelings, yay

It was a simple decision—at least in theory. You left Stark Tower, shoving a few essentials into a duffel bag, and took off without fanfare. No tearful goodbyes, no dramatic explanations, just a quick text to Tony that you needed space and would be back eventually. It wasn’t like anyone was going to lock down the compound to keep you inside.

For weeks, you drifted. You sublet a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, a place with peeling paint and questionable plumbing but quiet nights. Alone, you tried to sort through your feelings—about Bucky, about your future, about the betrayal that still stung like an open wound. No more distractions, you told yourself, taking long solitary walks by the riverside, sipping coffee at a nearby café, occasionally practicing your combat drills in a dingy local gym.

You needed distance from the Avengers, from Bucky, from the swirling tension of compound life. But you couldn’t outrun your thoughts. Every time you tried to piece together what to do next, you heard Tony’s words in the back of your mind—don’t slam the door forever—and the ghost of Bucky’s voice pleading for forgiveness. You usually drowned it out by shadowboxing or burying your face in a pillow, wishing for the thousandth time that your heart could just switch off.

Your attempts at off-grid reflection ended abruptly when an emergency call came through. Some psycho group—remnants of HYDRA, by the sound of it—had unleashed havoc downtown. Civilians were pinned in crossfire, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were outnumbered, and the Avengers needed all hands on deck.

Even though your gut clenched at the thought of rejoining the team—seeing Steve or him—you couldn’t ignore the call. You were a hero, after all, and no amount of heartbreak would change that. Grimacing, you packed up your gear, pulled on your suit, and made your way to the coordinates Tony had pinged to your phone. A quick comm exchange told you the fight was ugly: heavily armed mercenaries, potential hostages, and a few experimental weapons nobody fully understood. Nothing like an adrenaline-soaked crisis to put personal problems on the back burner.

Downtown Manhattan was in chaos, the skyline marred by smoke plumes. You landed on the scene—courtesy of a loaned Stark hover-bike—and found the Avengers scattered across an intersection littered with burning vehicles and panicked civilians.

Tony swooped overhead in his suit, blasting at some mechanized contraption that spat lightning. Nat and Clint were flanking a group of mercenaries, systematically disabling them. Sam soared overhead, barking updates into comms. And Bucky—his presence made your pulse stumble—was mid-brawl with a burly enemy wielding some sort of energy mace. Focus on the mission, you told yourself. You forced your mind away from the tangle of unresolved emotions, drawing your weapon and slipping into the thick of it.

You fought with your usual efficiency, adrenaline fueling you. But a fraction of your brain refused to stop buzzing about the super-soldier near the middle of the battlefield—his broad shoulders, the glint of his metal arm, the memory of his desperate apologies. Not now, you thought, teeth gritted, ducking a stray bullet that ricocheted off twisted metal. You had to keep your head in the game.

Your momentary lapse in concentration cost you. One of the mercenaries, cunning and armed with a high-powered plasma rifle, seized the opening in your defenses. You heard the whine of a charging shot far too late. A blast of searing light erupted. You dodged instinctively, but it clipped your shoulder, sending you sprawling. Dazed, you tried to scramble to your feet, only to see the same merc priming another shot, aiming right at your chest. In a split-second, you braced for impact—only for a familiar figure to slam into you, shoving you sideways behind a toppled car.

“Stay down!” Bucky’s voice barked.

Another blazing shot carved a smoking hole where you’d been standing. Your ears rang, your skin prickled. If Bucky hadn’t intervened, you’d be a pile of ash.

You blinked, meeting Bucky’s wide eyes from your semi-crouched position behind the vehicle. He looked absolutely frantic, sweat and dust smudging his face, fear etched into every line. “Are you okay?” he demanded, glancing at your injured shoulder with alarm.

Before you could answer, another plasma bolt slammed into the car, making it jolt backward. The metallic screech nearly drowned out your next words: “I’m fine!" Bucky nodded once, then rolled out from behind the car to unleash a barrage of gunfire at your assailant. The merc ducked behind cover, but Bucky advanced relentlessly, forcing them to retreat.

It was a brief lull, enough for you to assess your shoulder. The scorch was painful, but you were still functional. You clutched the wound, adrenaline numbing the worst of it. You moved to follow Bucky and help finish off the threat—but the ground shuddered beneath you, and something big collapsed in the distance. You both turned just in time to see a building chunk—a literal chunk—of concrete and steel plunging from a compromised structure above.

“Move!” Bucky shouted, diving for you.

Debris rained down like meteorites. You two sprinted, but it was too fast, too big. The chunk struck the pavement with an explosive crash. Dust billowed. Something slammed into your leg; you stumbled, and Bucky grabbed you, shielding you with his body as smaller debris rained around you. When the dust settled, you found yourselves pinned in an alcove of collapsed concrete and twisted rebar—an impromptu cave that might hold or might decide to pancake you at any moment. Smoke and the acrid smell of burned metal choked the limited air.

Bucky immediately tested the edges, trying to see if there was a path out. His metal hand pressed against a slab, straining, but it didn’t budge. “Damn it,” he muttered, chest heaving.

You coughed, wiping grit from your eyes. “We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

His jaw tensed. “Looks like it. I’ll call for backup.” He tapped at his comm unit, but got nothing but static. The thick concrete overhead probably blocked the signal. He exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Guess we wait,” you said, a bitter laugh escaping you. “At least we won’t suffocate right away. The Avengers will figure something out.” Bucky looked at you, an entire storm of unresolved feelings swirling in his expression. For a split second, you both just stared, the tension almost tangible in the confined space. It reminded you uncomfortably of all the times you’d been close before—intimate, safe. Now it felt like the walls themselves might collapse under the weight of your unspoken conflict.

Bucky broke the silence first. “I—” He stopped, swallowing hard as if he couldn’t find words. Then he forged ahead. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t just stand here, trapped with you, and not say it. I’m sorry.”

You shut your eyes, heart twisting painfully. “Bucky, not now—”

“Yes, now.” His voice trembled, desperation cracking through. “You can punch me later if you want, but please, let me talk. Let me get this off my chest and then you can walk away. I promise I won't stop you." His words gave you pause, and Bucky took your silence as an opportunity to bear his heart.

“I love you,” he continued, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the day you told me you believed in me—when nobody else did. That’s never changed, I swear.”

Your pulse hammered. Anger bubbled up, along with a surge of grief. “You had a funny way of showing it,” you snapped. “Letting Steve—”

“That was the biggest mistake of my life,” Bucky interrupted, voice shaking. “He means nothing to me. Whatever we had was ancient history—an ugly, confusing tangle of war and desperation. I never wanted it again. He tricked me, cornered me, whatever you want to call it. But I should’ve told you about our past. I should’ve been honest instead of lying by omission. I messed up, and I see that now.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. The raw sincerity in his voice tore at your defenses. For the first time in weeks, you saw the Bucky you fell for: loyal, determined, quietly desperate to be better than his past. And trapped here under the rubble, both of you battered and dusty, it felt like all the anger you’d been clinging to was starting to crack.

“It hurts,” you whispered finally, tears stinging your eyes. “I gave you everything, and you shattered my trust.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping with defeat, and his tone dropped to a near-whisper. “I’ll do anything. I’ll go to Doctor Strange, Wanda—any mystic or telepath out there, I don’t care. If it takes a mindscan, memory walk, brain surgery—whatever it is—to prove I’ve never lied about my feelings for you, I’ll do it.”

Your stomach twisted. You searched his eyes—blue like stormy skies, swirling with regret and a spark of that old devotion. The sincerity in his offer rocked you. “You’d let them poke around in your head? After everything Hydra did to you?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said earnestly, steel in his gaze. “I want you to see that I only want you. I never once thought about going back to Steve. And God knows I’d cut him out of my life a thousand times if that was what I needed to do.”

Slowly, you exhaled. You could practically feel the anger and hurt warring inside you. Part of you wanted to rail at him, to demand more apologies, more proof. But another part—maybe the bigger part—realized how much you’d missed him, how your heart still beat irregularly whenever he was near. “Promise me,” you begged, voice shaky, “Promise me it’s over with him. That you’ll never keep secrets like that again.”

Bucky reached out, fingers trembling as he carefully took your hand. He didn’t force it, giving you every chance to yank away, but you didn’t. The contact was electric, familiar, and heartbreakingly comforting. “I promise.” He squeezed your hand, his grip firm but reverent. “I’ll break every tie with Steve if that’s what it takes. Hell, our friendship is already in pieces. I just—none of that matters compared to you.”

You nodded, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Then…okay. Let’s try again.”

It was all you could manage—your heart felt too bruised for grand gestures—but it was enough. Bucky’s expression shattered into profound relief. He let out a choked laugh, pulling you gently against his chest for the briefest of embraces. Despite the dust, the rubble, and the crisis, you melted into him just a little, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

“I missed you,” he breathed into your hair.

You pressed your forehead to his collarbone. “Yeah,” you whispered, tears and dust mixing. “I missed you too.”

The debris above groaned ominously, making you both jolt. But before panic set in, the chunk of concrete shifted, accompanied by a burst of red energy. You and Bucky shielded your eyes as Wanda’s powers lifted the collapsing walls away, letting sunlight—and fresh air—flood into your cramped hiding spot.

“Sheesh, you two cozy in there?” came Tony’s voice through the dust as he hovered nearby in his armor. “Hate to break up the cuddle session, but we’ve got cleaning duty to attend.”

Bucky helped you to your feet, and you both crawled out, coughing in the aftermath. The rest of the team, battered but intact, converged to check on you. Nat threw you a knowing glance, raising an eyebrow as if to say, So…does this mean you two kissed and made up? You rolled your eyes but didn’t refute it, which made her smirk.

Clint patted Bucky on the shoulder, muttering something about “playing hero.” Bucky gave a tired half-smile, his attention still mostly on you, ensuring you were okay. He gently guided your arm around his shoulder to help with your wounded side—though you were mostly fine, you weren’t going to argue with the contact.

As for Steve, he stood at a distance, looking like he wanted to approach but thinking better of it when Bucky shot him a warning glance. Tony landed, faceplate retracting. He took one look at you leaning into Bucky and waggled his eyebrows in mock scandal. “So, does that mean the wedding’s back on?”

You snorted, fighting a smile. “Shut up, Stark.”

Bucky shifted sheepishly, but the relief in his posture was palpable. “Thanks for the rescue,” he grunted, changing the subject hastily.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony replied. “Seriously, though, don’t. I have an image to maintain.”

A small chorus of snorts and chuckles broke through the tension. For the first time in weeks, you felt something dangerously close to happiness bloom in your chest. There was still a lot to unpack, a lot of work to rebuild trust, but in that moment—covered in dust, injuries aching—you felt hopeful.

Bucky caught your eye, and you offered a wry smile, letting your hand linger on his metal arm. He squeezed your fingers gently, just enough to say, We’ll figure this out. Together.

Back at the tower—or what remained of it after the fight—the med staff patched everyone up. Bucky hovered near you like a protective guard dog until you told him, in no uncertain terms, that you’d be fine. He still insisted on carrying your bag up to your room, though. And maybe you didn’t protest as much as you might have a few hours earlier.

Natasha and Clint exchanged bets on whether you two would be back to “gross lovey-dovey mode” by the end of the week. Sam swore he overheard you two laughing quietly in the hallway, and Tony—ever the showman—passed around a digital poll on whether you or Bucky would crack the first real I-Love-You post-reconciliation. (You, to Tony’s chagrin, took first place by a landslide.)

[resident-idiot-simp]

The Avengers reactions when they realize that Bucky and Steve our friends with Logan (and Wade because You can't have one without the other)

Ft: @orcadork4ever

Or another option they're hanging out with Laura in the Avengers are very confused because who is that child?

Clint walking into the tower

"Guys Bucky and Steve are hanging out with some kid in the park. I am confused because they act like they know this kid. Have any of you seen them with a kid?"

Tony: no??? How would they know just a random kid?

Clint: That's what I'm asking!?

However long later until Bucky and Steve come back

The other Avengers sitting and waiting for them: So who was that kid?

Steve and Bucky:??? What are you talking about

Clint: I saw you hanging out with a kid in the park.

Bucky: OH you mean Laura.

Tony: Laura???

Steve: Yeah Laura she's an old friends kid

Natasha: You two have friends?

Od: Bucky: She’s Peter’s friend and just so happens to be out friends’ kid

Tony: Wait Peter knows her?!

Steve and Bucky: yes? Did you guys not know about her?

Avengers: NO!

Steve: ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I don't know what to tell you Laura's great

Bucky: She's hysterical she's just like her father... For better or worse... Usually worse

Steve: usually worse

Bruce: Wait so who is her father?

Bucky: Logan

Avengers: ?????

Steve: You guys know Logan

Clint:... Are you sure about that?

Steve: Yes I'm confident he's Logan

Bucky: laughs yeah that's about right

Tony: okay I give up who exactly is Logan since apparently we know him

Steve and Bucky: Wolverine

Avengers: ?!

Bucky and Steve: It's not that big of a deal

Tony: It is though!

Clint:... Wait If you know Wolverine....

Natasha:......do you know...

Steve: sigh He's not actually that bad

Clint and Natasha: Yes he is

Bucky: Really he's not. If you just talk to him long enough without being actively hostile

Bruce: backup who are you talking about

Od:

Bucky: Wilson. Wade Wilson.

Steve: Wade’s an acquired taste.

Bruce: Okaaaay. But what’s his other name.

Steve: sigh ….. Deadpool

Tony: HOW THE HELL DOES KNOWING WOLVERINE RELATE TO KNOWING DEADPOOL??

Bucky: Well, they’re married. That’s the wedding up in Westchester we went to last fall.

Me:

Tony horrified: THEY'RE MARRIED?!

Steve: to be honest they were made for one another

Bucky: They really were. You should see them together it's.... I don't think there's a better match

Natasha: I still have a hard time believing it

Clint: Yeah I mean considering Deadpool is.... Deadpool

Steve: If you've seen them together you'd understand. I don't think I've seen two people more in love.

Tony: You're joking right This is a joke where are the cameras we're being filmed right like haha.

Natasha and Clint: no he's not joking This is common knowledge in the underground

Bruce: What do you mean this is common knowledge?

Clint: Everyone has a story of seeing them with a tongue down the others throat or something.

Natasha: or you know someone who's seen it.

Clint: Or that

Bruce:....have you seen it

Clint: I haven't

Natasha: I definitely have. Was scoping out someone that they had a hit on. I never want to see that again

Tony:.. I hate this can we go back to before I knew this

Steve: hahaha it's funny that opinion comes from all angles Laura also hates it

Bucky: why might should clarify that. She hates She's subjected to it as much as she is.

Steve: oh no yeah she, Vanessa, and Althea are all very happy for them. It's just since she has his mutation they can't really hide stuff.

Bucky: shutters imagine having to go to that mansion of teenagers and being able to smell everything

Tony: I'm horrified about everything I've just learned

Od:

Bucky: Wade said that even if they air out the house for a full 48 hours she can still smell it. So they’ve compromised on designated areas where she just Doesn’t Go.

Peter: swinging in Hey everyone. What’s up?

Tony: WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUT WITH A MERCENARY?!

Pepper: Tony just found out about Laura, Logan, and Wade and is about to have a heart attack. Tony. Breathe. You’re fine. Peter’s fine.

Tony: HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!

Peter: Um. I’m really okay, Mr. Stark. They’re really cool. So is everyone at Xavier’s.

Me:

Peter: oh I have a picture I took of them cuddling on the couch. Honestly they are I've of the healthiest couples I've seen. Shows Tony the picture

Tony:.... I'm dreaming this is a dream

Bruce:... Honestly that's not as surprising as I thought it would be to hear

Steve: Honestly yeah it's wild just how good they are to each other

Bucky: except for the stabbing

Steve: Honestly I'm not convinced that's unhealthy.

Bucky: Good point

Natasha and Clint sharing a look before speaking: You guys have no idea what they did to the underground when they got together

Bruce: oh?

Clint: It's like they've gotten better. Which is insane to say considering it's Deadpool and Wolverine

Natasha nodding: they're more efficient now. People just got up and left gave up completely at being a mercenary.

Od:

Peter: And they’re really good with the kids.

Bruce: I thought they only had Laura?

Peter: No, no, they do. But they kind of like half-adopt everyone? Like, the Professor built extra housing near the mansion for them and a lot of the students hang out there instead of the school because it’s quieter. I’m a kit as far as Logan’s concerned. Laura says I was one of the first people he decided was Pack.

Tony: Kit? Pack?

Peter: Oh! He and Laura are Ferals. Mutants who are more animalistic. I kind of fit into that category but not entirely since I’m a mutate.

Me:

Bruce:.... Ok I'll admit this is fascinating want to elaborate more. What does it entail exactly to be a feral

Peter smiling: Ok so there are a spectrum of them in two separate categories, pray and predators. It's pretty much what you expect each group has traits that are more predator like or more prey like.

Tony:... ok

Peter: Now This is a very small subsection of mutants about 5%. Of that only 1%-1.5% survive to adulthood.

Clint:... Okay I didn't know that's statistic what the hell?

Peter shrugging: They usually die when they're kids and first mutate. Normally the more extreme or higher on the spectrum the more likely they die. Specifically predators because of the fight or flight instinct.

Natasha: that makes sense kid with claws or teeth get corner cuz they have no idea what's happening?

Tony: It's like cornering a wild animal.

Peter: If they lash out and kill someone you think they care about taking their life considering they are a mutant?

Bruce slightly horrified: and if they ran off a kid that young can't survive by themselves

Peter: Exactly that's why most of them don't survive. Logan is an anomaly. If it wasn't for his healing factor he would have died when he was a child. He and thus Laura are pretty much the most extreme you can get on the predator side.

Tony: Wait pause what is Laura get lumped in there? Doesn't mutation not carry alone genes? Isn't it just randomized and luck of the draw if you're like your parents?

Steve and Bucky: She's a clone

Tony and Bruce: What?!

Peter: Yep just didn't end up quite right She's got three claws but the middle one of each hand is in her foot. Also she's a woman.

Steve: She really is his clone though down to her personality

Peter: Anyway ferals usually take on traits of a specific animal though there are some general things. Logan in general though really is a Wolverine. He growls, purrs, scents people and things, and has fangs to name a few things.

Natasha: It's a bit freaky

Od:

Peter: No more freaky than me walking on the ceiling and having Velcro hands

Natasha: Touché

Tony: Okay. Okay. deep breath Summing all of this up to make sure I’ve got this right. Cap and Buck served with Logan in World War II because he’s like 200 years old now. He’s also a feral mutant who has animalistic tendencies and claws that come out of his hands. Laura is a clone of him except her claws are two on each hand and one on each foot and she’s female. Logan is somehow married to THE most notorious and inappropriate mercenaries in the world who is “not that bad and is good with kids.” And they both think of you as part of their family.

Peter: nodding Yeah, pretty much~ Got it in one, Mr. Stark~

Pepper: calling out from the kitchen And Peter has been hanging out with them and the students at Xavier’s.

Peter: Yeah? Is… that a bad thing?

Pepper: No, sweetie. It’s great that you’re getting to talk with other mutants your age.

FRIDAY: Boss, your blood pressure and heart rate are elevated far above your usual values.

Tony: I’m well aware of that, FRI. shaking like a chihuahua

It won’t hit for him until he sees them interact and sees Wade with their shared kid

Tony: You better not be killing anyone around him.

Wade: He already asked me not to, don’t need you cock blocking me too Iron Dad

Me:

Tony:... Are you insinuating you get off on it

Wade: You do not want to know the list of things that get me and Peanut off

Tony: I hate you

Wade: Love you too

Tony is truly surprised though at how good Wade is with kids. He turns down his personality quite a bit to accommodate younger ears.

Wade had caught him steering dumbfoundedly and had just shrugged. "You know I always wanted kids"

Tony wouldn't have believed that before but he does now

Od:

Wade: My exie bestie Vanessa and I tried. But it didn’t work. And then I got El Super Cancer so that pretty much wiped out any chance there. And that was before the experimentation and torture. So… takes a drink They’re not mine by blood. But they’re mine, y’know?

Tony: nodding slowly, watching Peter across the room I think I do…

~~~~

(Addition because I fucked up posting this originally and you deserve more for that)

*Much later after they meet and someone asks a question about another feral existing (I'm not copy pasting anymore I'm so tired you have no idea it is almost 1:00)*

Bruce: okay what was the deal with asking about another feral mutant?

Peter:... I don't know the whole story and I hope I never hear it....but. Do you know who Sabertooth is?

Tony: The other big mutant with claws?

Peter: That's Logan's brother

Everyone out of the know: I'M SORRY?!

Steve:... Yeah Creed, depraved monster is what he is. Shit he said? The shit he did?

Bucky: I still shudder to remember that.

Bruce: What exactly did he do?

Bucky:.... He fuck...he was abusive to say the least.

Steve: abuse is a very nice word for whatever the hell that was.

Bucky: IS he's still alive

Peter: shutters

Tony: Okay so it was worse than abuse? And you guys saw it?

Bucky: They both served we only saw Victor once. It was... It was bad

Steve: He was physically abusive at the minimum and Logan just allowed it.

Clint: I have a hard time picturing that

Bucky: You have to remember that they've known each other for 200 years.

Clint: and in that time he still allows it?

Steve: You don't know the whole picture. I don't think any of us do except for maybe Wade. But it's more complicated than you're thinking.

Bucky: The physical abuse was negligible to literally everything else. I mean there's no good way to put it besides the fact that he was groomed by Victor since he was a child

Tony: holy shit that's disgusting! What the hell?! What the hell?! You mean like... You don't mean like that.. You don't right?

Steve: I mean... I don't think it ever went that far but.... The stuff he said to Logan?

Bucky: and Logan's reactions? Logan hated it he was horrified. But he just...let Victor say what he did with minimal backlash.

Steve: Victor's older than him. I'm pretty sure he helped raise him from what I've learned

Natasha:.... Jesus Christ

Clint: never mind fuck dude

Bucky: yeah the one time we saw them together we couldn't separate them. And trust me we tried

Steve: we really did but Victor is possessive. I wonder genuinely how he sees Logan.

Bucky: I fucking don't

Tony:... I hate everything I have learned. You should have left me in the dark actually.

Bruce: You're saying he still alive? Wade is allowing that?

Peter: I'm pretty sure if he pops back up he's not going to be able to take another breath

Od: Bucky: before he had Logan alone. Isolated. He wasn’t close with anyone. But now… now he’s got people in his corner. He shows his face again and I’ll help Wade rip his head off myself.

Peter: I have a sneaking suspicion It's the pack instinct that made Logan go along with it. It's some skewed sense of loyalty

Steve: I'm inclined to agree Logan was fully aware I know that and he hated every moment of it. I feel like you also have to remember that any person that got close to died of old age eventually. It's not like he had options

Bucky: Also didn't help that whoever he got close to miraculously died

Steve: and there's that sigh Logan never had a chance

Peter: He has one now though. He has a family now The core of which is as immortal as him

Clint: And as capable as him. Is it weird that I want to spar with them?

Peter: grinning Nah, it’s fun~ and it’s fun to watch them spar. Logan moves like it’s natural and Wade has this grace in how he fights. I’m surprised he was never a dancer and that he never took it up.

Bucky: snorts

Peter: You know somethin

Bucky: I know something

Peter: which one of them

Bucky: which one do you think

Peter:.... Wade

Bucky: yep

Peter:... There's more to that

Steve: Vanessa

Peter: OH! NO ACTUALLY THAT MAKES SENSE

Tony:????

Od: Tony: Do I want to know whatever you’re about to tell me whether I want to know it or not?

Peter: Vanessa was a stripper

Tony: slow blink

Natasha: OH her yeah shit he tore the underground apart that one time someone kidnapped her

Clint: Yeah she's on the don't touch list to this day because of that

Bruce: who exactly is she?

Steve: Wade's ex fiancé. Their best friends still. Hell I think Logan might like her more than Wade does

Bucky: how can you not love her? She's great.

Peter: Oh she's wonderful.

(This will probably become a fic)

Tag: @secretmarvelsideblog @amethyst-loves-bucky

[decayingearf]

Steel and Sparks

(warnings: suggestive, pent-up tension)

you hadn’t anticipated to be paired with anyone let alone, the winter soldier.

nothing wrong with him in particular but you come from different backgrounds entirely. you, raised to be a killing machine—they point, you shoot.

bucky, raised in a loving home surrounded by friends and family. not as if you were one upping him though, even if you were, he’d win. you can’t downplay his sob story as anything else.

still, how you were raised taught you to never rely on anyone else to help you. ever.

“you’re bucky” you stated as you waltzed into the vacant building eyeing the man with every step you took. “ fury already told me everything-“ he responded not even bothering to hide his uninterested tone before rising to his feet and walking towards the door, stopping just short of it. “we need to be going, the drop is happening soon” the man finished while walking the rest of the way out.

“what a dick” you mumble for turning around and following his path.

23:00 hours (11:00 pm)

gunfire erupted behind you as you and bucky sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, boots slamming against the concrete. the mercenaries were fast—but you and bucky were faster.

“this is why I said not to blow our cover,” you huffed, dodging a spray of bullets as bucky yanked you around a corner.

“i didn’t blow anything,” he shot back, metal arm flexing as he shoved a crate down behind you to slow your pursuers. “they were already onto us.”

another round of shots cracked through the air. you barely had time to react before bucky grabbed your wrist and yanked you into a narrow passageway between two buildings. the space was tight—so tight that you had to press up against him as you squeezed through the dark gap.

“move,” you whispered urgently, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

“i am moving,” bucky muttered, his breath warm against your ear as he shifted, trying to fit his broad frame through the space. “maybe if you weren’t taking up so much room—”

you jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “shut up and squeeze through.”

footsteps thundered past the entrance of the alley, and both of you went still, bodies pressed together in the confined space. you held your breath, waiting, listening.

after a tense moment, the mercenaries’ voices faded into the distance.

bucky exhaled. “tight spaces. new favorite hiding spot.”

you glared at him. “move before I decide to leave you stuck here.”

with a smirk, he finally maneuvered his way through, and as soon as you were free, you shot him a look.

“next time,” you said, brushing dust off your jacket, “i’m leading.”

bucky just chuckled, rolling his shoulders. “sure, sweetheart. whatever makes you feel better.”

24:00 hours (12:00 pm)

your back hit the cold brick wall of the alley as you caught your breath, heart still hammering from the chase. bucky stood in front of you, just as breathless, his body close—too close.

“you good?” he asked, voice lower than usual, thick with adrenaline.

you swallowed hard, nodding. “yeah. you?”

instead of answering, he smirked, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. his fingers, cool from the night air, lingered a second too long against your skin.

“you were slow back there,” he murmured.

your brows shot up. “slow?”

“mhm.” he shifted closer, his chest nearly brushing yours. “maybe i should start training you. get you used to… tight spaces.”

you scoffed, even as heat curled low in your stomach. “pretty sure i handled myself just fine.”

bucky tilted his head, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “i don’t know… looked like you needed my help more than once.”

your pulse jumped, and you weren’t sure if it was still the adrenaline or something else entirely.

slowly, deliberately, you leaned up—just enough to let your breath ghost against his lips. “keep talking, barnes, and i’ll show you exactly how well I handle myself.”

his smirk deepened. “i might just take you up on that, sweetheart.”

just as you look up to respond you see nick fury speed up. “get in” he demanded nodding towards the back of the car.

damn you and your shitty timing, fury.

[purifiedclitoris69]

A/n: Just something completely random, a little dry, quite ass, but I figured I'd get something small outta my drafts (they are starting to pile up with unfinished ideas sooo idk what to do bout thatl lol). Thank you for all the support on In It Together wasn't expecting that but it is very much appreciated. Love ya! hope you enjoy ;)

Your head rested on Natasha’s thigh arms wrapped around in tow, as you absentmindedly drew shapes on her soft skin, and her hands played in your hair as she read a book aloud. You two were in a more quiet part of the compound, small warm common room that often went looked over. Rain fell gently on the window, as you two took in the presence of one another.

The two most feared on the avengers, so soft for one another. You were a mercenary, you had a vegence that made many deem you a villain, but no one knew the full truth but Nat. You went through, physical and mental torture by both your parents and handlers, it drove you mad, fractured your mind. But the avengers had saved you over 3 years ago, Nat had saved you. Many still feared you, your teammates a little intimidated by your brooding quiet nature and brute strength, but seeing you wrapped around the widow like a koala, you looked at peace.

Unnoticed by the two of you, Bucky, Peter, and Sam stood in the hall absolutely jaw dropped.

“no shot that’s actually them,” Sam whisper shouted to the two.

“shhhh,” Peter said scared the two would see them, “i think it’s cute,” he whispered as Bucky just smiled amused.

“you know with enhanced strength comes enhanced hearing,” Bucky laughed walking away.

“you two mention this to anyone and i’ll hunt you from the shadows until you lose your minds,” you spoke not moving from your position

Sam and Peter’s eyes went wide as Parker mumbled out a “Yes ma’am.”

Sam choking out and, “understood,” pulling Parker away from the both of you.

Nat laughed continuing to play with your hair, “when are you gonna let them know how much of a softie you are.”

“mm never,” you smiled turning your face into her thigh and leaving a soft kiss, “it’s only for you.”

She put her book down enough to look at your face as you blushed looking back at her, “your ridiculous,” she smiled as her face blushed to match yours.

“then why are you blushing,” you laughed crawling up her body as she brought her book back up to cover her face, “can’t hide,” you pulled the book down winking at her all cheesy as you both broke out in laughter.

“you are such a cornball,” she giggled like a school girl, putting the book down and pulling you on top of her instead as you both broke out in to belly laughter.

“disgusting,” Yelena said with Clint shaking his head and smiling standing by her side.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (9)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: mentions of dead parents, betrayal; arrogance and ignorance of mankind; sexism; talk of arranged marriage

Author’s Note: Next part for y'all. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Lying in a bed feels different now.

The mattress underneath you is impossibly soft. It sinks under your weight as if meant to cradle you into dreams like a cloud. The cool silken sheets glide over your skin in a way meant to be soothing but it merely leaves your skin itchy.

The blankets are thick and warm, layered with care for a comfort that borders on indulgence. Lavender lingers faintly on the fabric, intentional yet in one breath so very subtle, crafted solely to lull royalty into ease.

It’s everything a princess should have - a sanctuary of opulence, security, and rest.

But you hate it.

You loathe the softness. Hate that it yields and molds itself to your body instead of standing against it, as if the wilderness that grew within your bones on the journey needs to be tamed now. The sheets feel like chains because they suffocate you with their plushness, weighted with all the memories of who you used to be.

And the warmth is all wrong.

Bucky’s fires were wild, flickering, unpredictable, crackling under a starlit sky. Their heat was honest and real, earned with careful tending and cold nights that made you appreciate the blaze all the more.

The warmth in your new chambers now feels artificial, orchestrated by servants who stoked it before you could even realize you’re cold.

It is insufferable.

You roll onto your back, fixedly gazing at the canopied ceiling above you. It is decorated with golden-threaded patterns spiraling and weaving into meaningless flourishes.

Your chambers back at the palace had looked so much the same.

The walls were thick with privilege and the air perfumed by fresh-cut lilies brought in by servants each morning. You remember sprawling across your bed without a care in the world, lulled by the soft rustle of silk curtains drawn against the daylight. You lived encased in velvet luxury. One of your biggest burdens once was which gown to wear to court or what pleasantries to exchange with noble suitors you never cared for.

This castle, such a reflection of the life you abandoned weeks ago - a life of pompous splendor and ignorance.

How did that life ever fit you?

You think of the palace halls, the wide ceilings. The footsteps of knights and guards walking around and shadowing your steps. The way you never questioned where the food on your golden plates came from or why your wardrobe was endless. Servants slinked in and out of your days, assisting you, and you took that for granted and never really saw them too clearly.

But now, after the forest, after Bucky, after everything - you cannot unsee it.

You’ve walked through a town where women bartered over bread with smiles despite knowing it might be their only meal for the day. Where men bore calloused hands from labor that ensured someone else’s comfort - your comfort

They had so little, yet there was joy in the way they lived. Real joy, the kind that doesn’t come from silken sheets or golden chandeliers but from togetherness and resilience.

Shame threads through you, sliding through your veins so smoothly but making your muscles twitch.

Bucky would hate this bed.

The thought is so unexpected, your breath stutters. But you linger on it.

He would have scoffed at the unnecessary extravagance, muttering something gruff about practicality while tossing down a rough fabric over hard earth without complaint. You recall how he would brush the twigs and leaves aside that got stuck on his clothes over the night.

The forest was harsh, but it was real. You earned every night’s sleep there, even if it was fitful and cold. The ache in your muscles was proof that you had lived through the day, not simply existed within a cocoon of simplicity.

This bed is a lie.

It is trying to lull you back into a world where comfort was abundant and hardship was for other people - the townsfolk whose existence has been so distant to you.

You had seen the hollow-eyed hunger of some and the contentment of others in this kind of life. Children ran barefoot through those dusty streets, with laughter bright and untrained, unbound by the rigid decorum that had ruled your own childhood.

They hadn’t cared about courtly manners - not showing too much teeth, not letting your laugh carry - or straight postures.

They cared about playing with one another, chasing each other through the streets, petting the dogs of others, and feeling the warmth of the community.

It has shaken you.

And those truths are crushing you lying here in this bed that cradles your body but not your spirit.

Your father’s lies. The lies that had propped up your kingdom. His image of a realm prosperous and just, all but shattered by the reality of its struggling people. And you were blind to it all.

Bucky’s past as a soldier in that same kingdom's army, forced to serve under a king who cared more for appearances than for the lives beneath his rule. The scars Bucky bears have been engraved by your father - a debt paid in blood and pain.

You spent your life with the preparations to rule one day. And that made sense. Because you are the damn princess.

But you no longer feel like it.

How are you supposed to step back into that role, knowing what you know now? How can you sit on a throne draped in opulence when the people beyond this castle scrape by with so little?

You press your palms against your eyes. The warm air stumbles in your throat.

You no longer are a princess surrounded by the finest things this country has to offer. You are someone who has walked through hardship, who has seen the fractures of your kingdom and felt the twinge of guilt for not knowing sooner.

You have tasted the freedom of the wild and the wailing ache of loss.

Nothing in this world, not even the smoothest silks nor the softest pillow, will make you forget what you have seen and learned.

Harshly, you toss the covers aside and sit up. The warmth of the bed will never be able to comfort you - it hasn’t the whole night, and it probably won’t ever again.

Your feet swing over the side, feet brushing against the lush rug beneath you.

The bath you were practically forced to take the evening before has been warm. Too warm. Scalding against skin that grew accustomed to the cool bite of stream water and hurried scrubs with rough cloths and soap under moonlight.

The strong smell of lavender and rose petals overwhelmed your senses. The maids who attended to you poured oils into the water, softly explaining how it would restore your softness and soothe away the dirt from your travels.

You sunk into it because you were expected to. But it worked too well. The water had softened your skin but it also scrubbed away something else. The grime of the journey, the smoke from countless fires, and the roughness of the forest floor were stripped from your skin. But instead of renewed you felt hollowed out.

Clean, yes. But in a painful way. As if you had been peeled open and laid bare, filed down to fit into this polished, perfect world you no longer feel you belong to.

The cloying oils only stayed sticking to your skin.

And the maids insisted on brushing your hair out until it gleamed like mahogany.

Now, golden morning light trickles through tall windows, brushing tiny swirls across your untouched breakfast tray.

You keep sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the silken nightgown piled across your knees, heart filled with foreboding.

Despite the warmth of the bed and the comfort it should provide, rest has evaded you entirely. Your thoughts were too loud. Too much. Circling endlessly in a maze without exists.

There is a knock at the doors and then they come.

The three maids from yesterday evening enter in hushed formation with polite smiles on their faces. Their steps are light. They bow slightly, greeting you with carefully measured tones. Like they know nothing else but say those words.

You do not greet them back.

The maids must see the dark shadows under your eyes, the pallor of your skin, but their smiles never waver.

They only descend upon you with gentle hands, guiding you toward the vanity without a word about your state. They move as though choreographed.

It makes you want to scream.

You stare into the mirror, catching sight of your reflection. A stranger looks back at you. A girl with dull and sunken eyes, with likes on her forehead and lips pressed to a frown.

Your maids see a princess in need of restoration, a figurehead who must be embellished until she is flawlessly shining.

But all you see is a fraud.

Nausea curls in your stomach as they begin to brush and tame your hair, pinning it into place, fingers deft but impersonal. One smooths a fine powder over your face and another sorts out a gown for you.

The way they move without complaint, without hesitation, their entire existence seemingly dedicated to making you presentable makes you wring your hands in your lap in unease.

They smile politely, but those smiles never really touch their eyes. They are so composed and respectful. Standing there and moving so practiced, smoothing creams onto your face and fastening delicate pins into your hair, all while you feel like you are going to lose it.

You stare at them. They are not people here. Not in the way that matters. You think about their will, their hopes, their dreams - all stuffed out by duty, extinguished in favor of caring for others. For you.

The gown a brunette girl has selected is extravagant. Layers of silk and brocade in hues of deep indigo and gold shimmering under the morning light. They lace you into it tightly, the bodice cinching your ribs until your breath comes shallow.

You forgot how restricting these dresses were, how they demanded perfect posture and composure. You miss your blue dress. It’s still ruined and dirty, but god, do you want to step into it.

You grip the edge of the vanity as they finish their work, your nails pressing into the glossy wood. You glance down at your hands - clean, soft, and manicured now. The dirt under your nails, the callouses that had begun to form from days of travel, are gone. Erased.

But you refuse to forget what you learned there. It hums beneath your skin.

Another brunette maid steps back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. You believe her name is Lady Maximoff.

“You look lovely, your Highness,” she says, voice gentle and deferential.

Lovely.

The word is sour as you swallow it down.

You do not feel lovely. You feel like the only thing left of you is the husk. Like the one of a fruit. Dusty and bitter. And inside is a nasty wound of something rampant that can’t break free with all the excessive embellishments you are dressed in.

They have prepared you for something. But no one has told you what awaits you now that you are here. For what you have been dressed up like this.

You had been sent here immediately upon your arrival, ordered to get cleaned up and ensure that no one saw you in your disheveled, dirty state.

God forbid anyone witness you as a human being.

The princess must be immaculate. Flawless. A symbol. A shining representation of what you only ever felt like in the forest - a real woman.

You have been scrubbed, and dressed to meet expectations you no longer want to fulfill.

The room is filled with the rustle of silk as they continue to fuss around you. Your hair just pinned so, gown cinched to perfection, shoes soft against the floor but lined with elegance. You only listen halfway to their murmurs - until their conversation breaks through your restive thoughts.

“He will fall for you in an instant,” a maid with dark blond waves says with a wistful sigh, pausing as she smooths the delicate sleeves of your gown.

“Truly,” the first brunette agrees, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “He will not stand a chance.”

You blink, caught off guard by their words. A spark of confusion vibrates through you. He? Who is he?

Before you can voice your question, Lady Maximoff speaks up, her voice softer than the others but not less certain. “Indeed, my lady.” Her tone is dipped in honeyed courtesy. “And who wouldn’t? You are radiant, your Highness. He will see it plainly.”

He.

Your mind stumbles over the pronoun. You don’t know who they are speaking of but the implication deeply unnerves you. The warmth in their voices feels misplaced, like praise bestowed too early upon a battle yet to be fought.

“Who are you talking about?”

The room falls into a sudden, stifling silence.

The maids freeze, hands hovering mid-air. They exchange wide-eyed glances.

Lady Maximoff flushes, color blooming high on her cheeks. The other two avert their eyes, their hands growing fidgety as they return to fussing over folds of fabric that need no further adjustment.

“I- I misspoke, your Highness,” the first brunette stammers, her voice unsure. She grows a little pale in the bright light.

The blonde fumbles with a silk ribbon, suddenly engrossed in tying it into a bow.

The sudden shift in their demeanor - the slight panic in the air, the flustered silence - tightens something deep within your stomach.

Your pulse quickens. The unease that hasn’t left you since your arrival sends a shiver crawling along your spine, dragging it out so painstakingly slowly.

“Who is he?” you press, firmer this time. “Who are you speaking of?”

But the maids refuse to meet your eyes. They avoid them with such determination - or perhaps fear - a prickling tension grips your throat.

Possibilities race through your mind, none of them comforting. They know something you don’t, and it plagues your nerves like a hushed murmur you can’t quite understand.

You force your voice softer, but the edge of demand remains. “Please. Tell me.”

But the three girls are already moving, gathering up their tools and fabric swatches briskly.

“Forgive us, your Highness,” Lady Maximoff voices, but her tone is marked by her nervousness. “We have lingered too long in idle talk.”

Their refusal to answer only makes the implications of their words so much for dreadful. Who is he? And why would he care for your appearance, your supposed radiance?

Is this some courtly nonsense you’ve been removed from for too long? Or something worse - a scheme in the dark shapes of politics and power, hidden even from you?

“The time presses,” the blond girl rushes, briefly meeting your eyes. The brunette reaches for the door handle, her knuckles pale against the wood.

The other two guide you gently but firmly forward, herding you like a lamb to some unknown fate. They stay silent now, their gazes fixed elsewhere, as though avoiding your eyes will erase the guilt of their loose tongues.

The maids only curtsy hastily, stepping back, their duty done. Lips pressed into polite, impenetrable smiles. They leave you standing there, alone with your frightful premonition.

They know something you don’t. Something you are not meant to know yet. And that ignorance feels dangerous.

Whatever they know, it concerns you.

And it isn’t good.

At least, not for you.

****

Each step you take echoes through the ornate corridors. Their paths are winding and bright and gleaming under the soft glow of scones and you feel like squeezing your eyes shut to escape the sight.

But you could not get rid of the smell of wax and polished wood, including the faint metallic tang of dread that keeps your shoulders stiff and your hands clammy.

Two guards flank you, their boots heavy against the floor and their faces so utterly impassive.

You’ve asked them where you are being led, demanded to know who awaits you. But each question was met with cold silence. They neither acknowledge you nor spare you a glance, despite your rank.

And with a shiver that creeps along your spine, you come to the conclusion that they aren’t ignoring you out of insolence but out of duty - because they were instructed not to answer.

Your fists clench at your side, heart pounding erratically.

Your nerves coil tighter with each step. The soft rustle of your gown feels constricting and oppressive against your skin. You want nothing more than to claw it off and return to the freedom of simple tunics and sturdy boots that had carried you through the forest. But that was snatched away the moment you crossed through the castle gates and were swept back into this world of titles, propriety, and veiled threats.

Anxiety clutches onto your chest, making you take in a harsh breath through the tight corset.

You pass through a towering archway flanked by more guards who straighten at your approach.

Chandeliers gleam overhead, casting fractured light across a grand hall teeming with courtiers, nobles, and officials. Conversation dulls to a hush as all eyes turn to you.

This is not just about courtly pleasantries or some ceremonial welcome. You are being presented.

Your skin prickles at their assessing gazes. They are so mixed. Some full of curiosity, pity, and sympathy, others filled with suspicion, contempt, disregard, and a few handful of inscrutable expressions.

You detest them all the same.

At the far end of the hall stands a dais, draped in rich velvet, where a throne rises. Seated beside it is a man who must be the king of this domain, his bearing regal but rigid. An elder advisor beside him whispers something into his ear. His expression is stony.

There is a figure standing before the dais, sharp eyes staring you down. He is tall and lean-muscled in formal attire. There is a certain air of arrogance surrounding this man.

His face is handsome in a polished way, his strong nose crooked slightly, dark and thick brows lining his forehead. But there is a detachment in his eyes that has you swallow hard. He watches you intensely, weighing your worth.

And something hits you then. A metaphorical punch to the gut. A thought in your mind. Maybe he is the man those maids have spoken of.

You keep your expression composed but your skin is boiling in panic. It’s so hot and ferocious, but you grip it with trembling fingers and shove it down where it can’t break free yet.

A herald steps forward. His voice booms through the hall. He sounds ceremonious and impersonal, stripping you bare with each syllable. “Her Royal Highness, the princess of the Western Realm, presented before His Majesty and the Court.”

Your title feels foreign in your ears and you keep yourself from grimacing. Those words do not belong to you. At least, not anymore. They are relics of a life fractured by survival and grief, paraded for spectacle.

The man who has been watching you so intently descends the dais gracefully and moves towards you. He stops at a respectful distance. His face is striking indeed. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that glint with intent. And you don’t like any of it.

He bows slightly, but there is no warmth in that gesture. It’s for mere formality.

“Your Highness,” he greets, his voice smooth but devoid of true feeling.

You bring yourself to curtsy, though your legs tremble beneath you. “My Lord,” you manage. But it sounds detached.

He does not take his eyes off you. Studying you keenly. “You must be wondering why you’ve been summoned.”

“I would appreciate some clarity, my Lord,” you reply, keeping your tone measured.

“This arrangement was decreed long ago, in the event of” - his lips curl faintly - “unforeseen circumstances.”

Your skin crawls at the way he says it. Your blood turns to ice. “What arrangement?”

“Our marriage.”

Your next inhale fractures, broken by shock. Every nerve in your body stiffens with resistance.

“I was not informed of this arrangement,” you grit out but manage to sound calmer than you feel.

“There was no need for you to be informed,” he replies evenly and you just feel like throwing a dagger at him. “The matter was decided long ago.”

Before you can answer, the king's voice sounds out. “This union was ordained by the late king, your father, as a safeguard for the realm. We honor his wisdom today.”

Your breath leaves your lungs in a harsh exhale. So it is true. Your father had orchestrated this. Even in his death, his will reached out to bind you to a fate you had no say in.

This man standing before you is not a person but a sentence. The embodiment of your father’s final decree.

Even in death, you are bound to the legacy he built. A legacy of lies and cover-ups and manipulation.

Your mother could not possibly have known about this arrangement. She fought for you in her own ways. They were quiet at times but fierce. Always seeking to preserve the humanity that the crown sought to crush.

Beside the king, the elder advisor nods solemnly. “It was a measure of great prudence, your Highness. One that ensures stability in these uncertain times.”

Prudence. Stability. Cold words to mask the truth. That you are a pawn moved across a board without giving you the decency of knowledge.

Again, your life is being bartered like a mere commodity. You’ve come to expect it but not this way. This is so much worse than anything you conjured up in your head.

Desperation settles in your chest. “This was my fathers doing?” You don’t even know why you ask. Why you let it confirm to yourself another godforsaken time, but you don’t know what to do.

“His foresight ensured the survival of the realm. You should take pride in fulfilling his legacy.” The tone of the king is hard.

You almost scoff.

Your chest burns with the urge to let out your rage. But there is that familiar chokehold keeping you silent. The one forged in your childhood.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a few nobles exchanging glances.

The court is a stage and you are the unwilling actor thrust into the spotlight.

How come you are shoved back into this duty so quickly without a single blink after all that had happened?

You crave the shelter of the woods, the trees around you that would hide you from the rest of the world. The taste of freedom you barely begun to savor. Bucky as the only companion you need. Bucky as the only man you need.

But you’re back and instantly choked by your crown.

You cannot let this be your end - a fate dictated by a man who is no longer even alive.

“Your Highness?” the man in front of you prompts, tone measuredly polite but firm.

You lift your chin and gaze to the king, forcing steel into your voice. “I wish to speak with the Lord privately, your Majesty,” you declare, ignoring the murmurs rippling through the hall.

The king's brows furrow, but he inclines his head curtly. “Very well. Lord Ward, see to it.”

So that is his name. Lord Ward. The name of the man your father had chosen for you without your consent.

He extends his arm toward a side passage. “This way, your Highness.”

Briefly glancing back at the court where eyes still linger on you, you follow Lord Ward.

Guards follow you at a distance.

****

The castle gardens aren’t as extensive as the palace gardens had been.

But they are verdant under a sky tinted by the light of the sun.

Vines tangle up trellises, and roses bloom in bursts of crimson and gold.

Neatly pruned hedges line the paths.

A shallow breeze tugs at your skirts. The air is filled with floral sweetness.

The forest smelled of damp earth, pine, and wildflowers. This place is pristine, but it feels so lifeless. So unreal. So fake.

Just like the man walking beside you - your apparent betrothed.

He let you choose the path to the castle grounds, but he does not offer his hand, not incline his head with true respect.

He seems to try and mark his authority with every brisk stride, making it seem that this entire charade is an inconvenience he means to see through as swiftly as possible.

You refrain from rolling your eyes.

His name is not unfamiliar to you. Grant Ward, Lord Commander of the Northern Territories. You know of his self-importance and immodesty in council chambers, the firm clutch he maintains on treaties and taxation.

He is not the kind of man you take to feed the ducks by the pond.

You have not imagined your father would bargain your future to him. Although you might as well have guessed it after the things you found out about the man.

Lord Ward gestures toward a secluded alcove where a marble bench waits, its surface cold and white. “Sit, your Highness.” There is stiffness in his voice. A command.

You ignore it and the bench altogether. “I prefer to stand.”

His brow twitches, but he keeps his dissatisfaction composed. “As you wish.”

He turns his head slightly and allows his gaze to sweep over you. He is scrutinizing you as if you are a document in need of review.

“I suppose you find this arrangement disagreeable.” His voice is controlled. There is a low hum of amusement in his tone. But it’s nothing like Bucky’s has been. It’s darker.

You keep your expression a wall, though your shoulders draw tighter. “You suppose correctly, my lord.”

He huffs out a laugh, though the sound lacks warmth. As does his thin smile. “Honest. I can appreciate that.”

You don’t care if he does.

But you know better than to say that out loud.

The path bends toward a fountain, water glistening in the light.

This moment feels sterile. The rustling leaves around you seem louder than they should be.

You don’t care to fill the silence. So he does. But you'd rather he doesn’t.

“You have lived a sheltered life, I imagine,” he continues with a silky voice, but it is underlined with something colder, something displeased. “I will have to assume you grew over beyond such frippery, have you?”

You clench your jaw. Your spine stiffens. Your pulse races in anger and indignation.

“Do not believe me to fall into whatever role this arrangement demands of me.”

Lord Ward's expression hardens. He narrows his eyes ever so slightly at you. “Your duty is to your husband. To your kingdom. To your people.”

Your breath grows sharper; each inhale slicing through your ribs, fueling the heat that builds behind your sternum.

“And yet, I see none of my people here,” you counter.

He steps closer to you, the space between you shrinking until the scent of leather and fabric mingles with the floral air. His voice drops lower.

“I was under the impression you were a pliable princess, content to do as you were told.”

A flush rises to your skin, painting your neck and cheeks in a fever of fury. However, the hurt that weaves in cannot be tempered as easily. But you manage to mask it, keeping your voice strong.

“Then you were misinformed.”

His eyes gleam with something fierce. You have to crane your neck to meet his gaze, but don’t take it away.

Did your father truly believe this man could safeguard the realm? Or had this been about control - ensuring that even in death, his hand guides your future?

You know your father did not trust you to lead, to forge your own path. He handed you over just like that, a sacrifice for the sake of strategy.

Lord Ward tightens his jaw, and for a moment, you think he might bite back with something venomous. But he only lets out a sharp and measured breath.

“You will learn. I am here to mold you into what this kingdom needs.”

You don’t wait a second with your answer. “This kingdom needs compassion. Hope. Something to believe in and hold onto.”

You will not be molded into anything. You will not be the pawn of a chessboard, for Lord Ward to move you into place. You will not be moved so easily. No, not anymore.

You can no longer be the girl who has once accepted her role without question.

Long hands wrap around your wrist with a force that makes your breath hitch. His grasp sends a jostle of shock through you.

He only stares at you unapologetically at your attempt to wrench yourself free. Your heart thunders. “Unhand me now,” you demand, tugging at his grasp.

He doesn’t stop staring at you. He doesn’t stop gripping you. “Let me go!” you repeat, but it comes out weaker. Fear starts to rise like bile in your throat.

Lord Ward does not relent. If anything, his fingers tighten. The fine leather of his gloves punctures your skin.

A rather cunning sneer curls the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been patient with you, but I will not tolerate-”

“Get the fuck off her!”

You startle in shock at the voice that sounds out. Or rather the unflinching command. It is spoken by a voice you never thought, but kept on hoping you would hear again. It hangs in midair, and your mouth drops open as Bucky Barnes steps out from beneath an archway.

His rigid posture coils with energy, and he takes a step forward with the grace of a predator. There is murder in his eyes. But he is not looking at you. His threatening eyes are fixed on Lord Ward.

The grip on your arm slackens just slightly as Lord Ward turns incredulously. His confident expression dissolves into disbelief.

You manage to wrench your arm free at his distraction, cradling the aching limb. But you can’t focus on the pain. All you can focus on is him in all his intense and lethal glory standing mere feet away. You blink, and he is still there.

“Barnes?” Lord Ward’s voice shifts. “You are not meant to be here. This is no place for you.” He sounds angered, but there is uncertainty in his tone.

“Ah, I think I'm quite right where I am, Ward,” Bucky drawls, but his voice is chilling.

“As far as I am aware, you are a dead man, Barnes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into something that is not quite a smile. “Close enough. Now, if you don’t take a step away from her, you are gonna be dead.”

You can only stand there, rooted to the spot, feelings somewhere between utter perplexity and wild relief.

Ward’s eyes narrow, and he does take a step from you, only to move toward Bucky. “You forget your place, soldat-”

Bucky cuts him off, voice deadly calm. “You don‘t wanna test me right now, Ward,” he warns. His tone drops to a guttural rumble. “I’ll assure you that.”

The tension in the air is thick enough to choke you.

“You think you can threaten me?-”

“Oh, I think I can do more than that.” Bucky’s voice is so cold, a shiver whacks through you.

You don’t know if your shock droned out some more parts of their conversation, but Lord Ward then strides away, the gravel path choking down his agitated gate. His back is stiff with rage, shoulders up.

Bucky doesn’t spare him another glance. His attention is on you now. His jaw is taut, a muscle feathering near his temple.

“Are you okay?” Concern leads his tone, still followed by the tension that has rattled Lord Ward's composure.

You glance down at your wrist, the faint imprint of Ward’s grip marring your skin. Your skin pulses. “I am alright,” you assure, though your voice lacks any heat, still trying to comprehend what just occurred.

Bucky’s brows are tightly knit together. His gaze sharpens on the reddening marks against your skin. His stoicism gives way to a simmering outrage that makes the air in your lungs falter on its way out.

“Bucky, what are you- you shouldn’t be here,” you press in an urgent whisper, as if that would make this tall man invisible.

“Well, too bad that I am,” he replies flatly.

“You don’t understand,” you urge, anxiousness creeping into your tone. “Lord Ward now knows that you are here. He will report it. You will get in-”

“Trouble?” Bucky scoffs, arching a brow. His tone softens, but his voice stays entirely unfazed. “Been in trouble before, doll. This ain’t any different.”

You want to shake him. Actually, you want to hug and kiss him and never let him move out of your sight, but throttling the man right now seems more rational. Demanding that he care for his own safety as much as he does for yours.

“They will come-”

“Let ‘em.”

You open your mouth to argue further, but then Bucky gently takes your hand in his, calloused fingers brushing against the tender skin of your wrist. His touch is careful and precise.

“C’mon,” he says softly, guiding you toward the stone fountain nestled beneath a canopy of ivy. Water trickles over the stone.

He leads you to the edge, his warm hand in yours. He kneels first, tugging you down with him. With his hand cradling yours, he dibs your wrist into the cool water.

The water is icy, but it feels soothing on your flushed skin, numbing the ache.

You watch the water bead on your wrist and drip into the basin below.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound the water splashing against stone.

“How do you know Lord Ward?” you ask quietly, not knowing if he will answer.

Bucky lets out a tired breath. But he answers after a beat. “Your father.” His voice is clipped but not unkind. “Ward was one of his men. Same as me.”

Your stomach turns. “He was a soldier?”

“Not exactly.” Bucky’s voice turns bitter. “He handled logistics, let’s say. Wasn’t on the frontlines, but he was real good at managin’ supply lines and keepin’ nobles happy.”

So basically, he is just a man representing everything you despise about court politics.

You let his words and his honesty sink in, looking down at where his hand is intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as though to erase the bruises Ward has left.

He touches you so carefully, so tenderly. But it is not just the sensation of his touch that stirs you. It’s the sight of him. He just kneels there beside you like he walked right out of a dream you had not dared to hope for.

You felt so lost the whole night, felt so empty, as if you were unraveling completely. And now, somehow, he’s just fixed that by simply being here.

Relief is a heavy feeling. It’s nearly dizzying, clutching you so intensely.

You take a breath and look at him properly. The parts of him you seared to your memory are still there. Brilliant and powerful. The sharp jawline marked by stubble. The wild mess of dark hair that always looks like it has been tousled by the wind. Those eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, blue as a winter morning, and just as cold when he chooses them to be. Those plump lips pressed into a faintly stubborn frown even when he isn’t trying to look fierce.

Those parts of him are unchanged. But there are new things too. Things you didn’t vividly remember.

There is a faint scar at his temple, pale and thin that you don’t remember noticing before. There is a new tension lingering around his eyes, shadows hollowing them out. His shoulders seem strained, poised in a way that makes you feel like he prepared for something that was rather mental than physical. The fine lines that bracket his mouth. The faint scent of cedar on his clothes.

It is strange noticing these small things now, all the details that paint the canvas of him. The things you would not have known without taking the time to look. The things you would not have known if your goodbye was forever. You shudder.

God, you missed him.

It should not feel this monumental. This significant. You said goodbye not even a day ago. But your chest has been tight since the moment you had to walk away, as seeing him again is the breath you weren’t able to let out.

Your fingertips buzz with a joy you know you should probably not feel to this extent, but it only makes the sting of your wrist fade into irrelevance. He’s here. He is really, truly here.

And he risked himself for you by being here. It makes your heart clench painfully.

You study the curve of his brow, the scar beneath his jaw that catches light when he tilts his head slightly to get a better look at the bruising on your wrist.

There is always something new to notice about Bucky Barnes, it seems. Always another layer hidden underneath that stoic exterior.

“I thought you would be over the mountains by now,” you say, the words slipping out in a voice barely above a whisper, almost too vehement despite their softness. There is a tiny glimpse of frustration manifesting in your chest. Not for him. It is born from your own swirling confusion, from the hit of emotions that bombarded you the moment you saw him standing there.

Bucky’s eyes lift to yours. And just like that, the air shifts. His eyes soften with something warmer. The blue of his eyes just turned a shade richer.

A twinkle returns to his expression. “Definitely woulda moved faster without you, darlin',” he drawls. His mouth tilts into something that almost resembles a grin. A tease.

But before you can retort, he lets out a small huffed laugh and shakes his head, almost in amusing disbelief. “Couldn’t, though,” he adds, quieter, voice dipping lower with meaning.

Your lips part at his admission.

You guessed that he mistrusted the world you were forced to reenter. It was in the way he hesitated, in his stoic silence, when he let you go at the gate.

But you did not believe him to stay.

Because that’s what he did. He stayed near the castle, and he didn’t stay out of duty.

You know because he tells you with his eyes.

They are so unflinchingly vulnerable, it leaves you totally shocked.

He stayed because he didn’t want to leave you alone here. Because the thought of walking away while you were locked inside this castle of rules and regulations hadn’t sat right with him. But there seems to have been something selfish, too. It wasn’t just the concern that kept him nearby. He didn’t seem to have trusted himself to walk away from you, either.

Your thoughts are uncontrollable. Thoughts of what it means that he has chosen to stay near the castle all night, forgoing the freedom of the road and the safety of distance just to be here. For you.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

And there is a longing in his eyes you sure is there to end you.

It’s too heavy for you, making you light-headed and your knees wobbly. The feeling of being too close to the edge of something cavernous and uncharted.

Like his eyes.

You don’t know if you are foolish for wanting him here - or foolish for wishing you didn’t need him at all.

There is something terrifying in knowing that if he had left and you weren’t to see him again, it would have shattered something inside you. But even more terrifying might be knowing that he didn’t.

Because you are afraid that you won’t let him go another time that easily. So, where does that leave you now?

“Some people think that the truth can be hidden with a little cover-up and decoration. But as time goes by, what is true is revealed, and what is fake fades away.”

- Ismail Haniyeh

Part ten

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