greywritesthings

Latest Posts by greywritesthings

all

fanart

all | nsfw | sfw

say yes to heaven | @kitimeq | 13.6k | nsfw | fluff 3+1: three times Sylus suppresses his desire to have you, and one time his control finally snaps

would you still love me if i was a worm? | @starmocha | 2.1k | sfw | fluff In which Sylus answers many meaningful drunken questions at 2 AM.

dragon sylus | @nekoashiii | one | two | three | sfw | fluff a series of short fics of dragon sylus courting you nsfw abc's with sylus | @janumun | 4k comforting rafayel with sylus | @kirbmey | slightly suggestive | fluff a cute little fic about you in a poly relationship with sylus and rafayel

sweet tooth | @leighsartworks216 | 1.7k | sfw | fluff he wakes up from a nap to find you baking cookies

omniscience | @leighsartworks216 | 1k | sfw | fluff sylus keeps an eye on you at a bar with mephisto

through the fire | @shaiyasstuff | sfw | fluff set in a soulmate!au, zayne appears on your wrist, but you're not on his. a healing sylus x non-mc!reader fic.

my space | @ | 2.9k | sfw | hurt/comfort you're insecure about sylus entering your apartment for the first time and he comforts you.

how to accidentally catch feelings while baby-sitting a man-child | @shaiyasstuff | sfw | fluff college!au sylus x you romcom energy in which sylus spends two years crushing on you and you remain oblivious. cup runneth over | @leighsartworks216 | 1.2k | nsfw | smut sylus overstimulates you hehe

ITS APRIL 13 YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS

FETCH ME NEIL

Oh how i love this series

real people masterlist

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).

updates every friday.

intro

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

drabble: caught

chapter seven

chapter eight

Toothless being completely done with Hiccup is my new favourite thing

sam wilson deserves better

You’d think as a writer I’d be good at spelling. You’d think.

"Write for yourself"

Brother, I literally have more than 2 million words sitting in my drafts folder instead of posted on AO3.

I write for myself. I post for community interaction.

Being a Podcast Person™️ is so humiliating because it’s like “sorry for just laughing out loud in public randomly everyone, the 4 adults playing make believe just had a great bit about poultry.”

If I was desperate for kudos I would not be out here posting villain ships, minor character rarepairs, and other deeply unpopular ships.

I know how to write popular fic. I know how to farm kudos. That's not what I'm here for.

"Readers need to remember that authors don't know a reader liked their fic unless the reader tells them by leaving a kudos or a comment" does not mean "waahhh waahhh I need attention!"

It means "even if writers write purely for themselves, if you don't bother to interact with writers when you do enjoy their work, they might stop posting and just keep their work to themselves."

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who aren't reading the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is not aimed at the people who did not enjoy the fanfiction in question.

"If you enjoy a work you should kudos or comment" is aimed at people who read a fanfiction, enjoyed it, and then didn't bother to even do the bare minimum to share their excitement about it with the work's creator, even though that excitement is literally the only thing they get in return for posting their work.

Fanfiction authors write because they enjoy writing. They post because they want to form a connection with the people who enjoyed their work.

This is not an attempt to scold anyone, I literally don't care if I get kudos or not. It's simply an attempt to remind people that fanfiction is a community, and fan authors can't read your mind.

thank you archive of our own for being the sole reason I don't kill myself

Do you think people who are virgin should write smut? I feel like most of them don’t even know what they’re writing and just write what they think sex is

the implication this ask suggests that people who write about murders, cannibalism, politics, magic, royalty au, sci-fi, wars, supernatural, time travel, medieval era, werewolves, vampires, mermaids or goblins must be murderers, cannibals, presidents, wizards, royalties, astronauts, ghost hunters, soldiers, time travelers, knights, werewolves, vampires, mermaids or goblins in real life is so funny to me

"You have to become comfortable with the fact that most people who enjoy your fic will never bother to kudos or comment on it."

Shockingly, I am comfortable with this fact. Lack of kudos or comments doesn't bother me.

That doesn't mean it shouldn't change.

If you enjoy a fic, leave a kudos or a comment.

I write exclusively for me and my wife, that is all

Some idiot: "Why are you reading your own fic, that's shallow and stupid"

All fanfic writers and writers everywhere: "Who the fuck do you think I wrote it for?!"

I need you to understand that when I say "comments are appreciated!" I mean that I will reply to every one of them. I mean that an email with an ao3 notification has a higher priority than a message from my mother. I mean that I will have entire discussions in the comment section if you're up for it. Message me on tumblr and I will have the same discussions on an even more unhinged level. I will dissect entire personalities and ships and fictional political structures and worldbuilding with you. I will become your new best friend. You already ARE my new best friend. At the last battle, I would raise Anduril and say "For my ao3 readers" while a single tears rolls down my cheek, and dive into the fray. I would upload from beyond the grave if someone asked about the next chapter

“people are allowed to dislike things” WRONG nobody is allowed to dislike sam wilson

Me every so often with bananas, then I get told off for overd*sing bananas, apparently a legitimate thing if I did it a lot

sometimes you dont eat fruit for awhile and then you eat some fruit and you're like oh fuck its fruit

<------- check out the side blog for nerdy f1 stuff!!

Hello my loves! Iv finally decided to create a whole separate space for my engineering stuff, i adore talking about all things motorsport, the fan side and the technical stuff so thats what all this will be, largely Formula One, maybe some Moto GP but given my speciality is race cars its likely to be all things F1 & feeder series!

Ill be sharing the things i learn here, analysis of F1 races, possible strategies for F1 grand prix and the history of F1!

Stick around and find out!

♡ Grey

There is a severe LACK of sam x reader fics out here and this one is beautiful oh my gods

PLATONIC ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Bucky has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF (some angst if you squint), mutual pining, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), Bucky meddling in your relationship, mentions of the Blip, alcohol consumption, Reader and Sam being two oblivious idiots in love, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3.8k

Song Inspo: "Platonic" by Ryan Hurd

Author’s Note: So, I saw Brave New World in February and haven't been able to stop thinking about Sam Wilson since. The x Reader tag for my boy is absolutely lacking so I decided to write something for my cap. Hope you guys enjoy some good ole Sam Wilson fluff. Let me know what you guys think and if you have any Sam Wilson x Reader recs on tumblr. Please, I'm desperate.

“You know you could just ask him out, right?”

You choke down your beer, nearly spitting it out as Bucky speaks up beside you. The two of you have been quietly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the shitty, hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that Sam insists on frequenting whenever all three of you are in D.C. at the same time. The little tradition had started as a coping mechanism after the three of you were blipped back into existence. You remember Sam begging you to accompany him to O’Malley’s the first time. And you remember sitting between your best friend and Bucky Barnes — it looked almost comical, an ex-Hydra assassin, a former Air Force pilot, and the newly named Captain America drinking a beer together. At first, you thought that Sam had asked you to come as a way to get you out of your house after everything that happened, but as the three of you sat in uncomfortable silence together, you realized that Sam brought you as a buffer. In all the years you’ve known the charismatic Sam Wilson, you never met someone he couldn’t talk to.

And then you met James Buchanan Barnes. 

Unlike Sam, you quickly fell into a cordial friendship with Bucky once you broke the ice. He’s both headstrong and cocky but also observant and aloof. People who meet him in passing might comment on how quiet he is, but you know he’s incredibly opinionated — hell, you made the mistake of commenting about baseball during your trio’s second outing together and had to listen to the man complain about the Brooklyn Dodgers moving to LA for a good thirty minutes. But what really bonded you with Bucky was Sam. You know that when Bucky looks at Sam, he sees what Steve saw in him — the man that Captain America decided was worthy of his mantle. 

He reminds you of Riley in many ways, and that’s why Sam had a more challenging time getting on board with the three of you hanging out together at first. Because for so long, it was just you, Sam, and Riley. You met Sam at boot camp, and then you met Riley shortly after. The three of you ran pararescue missions together — Sam and Riley clad in Exo-7 flight suits while you manned the C-130, which, thanks to a big government contract with Stark Industries, integrated cloaking systems and environmental blending. Then, on a routine mission, Riley got shot out of the sky, and suddenly it was just you and Sam. Sam became a PTSD veteran counselor, you got a piloting job with SHIELD stationed in D.C. to stay close to him, and then the two of you became regulars at O’Malley’s due to its proximity to both of your apartments. A part of Sam was afraid that he was replacing Riley by inviting Bucky into the space you share with him, but he had made a promise to Steve before he’d gone back in time with the infinity stones. And slowly but surely, the two became close friends, bonding over shared military stories, their musical tastes, and their deep respect and adoration for you. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky scoffs at your question before taking another swig of his beer. He knows you’re playing dumb — the two of you have been participating in this same song and dance for the better part of a year now. Two months into regularly drinking with Sam and Bucky at O’Malley’s, you drunkenly confessed to Bucky that you harbor feelings for your best friend. He pretended to be shocked, but he knew about your little secret after first meeting with you and Sam. Bucky may be a tad out of touch with new social norms — the man hasn’t participated in the dating scene since the 1940s — but the act of pining hasn’t changed over the decades that have passed. 

“We’re just going to pretend you haven’t been brooding all night after Sam got whisked away by those girls?”

You roll your eyes at Bucky’s question. The annoyance weaved into your expression doesn’t come from a place of malice but instead draws from your frustration at how well Bucky understands you. Sam will always be your best friend, but Bucky has become something like a brother to you over the past year — an empty role in your life since Riley passed away. And after all, Bucky is an older brother — a protector — at his core. He may have lost his little sister a lifetime ago, but the instincts were still there, buried deep down until you and Sam showed up in his life.

“Brooding is your thing, Buck.”

“Exactly. So, can you stop stepping on my shoes?”

A smile tugs at your lips as Bucky playfully nudges you with his elbow. You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, and his humor has made you feel a little lighter; however, there’s still a gnawing in the pit of your stomach as you watch one of the girls slowly slide their hand down Sam’s arm. Bucky follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh.

“Seriously, kid. What’s stopping you from just asking him out?”

“He’s my best friend, Buck.”

Bucky arches a brow at your reasoning. You say it as if it’s the answer to all of your heartache — as if it’s a valid excuse to hold yourself back from happiness. He has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic. He’s been trying to intervene, but whenever you think about confessing your feelings to Sam, you immediately talk yourself out of it. And Sam isn’t any better. Bucky’s tried to talk some sense into him at least a dozen times, but he’s sure you don’t feel the same way about him.

“I could always set you up with one of my friends.”

“I’m fairly certain you only have two friends, and they’re currently at this bar, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he finishes his beer. 

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of you and Sam.”

He places the empty bottle on the counter along with a five-dollar bill before layering his leather jacket over his long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s a mild spring day, but you know he doesn’t wear the extra layers for warmth. They’re worn for the same reason as his leather gloves — security that his shiny, metal arm is covered. Bucky spares Sam one last glance before turning his attention back to you. You’re nursing the beer in your hand, simply waiting for Sam to notice you again. He gently grabs your shoulder with his good hand, and Bucky’s heart breaks in his chest as you look up at him with sad eyes.

“Just think about it, okay?”

You nod at his question, and Bucky releases his hold before heading home for the night. With a sigh, you finish your lukewarm beer and order another while waiting patiently for your best friend. Sam Wilson has always been the life of the party — the man who shines like a ray of sunlight even on the darkest days. But the Captain America mantle came with a newfound attention that Sam seems to revel in. You, however, find yourself struggling with it — it had been just the two of you for so long, and now you feel like you’re sharing him with all of America. 

But little do you know that even now, with the entire bar vying for his attention, Sam feels drawn to you like some invisible string is pulling him back. His eyes scan the crowd at O’Malley’s until they find you. He gives you a bright, genuine smile — the kind that leaves you grinning from ear to ear. You watch as he excuses himself from the lively conversation and approaches you. He slides into the seat beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he leans into your space to grab the beer in front of you. You shoot him a playful glare as he takes a drink out of your beer bottle, and he winks at you in response. He places the bottle back in front of you before speaking.

“Bucky already left?”

“You know the old man — has to be home before bedtime.”

Sam laughs while throwing an arm back across your chair. You don’t even think twice about the action; Sam’s done it at least a thousand times at this point.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

You give him an eager nod, desperate to get some fresh air. Sam laughs at your reaction before paying both of your tabs. Like in the bar, you don’t think twice as Sam slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk down the streets of the nation’s capital. Not even as he walks up the five flights of stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages ago. Not even as he moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there. Not even as Sam falls asleep on your couch again after a night of talking for hours. You don’t think twice because this is how it’s always been between you and Sam — it’s always been comfortable, domestic. 

But, for some reason, tonight is different. As you sit on your kitchen counter, finishing your beer, Sam’s loud snores from your living room are drowned out by Bucky’s words from earlier this evening ringing in your ears. This is what your life has always looked like, but is this all it will be — waiting for your slice of Sam’s increasingly divided time? You’re happy for him. Truly. Sam deserves everything that the mantle of Captain America comes with — the attention, the popularity, the spotlight. You’re overjoyed that the world is finally seeing what you’ve seen in Sam all along, but a small part of you is jealous. And that jealousy is starting to eat you alive. 

You sigh, downing the last of your beer before sliding your phone out of your pocket. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Bucky’s name. You listen to the phone ring twice before Bucky answers your call. Concern is evident in his voice as he says your name. You rarely call him this late, but you know you’d talk yourself out of this in the morning. 

“I’ll do it, Buck. Set up the date.”

“It’s about time, kid.”

You spend the rest of your agonizingly slow week second-guessing that phone call. Hell, you almost call Bucky at least a dozen times to cancel the date altogether — to simply state that Bucky’s advice is ridiculous and you’re perfectly fine with your current situation. But, ultimately, you decide this is for the best. If your goal is to get over your absurd crush on Sam Wilson, then you actually need to start working on it. So, even though you’ve managed to worry yourself sick on Friday, you still manage to get yourself ready that evening and leave your apartment. A small smile pulls at your lips as you stand outside the address Bucky texted you several days prior. You’re thankful he chose a casual ramen spot for the blind date. It makes the whole experience a little less high stakes — like you could leave at any time with limited consequences. 

With an exasperated sigh, you finally bite the bullet and pull open the door to the small establishment. The bell above you rings, and you’re greeted by a friendly man behind the counter, telling you to sit wherever you want. You turn towards the quaint dining room and, to your surprise, see a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Sam Wilson looks just as surprised as you feel. Your feet move on their own accord as you approach your best friend. He looks nice — clad in a maroon polo and his nicest pair of jeans. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

You found it strange that you never received your weekly text from Sam asking you about your Friday night plans. But you concluded that either Bucky told him about your blind date or Sam planned a date for that evening as well. But this was an outcome you never expected.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Your brow furrows at Sam’s confession.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Sam looks at you as if you’re speaking a different language, and embarrassment washes over you as you realize that you’re right: Bucky Barnes only has two friends, and they’re currently looking at each other stupidly in a family-owned Ramen joint. Anger rushes through your veins as the realization sets in, but Sam still looks dumbfounded.

“So, Bucky set us up on a date.”

“Oh.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just sits at his empty table, at a loss for words. Usually, the silence between the two of you is comfortable; however, right now, it's excruciating. You suddenly feel about two inches tall as you stand before Sam. As the room gets twenty degrees warmer and the walls begin closing in, you decide it’s probably best if you get out of here. 

“This was a stupid idea.”

You turn away from Sam, but before you can take a step towards the door, he grabs your hand. The contact causes you to look back at your best friend, whose gaze is surprisingly tender. Your body relaxes ever so slightly, and, against your better judgment, your hand tightens around his. 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His tone is genuine, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head gnawing at you. There’s no way that your best friend suddenly wants to go on a date with you. That shit doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t a movie — he hasn’t been waiting almost two decades for this exact moment to express his feelings for you. You keep your expectations low because although Sam is a superhero, this isn’t a fairytale. Still, you let him gently tug your body into the seat across from him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

Sam’s brow furrows, and a look of genuine confusion washes over his features. He studies you for a moment before speaking. 

“You think I don’t want to go on a date with you?”

You roll your eyes at his question. This whole conversation is ridiculous, and it’s beginning to feel like Sam and Bucky are pulling a practical joke on you right now. But Sam looks at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, so you play along even though you aren’t happy about it.

“C’mon, Sam.”

Sam simply arches a brow at you with a bewildered expression, and for a moment, your resolve falters. What if this is real? What if this isn’t some stupid joke between Sam and Bucky? What’s the harm in just letting this moment play out? With a sigh, you look up at Sam, who is still studying your features. 

“Sam, I’m pretty certain that if you were interested in me at any point in the last twenty years, you’d have asked me out by now.”

Sam huffs out a laugh at this, and suddenly, he looks embarrassed. This reaction confuses you. Sam is a confident man — he’s rarely self-conscious about himself or his decisions. 

“Yeah, about that…”

Your heart lurches in your chest as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find the right words. And as he meets your eyes, there’s an emotion in his gaze that you can’t quite place. 

“What is it, Sam?”

Sam sighs before speaking.

“This isn’t just platonic for me.”

Suddenly, your world comes to a screeching halt. This feels like an out-of-body experience — like some sort of dream — and you’re pretty sure if you pinched yourself right now, you’d wake up alone in your apartment. But that doesn’t happen. You’re really here with Sam, having this conversation.

“How long have you felt like that?”

Sam looks away from you as he thinks for a moment, wanting to give you an accurate answer.

“After we helped Steve with Hydra in D.C., seeing you in the hospital put things into perspective.”

You were working as a SHIELD pilot for almost two years when Sam went missing with SHIELD’s two most wanted fugitives: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Because of this, it didn’t take much convincing for you to ignore your orders and help Steve stop the launch of the helicarriers. Bucky, acting as the Winter Soldier at the time, had taken out most of SHIELD’s air support; however, you and a group of four other pilots managed to get your birds into the air. Although the stakes were high, a part of you felt like it was old times — watching Sam soar through the air in his Exo-7 flight suit from the cockpit of your F-35 Lightning II. The fight was going well until Bucky nailed your left wing with a large piece of debris, causing you to go into a downward tailspin. You attempted to stabilize your aircraft but ran out of time. So, you decided to pull your parachute, but to your horror, the cord was stuck. Sam, grounded due to his broken wings, watched helplessly as your fighter slammed into the Potomac River. You were found by search and rescue after the helicarriers were destroyed and woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Recovery was agonizingly slow, but Sam never left your side — except to check on Steve every so often in the room next to yours. The memory brings a small, sad smile to your face.

“That was ten years ago, Sam. What stopped you from telling me?”

“Other than everything that happened after that? You’re my best friend — I didn’t want to risk that.”

You suppose he’s right. There was rarely a moment of downtime after you recovered from your fall into the Potomac River. The two of you immediately threw yourselves into helping Steve track down Bucky, and just two years later, all four of you were wanted fugitives due to the Sokovia Accords. Between the years you spent living on the run and the years you lost to the blip, there was rarely a quiet moment until Thanos was finally defeated — until now. 

“For me, it was after Riley.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at your confession, obviously not expecting for you to have fallen first. But, despite his excitement at this revelation, he stays quiet, letting you continue if you want.

“After losing him, I couldn’t help imagining it being you who got shot down that day. The idea haunted me in my nightmares, and I realized that if I lost you, it would be a different kind of grief.” 

Sam’s face softens, and he reaches across the table for your hand. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, grounding you back into this moment before speaking.

“You never have to worry about losing me.”

You scoff at his words, giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re Captain America, Sam. Running head first into danger is your job.”

“Okay, fair. But I have a very compelling reason to stay alive.”

You laugh, attempting to cover up how flustered you feel due to Sam’s words. It doesn’t work. Sam smiles as he notices the effect his words have on you. He could get used to this — flirting with you until you’re bright red and stumbling over your words. It’s undeniably cute, and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to do it. 

After your emotionally charged conversation, you both need something to eat. The two of you both order ramen, and Sam doesn’t let go of your hand until two bowls are set down on the table. You enjoy your meal while Sam occasionally nudges his knee playfully into yours under the table before offering you a flirtatious smile. The conversation that flows between you doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable — it feels both familiar and somehow brand new. The two of you had been navigating the grey area between romantic and platonic for so long that it feels almost liberating to look at Sam and know his true intentions. 

After Sam pays the bill, giving the establishment's owner a generous tip, the two of you fall into step with one another as you walk toward your apartment. The walk isn’t drastically different from the thousands you’ve taken before. Sam still slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side — except this time, you move your hand up and intertwine your fingers. He still walks up the stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages again — except this time, he leads you by the hand up all five flights. And he still moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there — except this time, as he places the beers behind you, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he keeps his hands on the counter, one on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression is soft, illuminated by the lone fluorescent light in your small kitchen. And there’s an adoration in his gaze that makes you feel lighter than air.

Steve’s words, from what feels like a lifetime ago, ring in your ears as you look up at Sam Wilson, who stands just a breath away: "As the world's expert on waiting too long, don't."

Tired of waiting, you grab Sam by the front of his polo and pull him into you, locking your lips with his as your chests bump into each other. It’s not a picture-perfect kiss; it’s a little sloppy and frantic, but it’s the type that makes up for the twenty years you spent dancing around your feelings for one another. Eventually, you break away from each other. Sam rests his forehead against yours, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen graces his face — the man looks like sunshine incarnate as he studies your features.

“I should have done that ten years ago.”

The laugh that escapes you is melodic — a goddamn symphony to Sam’s ears. And he can’t help but kiss you again. And again. And again. In an attempt to make up for lost time and to prove to you, this was never just platonic. 

This entire series has my HEART go read it rn!!! 1000/10 i swear to gods

Wake up (part 3)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are awake but Bucky’s nightmare hasn’t ended yet.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: lots of talk about Bucky’s past; Hydra; brainwashing; mind control; loss of autonomy; panic attacks; emotional and mental breakdown; medical trauma; experiments; depersonalization; identity struggles; sedation; power imbalance; dissociation; crying; mentions of vomiting; severe angst; comfort

Author’s Note: We’re here guys, this is part three of wake up. It does have a happy ending, but I'm still going to give you a heads up because this is going to get intense. Themes and events ahead may he heavy, and I strongly encourage you to check the content warnings carefully before proceeding. Your well-being comes first, so if anything feels like too much, please take a step back. Read at your own pace and take care of yourself. That said, I hope you enjoy! ♡

part one part two

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

The room stops.

The alarms still scream, the monitors still beep, but for one suspended second, no one moves, no one breathes - because you are awake.

Bruce’s hands falter mid-air. Cho’s fingers freeze over the screen. Tony, usually the first to crack a joke or spit out some sharp remark, is silent. Even Steve, ever the composed, looks stunned.

But none of that matters.

Bucky is not aware of any of those things.

Because your eyes - those eyes that have always held the soft glow of recognition, the warmth of you, the love for him - are staring right through Bucky.

And they are blank.

Not confused, not dazed, not disoriented from sleep - no, something about them is wrong.

Bucky doesn’t realize the way his body is trembling. Doesn’t register the way his lungs have locked up, the way his grip on you has loosened, as if he’s afraid to touch you now.

Your pupils are wide, too wide, swallowing their color whole, leaving only black voids behind. You don’t blink. Don’t move. Just watch him.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky breathes, his voice a ghost of itself, the sound roughly shattering in his throat. His fingers twitch where they rest against your cheek. “Baby, can you-?”

The second he speaks, your body reacts.

Like a string has been pulled.

Your spine straightens, muscles locking into place like a marionette finding its tension. Your erratic and ragged breathing just moments ago evens out with a precision that seems unnatural.

A response. A reaction.

But it’s not you.

Bucky feels shot all over again. Not once. Not twice. Not even a third time. He can’t even count that high, not here, not now, not ever. And all those bullets land where his heart once belonged.

Something so utterly cold sweeps through his veins, turning movement into something impossible. Winter is settling deep in his chest, freezing him from the inside out. He doesn’t even feel numb anymore.

Because this isn’t just the fog of waking up after whatever the hell Hydra did to you.

This is something else.

A sharp, unresolved noise scrapes out of Bruce’s throat, his finger still hovering. “That’s not right.”

Cho shakes her head, blinking rapidly as if she can make herself see something different, to give this a sense. “She shouldn’t-” She cuts herself off, exhaling hard through her nose. “This isn’t a normal response.”

“Okay,” Tony interjects, voice a shade tighter than usual. “Yeah, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

“Y/n?” Steve tries carefully, stepping closer, but Bucky doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t fucking care.

Because he is frozen.

Because this is so goddamn wrong.

You are looking right at him but there is nothing in your eyes. Nothing. No life.

A dry, aching squeeze inches up his neck. It constricts his throat, it leaves any desolate sound trapped inside him.

He has seen this before.

Too many times. In the mirror. In his memories. In the cold, unfeeling gazes of other soldiers.

And it’s killing him - killing him to the point where he might just drop to the floor in the matter of a second - to now see it in your eyes.

The world inside the medical wing doesn’t restart at once.

It comes back in pieces with everyone still in shock.

The turbulent, shrieking alarms dull down, monitors resetting to their normal beeping. Hushed voices return, everyone still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky still doesn’t take his eyes off you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

You’re awake. That should be a good thing. That should be everything.

But his stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. He would love to wrap himself up, fold over twice, three times - until he’s nothing but a tight, trembling knot.

Bruce speaks up, voice professional. But it holds something strained. Something uneasy. “Y/n?”

No response.

Cho tries next, moving closer, her eyes scanning over you with clinical focus. “Can you hear us?”

Still, nothing.

You don’t move.

Don’t blink.

Don’t react.

Bucky swallows hard, harder, the hardest, but his throat is closed, voice dying before it can form.

Bruce looks dismayed just the slightest bit. “Okay, that- that’s okay-” He cuts himself off, taking a slow breath. “Her vitals are stable.” He looks over at Cho, who is already checking the readings on the monitor.

“Brain activity is…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

It sounds almost accusatory like she doesn’t believe her own words.

“Then why isn’t she saying anything? Why isn’t she reacting?” Steve asks, stance stiff and voice holding something sharp.

No one has an answer.

Bucky doesn’t notice the way Bruce and Cho are moving around you, the way Tony mutters something under his breath that no one listens to. Because he can’t look away from you.

From the way, your pupils track only him.

Not Bruce. Not Cho. Not Steve or Tony.

Just him.

Bucky’s lungs pull in a sharp breath but nothing actually seems to reach them.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just waking up. You’re just a little dazed. Just trying to make sense of what is running through your veins.

But then, if he truly believes that, why isn’t his voice working? Why can’t he breathe? Why can’t he take his hands away from you?

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, adjusting the IV in your arm. “I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. Can you do that?”

Nothing.

Cho’s frown deepens. “Try squeezing my hand.” She moves closer, resting her fingers lightly against yours. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

Nothing.

A new kind of silence floods the room now. Heavier. Suffocating.

Bucky’s pulse won’t stop hammering in his ears.

“She’s awake,” Tony states flatly. “So why does she still look-” He waves a vague hand, looking almost daunt. “Out of it?”

Frustration begins to seep into Bruce’s expression, a slow breath slipping from his nose. “Y/n, if you can hear me, just- move a little. Anything.”

Another beat of silence.

Bucky can’t take this anymore.

He moves closer, his hand intertwining with yours instinctively. His voice is hoarse, rough and so, so desperate.

“Sweetheart,” he croaks out, just for you. “C’mon, baby, just- just give us something.”

You move.

It’s small. Barely anything at all.

But your fingers twitch.

Bucky doesn’t take in another breath for too long.

Something slow and dreadful sinks into him. It closes its grip around something vital.

Bruce exhales in something close to relief. “That’s good, Y/n. That’s good.”

Encouraged, Cho steps in again. “Alright, let’s try something else.” She looks at you, her voice gentle but firmer now. “Can you try moving your leg?”

Silence.

Stillness.

Bucky’s stomach turns.

“Y/n,” Bruce presses, more insistent now. “Try for me, alright?”

Nothing.

The tension is a thin string.

Bucky shifts, fingers brushing over your palm in a touch so soft.

“Baby,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Your leg moves.

A shudder ripples through Bucky’s whole body.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody breathes.

Then, finally, Tony says what they are all thinking.

“Okay,” he exhales. “That’s weird.”

It is.

It is wrong.

Cho is staring at her monitor as though it’s betrayed her. Bruce’s brow is furrowing deep in concentration, but there is a glimmer of something else behind his eyes now.

Bucky’s mind is reeling, his pulse pounding so loud, the sound crashing over everything, washing it all into nothing.

This can’t be a coincidence.

You only moved when he spoke.

Not anyone else.

Just him.

Bucky’s mouth is dry.

No.

No, no, no-

He wants to rip that aching thing out of his chest and twist it in his metal grip and throw it on the clinical floor and stomp on it with his boot.

Because deep, deep down, something agonizing in him is already understanding.

And he can’t take it.

It seems that nobody really wants to acknowledge it.

Because acknowledging it means understanding it.

And understanding it means stepping into something far, far worse.

But it’s everywhere in the room, floating around in the air, waiting to be breathed in, sinking its fangs into every pause, every silence, every failed attempt at making you respond to anyone but him.

Bucky can’t let go of you. His flesh fingers wrap carefully around yours, his metal arm braced protectively around your back. You don’t acknowledge his touch. But he also can’t help the staring. Eyes fixed on your face. Bracing himself for an answer he already knows he won’t be able to stomach. He probably should be looking for that waste bin again, but he can’t take his eyes off you.

Because this isn’t just exhaustion. This isn’t just confusion.

Something inside you is listening. Waiting.

And only for him.

Steve clears his throat quietly and speaks up again. “Try again,” he says, though there is something cautious in his voice now. “Y/n?” He takes another step closer, lowering his head slightly, like maybe you just need to see him properly. “Can you hear me?”

You don’t react.

Nothing in your shifts.

A sharp breath escapes the nose of the blonde and he glances at Bruce and Cho, in question of an answer but they don’t have one.

Cho’s expression is drawn tight, eyes scanning the monitors, because what else can she do? Bruce’s face is unreadable, but his knuckles are pressed against his chin in a way that suggests his mind is racing.

“We should test motor function,” Cho suggests, but it’s not that confident. More like she just needs to say something, anything to fill the wrongness all around them.

Bruce nods slowly. His tone is even. “Y/n, lift your left hand.”

The silence drags.

The tension is so thick, Bucky can hear it crackling. He is not breathing.

“Y/n,” Bruce says again, slower, placing his words with care. A small waver snakes into his voice. “Lift your left hand.”

Nothing.

Bucky’s stomach is a single, dense, ball that sinks heavier each second passes.

Cho adjusts something on the monitor. “Maybe- Maybe it’s still too early-”

“Buck,” Steve suddenly exclaims.

And it makes Bucky freeze.

Because there is something behind it. A test. A hesitation. Sympathy.

Bucky doesn’t even look up.

He swallows, something punching his ribs.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice so rough, it’s almost intelligible. “Your left hand. Let me see it.”

Your hand lifts.

Bucky’s stomach drops so hard, he descends with it, down to the ground, down to the earth beneath the fundamental structure of the compound.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Your hand is still in the air.

Cho stares. Bruce’s lips are parted and he rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Steve is rigid, lips pressed tightly together.

Their stares press against Bucky, against his shoulders, his skull, but he can’t look away from you.

Your face hasn’t changed.

No recognition. No emotion. No indication of independent thought.

Just that same blank, empty stillness.

Until he tells you to move.

Until he tells you what to do.

Bucky feels sick.

Nausea grows, rolling, roiling, a tide rising within, murky and sour, spiraling up his throat in a way that threatens.

Heat prickles at his skin, a damp, clammy sheen forming at the base of his neck, invasively cascading down the channel of his spine.

His head is shaking before he even realizes it. He has to be imagining this. This is one of his nightmares.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries forcing him to wake up, to snap out of this, but then Bruce’s voice comes through again.

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, voice thick. “Put your hand back down.”

Your hand stays in the air.

Bucky’s fingers flex around yours, grounding himself.

“Baby,” he wheezes, almost unwillingly, his voice a broken whisper. “Put it down.”

Your fingers lower.

And the chill that floods Bucky’s system knocks him off balance.

His ears are ringing.

His mind is splintering, breaking off into a thousand jagged thoughts he can’t grasp all at once, he doesn’t want to grasp at all because no.

No.

Utterly powerless, he looks up. Steve’s face is hard, Tony is pale, and Natasha - where did she come from - has her hand over her mouth in shock.

Bruce clears his throat. “That’s-” He glances at Cho, at Steve; and Bucky would see the war in his mind if his vision allowed him to see more than just silhouettes.

Everybody is hesitant. Everybody is unwilling to be the first one to say what they are all thinking.

It’s Tony who does it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice hollow, stunned. “She’s only listening to you.”

It sounds worse when spoken aloud.

His body is rejecting, resisting, recoiling from all of this.

Bruce is watching him now, too, something entirely pained on his face, not able to deny what is happening.

“We should-” Cho pushes out a sharp breath at the choked noise Bucky is letting out and she stops talking.

This is too much.

Tremors rack through his whole body. It’s attacking him, his lungs, his bloodstream, his bones. He is weak. On the ground. Eyes pressed together. Because he can’t look at you any longer. Can’t look at the way you are watching him.

You aren’t just listening.

You are waiting.

For his voice.

For his command.

There is nothing but obedience in your gaze.

Bucky sways on the ground, but he can’t let go of you. His grip tightens because if he lets go, he will break.

But your fingers are so loosely tangled with his, resting limply against him. They are warm. Too warm. Too soft and delicate and human to be connected to something so immensely wrong.

Bruce and Cho are talking.

Their voices are low, hushed, methodical. The cadence of their words is a tightrope between the beeps, adding more to the strain of the already fraught atmosphere.

Bucky doesn’t hear any of it.

The incessant thrum of his heart is a trapped and wild animal that scratches at the walls of his arteries and reverberates in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Because no.

This isn’t happening.

Not to you.

Not to you.

Steve rubs a palm over his mouth, the other on his hip, exhaling a shuddering breath, trying to process it all but he can’t.

Tony doesn’t say anything. This is bad and he is well aware. This is worse than anything any of them could have prepared for.

Bruce clears his throat, looking at Bucky. “We need to assess the extent of this,” he says carefully, words a test on his tongue before he lets them out. “There’s a possibility that this is temporary, but we-” He hesitates. Adjusts his glasses. “We need to know how deep this goes.”

Nobody speaks.

“What do you mean?” Bucky’s voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Bruce hesitates again. “We need to see if she’s responding to just motor commands, or if-” Another pause. “Or if it’s beyond that.”

Beyond that.

The words tumble into the depths of Bucky’s core.

He swallows, blinking down at you. Your breathing is even. Your expression so still. You don’t seem to be aware of anything happening around you. Only attuned to one thing. Him. Waiting for him.

Bucky clenches his jaw so hard, gritting his teeth until he tastes iron in his mouth.

Cho cuts in more firmly. “We need her to speak.”

Silence.

Bucky can’t breathe.

Tony shifts his weight, crosses his arms. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?” His voice is flat. “Seeing as she’s only listening to him.”

Bucky flinches.

Cho and Bruce exchange a glance.

“We need you to try,” Bruce says softer. “We need you to ask her to speak.”

It’s worse when it’s phrased like that.

Like a test. Like and order.

Like something he should not be doing.

His fingers tighten around yours, but you don’t react. Not yet. Not until he tells you to.

His chest constricts. He hates himself.

There is no way out of this.

Bucky exhales shakily, taking a few moments.

He swallows hard.

“Sweetheart.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I need to- I need you to say something.”

Your lips don’t part.

A spike of panic lances through his chest.

“Baby, come on. Say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bruce’s eyes dart between the two of you, then back to Bucky. His expression is pinched, calculating. “Try again.”

Bucky’s body feels wrong, his skin too tight, his stomach threatening to heave.

This is familiar.

And it is dangerous.

He wets his lips, closes his eyes for a second, letting his head drop before lifting it again.

“What’s my name?”

The room is silent.

Your lips part.

And Bucky’s blood stops flowing.

The moment drags.

Agonizingly slow.

“Soldat.”

Your voice is distant, automatic.

Bucky breaks.

His lungs lock, the walls of his throat all connect together, his mind fractures.

The room tips, crashing into the floor.

Your voice circles his mind, going round and round and round, sounding so soft and obedient and wrong, so fucking wrong.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head so fast, hands jerking. “No, no, no.”

Steve’s hands clench at his sides, his throat working as though he wants to say something, but what can he say?

Bruce’s expression is stricken.

Tony looks dazed.

Bucky gasps for breaths but none are coming.

And suddenly, all those years of struggling to escape Hydra's grasp feel completely pointless

Every breath Bucky takes feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest before he can fully inhale. Every sound is static. Tremors crawl along his arm, punching into his ribcage like something cold and crushing.

The people around him are talking about you but he can’t hear a thing. He can’t hear Banner and Cho discussing tests, or Tony insisting they need to figure this out now. The way they say it - analytic, pragmatic, like you’re some broken thing they need to fix - makes his stomach lurch violently. He has to press his jaw together to keep from retching again. The panic is worming through his veins, digging in, pulling him under.

They want to put you under observation. They want to run tests.

Like Hydra did to him.

His mind is tearing through memories he doesn’t want, old phantoms forcing their way to the surface. He sees himself strapped to a table, bright lights burning his retinas, faceless men in white coats murmuring about what they could do to him, what they could turn him into. He hears his young voice, wrecked and broken, whispering in Russian words he doesn’t understand but knows - commands drilled into him, obedience hammered into his bones.

And now he’s the one giving commands. To the love of his life.

And his friends want to do to you what has been done to him.

“No.” The word is gravel, scraping him raw on its way out.

“Bucky, we don’t have a choice,” Bruce says, rubbing a hand down his exhausted face. “She’s only responding to you. That’s not normal. We have to figure out why.”

“You’re not running tests on her,” Bucky growls, voice shaking as he grips you firmer, protectiveness boiling hot in his gut.

Steve steps in, hesitant but resolute. “We need to find out what Hydra did to her. We can’t just-”

Bucky’s breath is completely lost in pattern. „You think I don’t know that?“ he spits, voice wild and harsh. “You think I don’t want to fix this? That I don’t fucking want my girl back? But I am not-” He falters, his throat too tight, his chest heaving. His vision is a tunnel with no lights.

There is a sharp pain in his right palm. His metal fingers are clenched into a fist so tight that his right hand has to let go of you to mimic it. Nails drive into his flesh. He forces himself to breathe. To stay here. But it’s not working. The room is shrinking. His head is full of cotton. Buzzing.

“I think you’re too close to this,” Tony warns, and it’s too sharp, too fast, it sends Bucky over the edge. “You’re compromised, Barnes. We don’t even know if this is something you caused. Maybe you’re making it worse-”

Bucky doesn’t remember getting up and lunging, but suddenly Steve is between him and Tony, a hand pressed to his chest, and his breath is all but gone.

“She is not your experiment,” Bucky hisses, trying to shout, but his voice is barely holding together. His heart is pummeling against his ribs, trying to break out. “I will not let you strap her to a fucking table like some thing you get to study.” He is shaking in fury.

Steve’s hand stays against him. “That’s not what they’re trying to do, Buck.”

But Bucky can’t think rationally. He can’t think at all.

“I fucking know what this looks like, Steve.” His voice crumbles, tremors splintering them. It sounds like something trying to remember how to exist. But Bucky doesn’t care about anything other than you. “I fucking remember, alright? And I won’t let her go through this!”

“Soldat.”

It’s your voice. So dutiful. So even. So not you.

Bucky flinches. Terribly.

The sound that rips out of him is something destroyed, something that never should have existed in the first place.

He turns back to you and his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t feel it. Shaking hands are cupping your face, desolate and desperate.

“No,” he chokes, tears breaking free. “No, baby, no. Don’t- don’t call me that.”

But you just blink at him, awaiting something. Expecting something. A command.

Bruce’s voice is distant, but he is saying something urgent. Steve is stiff, his head dropped. Tony has shut his mouth. Natasha’s quickly retreating footsteps are lost to him. The entire room has turned to stone.

Bucky’s hands slide into your hair, shaking so badly he can barely hold on. “It’s me, sweetheart. Y/n, it’s me,” he pleads. “It’s Bucky. Say my name. Please, my love. Say Bucky.”

No words come from you. Not until Bucky gives them to you.

He’s going to die. He’s going to pass out.

Because he knows this. He’s lived this. But not like this. Not you.

“Y/n,” Steve says and Bucky hates him for trying again. “Do you know where you are?”

You don’t look at Steve. You don’t move. Your breath stays controlled.

Sickening devastation pools in Bucky’s gut.

“Doll,” he whispers, voice completely shattered. “Answer him.”

And then, like a machine coming to life, you turn your head slightly. You blink once. And then you speak.

“I am in the Avengers Compound.”

No hesitation. No emotion. Just compliance.

Bucky sways on his knees. Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him from collapsing.

Tony releases a heavy breath.

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest because he’s still looking at you. At the way you wait. At the way you listen.

You are waiting for him to tell you what to do.

And Bucky Barnes has never been as mortified as he is now in his entire fucking life.

****

Bucky didn’t go down easily.

It took three men to hold him back, Steve’s arms a steel cage around him while Tony was shouting and Bruce plunging the needle in with a guilty and troubled expression.

His fight was animalistic, desperation keeping him up longer than it should have been, but the drugs worked.

The last thing he saw before darkness engulfed him was you.

Silent. A body waiting for instruction.

Now, he wakes up violently. A gasp tumbles up his throat, his body lurching forward as if he can outrun the crushing weight that bears down on him the second consciousness floods back in.

His head pounds, his hands shake, his chest heaves. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t care to find out. His mind is already screaming for you.

Everything crashes back.

The way your lips parted on a breath but not a name. The way your limbs moved, not out of will, but command. The way you looked at him - not with relief, not with love - but with obedience.

The horror knocks in as he stumbles to his feet, his entire body revolting against itself. His knees nearly buckle, but he pushes forward. He has to find you. No matter how hard it pains him to see you like this.

He is sprinting down the hallways, feet pounding against the floor, muscles protesting. Passing agents give him startled looks, Steve is calling his name. But his heart is shedding itself apart inside his chest and he won’t stop.

Because he is realizing something.

This started before you even opened your eyes.

You only opened your eyes after he pleaded for you to wake up.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

That’s when you did.

Because he told you to.

That was the command you were waiting for.

Bile burns its way up his throat, that he nearly collapses mid-stride.

If they think, if they dare to treat you like an experiment, to poke and prod and study you like some object, he’ll-

He doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t even have words for the fright wringing his rips out.

But he knows he has to get to you.

****

The room is sterile. Too bright. Too cold. A place of observation, of examination.

You sit on the medical bed, motionless, exactly where they placed you. Machines drone softly around you, monitors tracking your vitals - though there is nothing irregular about them. You should be fine. But you aren’t.

Bruce and Dr. Cho move carefully, their voices quiet. Constrained. Every test they’ve run, every scan they’ve conducted, all of it comes back normal. Physically, there is nothing wrong with you. But it’s clear as day, that you aren’t here.

Not fully.

You don’t respond to their questions. You don’t react when Cho waves a light in your eyes, when Bruce takes your pulse, when Tony calls your name. Nothing. You sit, hands on your lap, back straight, waiting. Waiting.

And then the door slams open.

Without thinking, Bucky shoves past Tony, past Steve’s reaching hand, past Bruce’s protest - straight to you. The second he sees you his breath stutters, his heart cracks open. It didn’t get a tiny bit easier. Your posture is so still, it’s unnatural, your face is slack.

“Let her go,” he growls, voice shaking with anger and panic.

Bruce raises his hands, placating. “Bucky, we’re not- we’re trying to help.” Then he heaves a heavy sigh. “But she won’t react to us.”

Bucky’s whole body trembles. His jaw is tight. “She’s not some- some science project,” he spits out, voice sharp but breaking. “She’s-” His chest rises and falls harshly. His hands flex and clench. “She’s mine.”

Silence.

Cho speaks up, formal but careful. “That’s why we need you.”

He jerks his gaze to her, vision swimming with tears. “What?”

“She only listens to you.”

He knows that but he feels like he’s just been shot in the chest again.

Bruce nods solemnly. “She hasn’t done anything since you were gone. But when you walked in-” He glances at the monitor - your heart rate spiked. “She knows you’re here, Bucky. But, she’s waiting for you to tell her what to do.”

Bucky is afraid his legs will stop holding him up.

You are waiting for his command. Just like he used to.

His stomach clenches, nausea twirling through it.

“Bucky,” Bruce tries again, insistent. His tone is heavy. “Try it. Please.”

The very idea makes Bucky want to scream. But he looks back at you - his girl, his angel, his whole damn world - sitting there, looking so empty.

And the trepidation in him is so bone-deep that he has no choice.

He swallows, kneels in front of you, hands quivering as they ghost over your knees. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, and the others remain silent. “Look at me.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly it almost makes him rear back. Your eyes are on him and he wants to vomit.

A choked noise catches in his throat.

Bruce watches intently, making notes. “Try something more complex,” he suggests carefully.

Bucky hesitates. He hates this. He’s forced to feed into what Hydra did to you and he hates it.

“Stand up,” he breathes. It’s just a croaked whisper but you stand. Effortlessly, fluidly, like there was never any doubt that you would.

Bucky breathes roughly.

The others are waiting, you are waiting, but Bucky can’t continue.

His eyes press together tightly, head dropping.

“Bucky,” Cho voices, a little gentler. “We can’t help her if we don’t know the rules of this.”

The rules.

As though you are some equation to be solved.

He swallows. His throat is sore and blistering. His heart is a fractured thing.

Slowly, he forces words from his mouth, but they burn on his tongue. “Take three steps forward.”

You do.

Gracefully. Like a soldier. As if you’ve done this million times before.

Dr. Cho looks up from her clipboard. “Make her sit down again.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. His hands flex. He takes a second to compose himself.

“Sit down.” His voice is guttural and broken.

You do.

Every cell in his body is to simply tell you to run and leave but that won’t help anybody.

Bruce nods, mumbling something about autonomous commands. But Bucky doesn’t listen.

He feels like he is standing in the middle of a nightmare, watching himself from the outside, stuck in a loop that Hydra is responsible for.

Bucky owns your movements.

And it’s killing him.

“Try something even bigger. Make her-” Cho says.

“No.”

“Bucky-”

“No.”

They don’t understand.

They don’t get it.

This is not just an experiment to see how much control he has.

This is Hydra, ripping through you, ripping through him.

And he can’t be the one to do it.

Bruce steps forward. “We need to know if she’ll perform an action without you watching. If she’ll listen even if you leave the room. If-”

“If she’s really gone.”

They don’t say it, but that’s what they think.

Bruce looks concerned. “Bucky, I know this is hard-”

“Hard?” Bucky laughs but it is a miserable sound. “Hard is losing your fucking arm. Hard is clawing your way out of your own damn head. But this?” He gestures wildly to you, still waiting, still watching him with hollow submissiveness. “This is fucking sick - and I won’t do it anymore.”

Because they are asking him to cross a line.

A line that has been crossed before.

Not by him, but through him.

By them. Hydra.

And he doesn’t want you anywhere near that.

He can’t be the one to steal your independence.

Not when he knows exactly what it feels like.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that made him a better person.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that is truly and wholly good.

He hears the voices in his head, voices from the past that aren’t really past pouncing in his mind, telling him that he’s done this before and that this is nothing new.

Bucky squeezes his hands into a fist and shoves the thoughts down so deep he hopes they never see the light again.

Bucky was not their scientist. He was not their programmer.

He was their weapon.

And he knows exactly how far this goes.

He knows how much a single word from a commander can do.

Bucky takes a step back. And another. His breaths are coming way too fast, his lungs ache, his vision is a hot and messy blur. He is in two places at once, here in this room, and there, in that cold metal chair, ears ringing with words meant to shatter a mind.

His mind places you in that metallic and rusty thing, meant to scorch your memories, making you scream, making you forget, making you-

He stumbles, his body fighting itself.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out and his hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

But he doesn’t feel it.

His body is trembling. Everything. Metal and flesh and every defeated thing in between, shaking, breaking.

Because they are wanting and waiting for him to keep this sick game going. To finish what Hydra started. To slip into a role and make you perform. He can’t do it.

A strangled and grating sound rushes out of his mouth.

He jerks away from Steve’s hand, knocking over a tray of medical tools. They clatter against the tile with a sharp clang. His fingers tangle into his hair, clutching, pulling, as if he can rip himself out of his skin.

He turns blindly, heart slamming into his ribs, chest turning inward.

Tony steps forward.

Wrong move.

The moment is too much, too fast, too fucking much.

Tony’s voice is sharp. “Barnes, pull yourself together-”

He gets closer, almost touching Bucky and he really should not have done that.

You move.

Swiftly. Too swiftly.

A blur, a strike, a threat eliminated.

Tony is on the ground before anyone can stop you.

There’s a heavy, shattered silence.

Bucky freezes.

No, no, no.

His heart slips up his throat. Then it stops.

He looks at you, standing in front of him, shielding him from Tony, hands still half-raised from where you struck him down, muscles tensed, like a soldier defending her commander.

Like you are his.

Like he is yours.

He never told you to move but you did it anyway.

This is loyalty.

Every inch of him is drowning in horror.

In your broken, conditioned mind, Bucky is your handler.

And you are protecting him.

Bucky staggers back, body moving out of sheer shock. If he stays too close he will suffocate. In the shame, the self-loathing, the fear that he is the one keeping you like this.

Nobody speaks. It’s a silence so thick it sucks the air out of the room, drags the world into a vacuum where nothing exists except this.

You.

Standing like an asset between Bucky and a man you saw as a threat to him.

On the ground, Tony is groaning, already pushing himself up with a curse, clutching his ribs.

Bucky feels only sick, wrenching numbness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring at you, staring at what you just did. He feels like he’s lost time again. Sliding through cracks he thought he’d sealed shut, falling back into something that should have stayed dead.

Steve is speaking, Tony is swearing, Bruce is moving, and Bucky is still staring.

“Bucky.”

It’s Bruce. His tone is a warning.

Bucky takes a step back and you shift with him.

His knees grow weak. He wants the floor to open up so he can let himself fall into the depths of the unknown.

He can feel their eyes on him. Steve. Bruce. Tony. Cho. He doesn’t look at them. He can’t.

Because he knows what they are seeing.

A room filled with people and only one person you will listen to.

And once again, he is back in that cold chair, arms bound, mind split wide open for them to rewrite.

Once again, he watches himself from the outside, being a handler who forces his puppet onto the very same chair. Watching his sweet and brave girl writher and scream while her will is taken from her.

He himself is screaming internally.

His voice strains as he pushes the words out, even as his throat tries to close around them. “Stand down.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hoarse, throaty, gutted.

You obey.

Bucky watches as the tension in your frame bleeds out in a way that is too immediate. Too conditioned. Like a wire was pulled, a switch flipped, a button pressed.

Like this is just another mission.

Bile rises. His face is cleanly sucked off any color.

Steve moves closer, tentatively. “Buck-”

“No,” he snarls, his voice raw. “Don’t.”

Steve's going to tell him it’s gonna be okay.

He’s going to tell him they’ll figure this out.

He’s going to tell him you’re still in there.

But Bucky already knows you are.

You’re still there. You’re there with every command he gives you.

Bucky’s breaths are shallow and broken gasps. He has to get out of here. He has to get you out of here. Has to stop whatever this is before it turns into something he can’t ever get back.

Bruce and Cho are murmuring. He catches bits and pieces - neurological imprinting, post-hypnotic triggers, synaptic conditioning.

Words that are too impersonal. Too detached. As though you are not the most important person in his life.

And he snaps.

His feet are moving. Straight to you. Straight to the one thing in this room that is his.

You blink up at him. Tilt your head the tiniest bit. But he knows. You are waiting again.

Bucky exhales, sharp and shaking. “Come with me.”

You follow.

Because you have no other choice.

And Bucky can feel it, all of it, this thing you’ve become, this thing he’s made you.

And it’s enough to put him to an end.

You walk behind him like a shadow.

You don’t take in the hallways you once knew, the place you called home. Your gaze stays steadfastly on his back.

An ugly, queasy gnarl grows in his stomach.

He tells himself this is progress. That getting you out of that sterile, white-washed room is a step forward. That walking through the compound with you means something.

But whatever Hydra did to you remains in effect.

You are not walking beside him and swinging his hand between your bodies, laughing freely.

You are glued to his back, watching his every step with hollow eyes.

And you aren’t asking where he is taking you.

You don’t react to the feel of the air shifting, to the faint smell of coffee in the halls, to the voices in the distance.

You just watch him.

As if nothing else exists.

As if he is all there is.

And usually, he loves it when you look at him like he is everything. All that matters to you. But never, never in all his years on earth and beyond, did he want it to be like that.

He swallows back the bile in his throat, but he nearly chokes on it.

He reaches the common area with you.

He doesn’t even know why he brings you here. Maybe because it’s lived in. Warm. Maybe because there are blankets still piled on the couch from the last movie night. Maybe because there are still used pans sitting on the counter by the dishwasher. Maybe because he needs to see all that for himself.

You stopped walking when he did. Standing perfectly still, shoulders relaxed, back straight. Too straight.

And your eyes - your too-wide, too-focused eyes - never leave him.

His fingers jerk at his sides.

“You know this place.” The tightness in his throat fights him, but he shoves the words out. They sound rough and thick. Exhausted. His hands press against his thighs, his whole body stretched to the breaking point. “You live here.”

Nothing.

He drops his head for a moment, closing his eyes, to keep the tears from falling. Then he turns his head, pointing toward the couch. “We sit here a lot of times,” he sniffs. “You’d curl up next to me, and we’d fight over the blanket.”

You do not look.

Not even a glint of acknowledgment.

He swallows hard.

Bucky gestures toward the kitchen. “You love cooking,” he continues, voice strained. “We do it together. Breakfast. Dinner. You love breakfast food. Pancakes. I make them for you every morning. You tease me about burning them every time I'm too damn distracted by you to look at the pan.”

You don’t even glance toward it.

His heart pounds.

It’s not just that you’re unresponsive. It’s that you’re responding to the wrong thing.

You are waiting for something he has to give. For something he has to command.

His breath trips out of him. His voice sounds like it is scraping its way free. “Look at the couch.”

You do immediately.

His lungs feel like they are collapsing.

“Look at the kitchen.”

Your head turns.

His fingers curl into fists.

He’s shaking, metal hand twitching, flesh hand clenched so tight his knuckles turn white.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t you.

But then your eyes snap back to the couch. It’s so fast, they are fixed on the kitchen counter again when he blinks, but he saw. He saw that they shifted. Just for a millisecond.

His breath catches. Hope flares. It’s a fragile and small flame caught in the wind, a breath away from being snuffed out. But it is there.

His lungs burn with the force of his held breath. He doesn’t dare to exhale, doesn’t dare to move too fast, or say the wrong thing. You are still here. Somewhere. He just has to reach you.

Timidly, he reaches for your hand. It’s warm and soft. Limp.

He squeezes gently, his touch featherlight. “Come with me, doll,” he whispers.

You do not respond in words, but you follow again.

Another tremor is sent through his being, but he has to push through.

He doesn’t take you back to the medical wing. He doesn’t lead you to the labs or around the common area. He takes you somewhere safe. Somewhere yours.

Your shared room.

His hand tightens around yours as he guides you down the hall. Every step feels unstable. He is scarcely keeping it together, scarcely keeping himself from shattering apart at the seams. His body is exhausted, but his mind is in overdrive, running over every single memory the two of you built in that room.

The nights tangled in the sheets.

The mornings where neither of you wanted to get up, staying cuddled together.

The whispered confessions at 2 am.

The way you always fit against and around him so perfectly.

He swallows.

He hesitates at reaching the door. His fingers shake against the handle before he tugs it open and steps inside.

The air is still. The scent of you is everywhere.

The blankets are still rumpled from when he tried to wake you up but couldn’t. Your clothes are still tucked into the open dresser, your favorite sweater draped over the chair. Little things - your things - are scattered across the nightstand, untouched since the last time you were here.

He turns to you, his heart thumping so loud he can hear it in his ears.

Please, he thinks. Remember this. Remember me.

But you only stand in the doorway, rigid, still.

A breath shivers through his lungs and he moves. He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you forward, into his arms.

And you go. Easily.

Your body folds against his. Malleable. Pliable. Not how you should be.

With a stifled gasp, he buries his face into your hair. His fingers tremble against your back, pressing into the fabric of the hospital shirt they forced you into. He hates this. Hates that it reminds him of a patient.

He wants you in his shirt. Wants you tangled in his arms, his sheets. Wants you to look at him like you.

His throat is sore.

He presses closer, desperate, needy, ruined.

Then his hands go to cup your face, tilting it upward, trying to make you meet his gaze without having to tell you to. “Doll,” he chokes, voice cracking, breaking, falling apart. “You- you’re safe. I swear. You’re here, with me.”

Your eyes are still locked onto him in all the wrong ways.

They don’t shift to your surroundings. Not to the bed. Not to the room. Just him.

His forehead lands on yours almost roughly and he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip tightening just a little. A tear falls onto your skin, but you seem entirely indifferent to it.

“This is our home,” he wheezes through his tears. “You’re living with me.” His fingers brush against your cheek, still trembling. “You chose me. Because you love me. And I love you. I love you so fucking much, baby. It’s killing me.”

You don’t give him anything.

His ribs feel like they might splinter.

He feels like he is losing you.

No. No.

He pulls back, enough to see your face properly. His eyes sting, red-rimmed, desolate. He won’t lose you.

“You’re in there, I know it,” he continues and he doesn’t know how his voice is still working. “You know me, sweetheart. You know me better than anyone.” His thumbs sweep your cheek.

But you don’t react to his touch. And it wrecks him. Because you used to lean into him. You would tilt your face into his palm like you were drawn to him, nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

There is a tilt of your head.

But it destroys him.

Because this is instinct. Not you.

His words taste like ash. “Remember when I brought you that stupid bear from Coney Island?” A humorless and tiny chuckle falls out of him but it only makes him feel drier. “The one with the crooked smile? You loved that thing.”

You stare at him unblinking.

His fingers trace along your temple, down to your jaw. So softly. So hypnotic.

“I love when you’re wearing my shirts.” The pressure in his throat tries to steal his voice but he pushes through. “They’re too big on you. Always make you look so endearing. So perfect. You don’t like me call you cute when you’re wearing ‘em but you keep stealing them anyway.” He has to pause to let his tears fall. “God, I love seeing you in my clothes.”

A strangled sound bolts up his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re always bossin’ me around, doll.” His forehead is back to yours. His eyes burn. “You’re the only person in this world who can boss me around. And I let you. ‘Cause I love you. ‘Cause I’d do anything for you.”

His fingers skim quickly over your jaw, your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips like you are something fleeting.

“I know you’re there. I know I can get you out. Y/n, please,” he begs, wantonly, the roughness of his voice all over the place. “Come back to me. Come back.”

Desperation is not a strong enough word for what is happening inside Bucky. Not even close.

It is deeper. Darker. It is a force that grabs at his rips and wrenches. A gaping, bottomless chasm inside him that is growing wider by the second.

And you stand in the eye of the storm.

Not lifeless. But not alive.

Bucky is breaking rapidly. His hands are all over you - cupping your cheeks, holding your wrists, squeezing your shoulders, smoothing through your hair. If he stops touching you, you might vanish into that void Hydra left behind.

His quivering fingers are at your jaw. “Come on, doll,” he whispers, his voice so unbelievably undone. “Please. Please just- just say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bucky sobs.

Bucky shifts closer, chest against yours, forehead pressed firmly to your temple. His breathing comes in short bursts, stuttering over every inhale. “You’re okay,” he cries, over and over and over again. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. You just- you just gotta come back to me.”

Your muscles don’t shift. Your breathing does not change. You only watch him.

Not seeing. Not processing, just observing.

His panic nearly makes him double over. His vision is foggy, his body fights with the effort to stay upright.

“Come on,” he whimpers. He tugs and crushes you further against him, forcing your body to mold against his own. His nose drags along your hairline, his lips moving over your ear. “You love me,” he pleads. “I know you do.”

His arms are a vice. A shield. A cage.

The air is too thick. It clogs his throat, his chest, a heavy hand squeezing his rips together, determined to extinguish his breath. His lungs seize with the force of it, panic rising in his throat, bending tight and tight and tight until he is sure it will strangle him.

“You love me,” he repeats as if trying to remind you. As if you simply have forgotten.

A sob escapes his mouth.

He cannot do this. He cannot lose you like this. He’s not strong enough.

His body is curling over yours, shielding you from everything. He clings to you.

But when he goes to look at your face again, to continue pleading, he halts. Stalls. Stops. Freezes.

Because you are not looking at him.

Your head is tilted, gaze wandering past his shoulder. Fixed on something.

Something small. Something yours.

A mug.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.

It’s your favorite mug. The one you use every morning, the one you refuse to replace even though the paint is chipping at the rim. The one Bucky gifted you in his first year at the compound, before you got together.

It sits abandoned on the nightstand.

And you are looking at it.

Not at him. At it.

A slow, almost undetectable furrow forms between your brows.

Bucky’s entire body is on edge. Focused so insanely.

His breath is stolen, his fingers dig into your sides.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, please.

His lip trembles. His face crumbles.

“Tea,” he breathes.

A glint. A twitch of your fingers.

Bucky sobs. It’s short and uncontrollable and it startles from his body in an almost aggressive way.

He doesn’t dare disturb your fixed gaze, but he presses in closer again.

“You remember,” he beseeches, his lips parting in something between a cry and a prayer. “You- you know that mug, don’t you? It’s yours, doll. You drink tea from it every day.”

You blink.

Bucky laughs. It is a gruff, uneven, broken sound, and it hurts.

But you blinked.

And he saw it. He saw it. Because it happened. You did it.

He clutches you to his chest, laughing and crying, sobbing and gasping, trembling and breaking all at once. His entire body feels too tight, too much, too everything.

But you blinked.

You saw something that wasn’t him.

And you frowned.

A reaction. A real, actual, human reaction.

“Okay,” he lets out shakily, his fingers threading through your hair, clutching, gripping, grounding. His heart is hammering, his lungs are burning. But he does not care. You are still here.

And now he knows how to find you.

His hands are on your face now. “You got this, baby. You can do this. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and you will snap out of this.”

You look back at him and Bucky crowds into you, terrified to let even an inch of space remain between you.

“You’re gonna come back to me, you hear me?” he tells you with a strained voice. His eyes move over your face so rapidly, fingers wiping at your skin.

There is something in your eyes.

A fight.

And Bucky starts nodding. He gasps. “Yes, that’s it, baby. That’s it! God, I'm so proud of you. Fuck, I'm so proud of you. You’ll make it, Y/n. Come on!” He laughs wetly. It verges on hysterical.

He sees it beginning.

Like the first crack of sunlight over the horizon. Like the slow, agonizing change of winter to spring. Like life struggling to emerge from a place it was never intended to leave.

Your mouth parts. Just a little bit. Your lashes lower, then rise again. And Bucky watches - watches like a man starved, like a dying thing gasping for air.

“Doll,” he pleads, forehead pressing to yours but he keeps his eyes on yours, thumbs stroking frantically over your cheeks, trying to memorize everything. “Please, sweetheart. Come on. Come back. Come home.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

And the third time is different.

The third time, there is recognition.

Faint. Flimsy. Almost not there. But Bucky sees it, and it hits him.

A vehement shudder ripples through his chest, vibrating you as well.

You are coming back.

Piece by piece, tiny fraction by tiny fraction, you are coming back.

“Come on, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. You got this.” His eyes are so intensely fixed on you, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t care. “Feel me. Feels my hands. My body. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky.”

He needs you.

God, he needs you.

You breathe.

And the sound is so normal. So absolutely, painfully, beautifully normal that Bucky almost doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

Your lips part.

Your eyes start moving over his face, studying, seeing.

“Bucky.”

A sound punches out of his throat - something agonizing, something animal, something beyond human comprehension.

His knees buckle.

He goes down - hard, his entire weight dragging you with him, hitting the ground with an impact he barely feels. Because you just said his name.

You spoke. And you know who he is.

His arms wind around you, pressing you close, cinching tight. His hands clutch at your back, at your shoulders, at your hair - clinging, grasping, as though he needs to feel your heartbeat to remember his own. As though he is bracing against a storm and you are the only shelter he’s got.

Because you are something he can’t afford to lose. But he almost did today.

He gasps incoherent, cracking words into your hair, your neck, burying inside it. They barely make it past the ragged breaths and shudders tearing through him. It only sounds something like you’re here on a loop.

His chest heaves. His fingers are digging into you, pressing you against him, needing you closer, closer, closer.

Your arms move immediately.

Your hands rise.

Without him telling you to.

And for the first time since you woke up, you actually touch him.

Your palms press against his back, against his neck, against him.

And it is everything.

It is the dam breaking, the world shifting back onto its axis, the breath of air after drowning.

Bucky cries.

The tears don’t stop. They just keep coming, breaking past every wall, every defense, every piece of him that ever tried to hold anything in.

And you are watching him.

Seeing him.

Holding him.

Speaking to him.

“Buck-”

His name.

And this time it sounds even more like you. So soft. So incredibly concerned. You.

He collapses deeper into you, losing himself completely.

He feels your hands trembling against him, but they are moving.

Not because he made you.

Not because of an order coming from his mouth.

Because you want to.

Because Bucky is falling apart in your arms and you cannot let that happen.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, fisting the material. Your other hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head, pulling him in, as close as he can get.

He is gasping, sobbing - breaking. His whole body quakes. His breath stutters between cries, hauled from the deepest part of him.

And you don’t hesitate.

Your lips press to the top of his head, over and over, again and again and again. Whispering into him. Murmuring soothing nonsense, anything, anything.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Your voice is soft, achingly tender. A touch in the darkness.

His grip almost hurts, almost suffocates, but you don’t pull away.

And he clings to you like he will never let go.

Because he is afraid. Afraid that if he lets go, if he blinks, if he breathes too hard - you will be gone.

Even with your hands on him, even with your voice in his ears - your real voice - even with your lips brushing against his skin, he is still afraid. So fucking afraid.

It’s an abyss of fear, not a momentary plunge, but an endless descent into the very structure of his being.

It’s a poison seeping into his system, crystallizing in his bones, becoming a part of him.

He doesn’t think it will ever go away.

So he clutches you tightly.

And you hold him right back.

Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing, soothing. Your lips press to the part of his temple you can reach.

“I’m here. I’m okay, honey.” Another soft whisper against his skin. “It’s okay.”

Still, he sobs.

Still, he shakes.

Still, he clings.

His chest heaves wildly against yours. His pulse is unstable. He can’t tone it down. He can’t control himself.

His forehead presses deeply into your neck. His breath is hot, damp, shaking.

And you keep holding him, keep murmuring, keep soothing.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay,” you hush, so patient, so loving, so sweet - everything he’s missed so incredibly bad. A kiss to his hairline. Your hand trails up and down his back. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

A painful and gravelly wail bursts from his chest. His fingers twitch frantically against you.

And he hears the way it’s hurting you. It’s in your voice. He hears how concerned you are. And he hates himself for it. But there is nothing he can do but crumble.

His frame shudders so violently you think he might collapse in on himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m right here.”

He believes you.

Because otherwise, he would not survive.

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

- Terry Pratchett

Taglist: @cheekybarnes @gotminho @rlphunter @normanreedus-blog @winterelfqueen @hello-lisa1026 @lilulo-12 @nikt-wazny-y @reemoony @orangeheliophile @seolahhh @oikawasbuddy @dancer3205 @yourstupidblues @greatmistakes @inf4ntdeath @hoe-for-writing @sept3mberchild @mrsnikstan @augustjoy

shout out to my girlies who say WedNessDay in their heads

raw dogging tumblr (I don't use queue)

Two fics in the works, one for the wife and one for my own self indulgence, maybe a third that is pure filth who knows

You heard it here first folks, civil war bucky fic sometime in the next day or so

Rules for Requests

Must only be characters i write for in the masterlist (AUs accepted and not garenteed)

I will write heavy kink but i will not accept requests for anything incl rape / anything of that nature

For anything incl littles / caregivers i will write it but i will not write anything of a sexual nature

Spam comments about a request will be ignored, ill get to it when i get it it

Masterlist

Forgot to say, hi im back off of hiatus, new fandoms n all

Anyway hiiiii

(Bestie was very excited about this)

@bipaniccosplays

basically a lot of my problems boil down to me being really bad at waking up. and also really bad at going to sleep

it's me and my unhealthy sleeping schedule against the world

Peter Parker

Masterlist

Bucky Barnes

Masterlist