Harriet Backer - Thorvald Boeck’s Library (1902)

Mobile Masterlist

My Masterlist: 

(It’s nothing but Bucky so far…)

Keep reading

Yes I re-read my own fics because I wrote them for ME

Wonderland4Seasonal Writing Challenge Masterlist:

This is where the fics for the writing challenge will be posted! I will continue to post as fics come in. Thank you for everyone who joined! 

Any fics marked with ** indicates smut/NSFW/18+

Keep reading

These really just make you feel good.

Lemon Pie Masterlist

Moments measured in messy days and peaceful nights; in too-tart pies and slobbery toys. Bucky returns from war to find a life he never expected: a rich symphony of mishaps and mayhem and immeasurable love.

Oneshots

‘46: Bucky and his wife celebrate their first anniversary. 

‘50: A night out to celebrate five years stirs up memories for Y/n. 

‘52: Bucky spends some quality time with the newest member of the family. 

Slices

Roll Call

Daddy/Daughter Dance

Gracie’s First Date

That Green Dress

First Pregnancy

Trixie

First Day of School

Family Dinners

Interrupted 

Working Late

Baking

Father’s Day

Sick Day

The Ones I Used To Know

Other

Birth order

Hot Girl Shit [masterlist]

TAGLIST IS FULL

Summary: After a bad breakup, Y/N decides to spend her time doing “hot girl shit” and swears off relationships altogether. When she starts flirting with an anonymous Brooklyn based social media influencer, she might just find out her internet crush is closer to her than she realizes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Lots of drinking, discussions of past abusive relationships, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of PTSD and past trauma, possibly more to be added later

A/N: I haven’t done a social media au in a MINUTE and I really missed it! This idea came from an anon during a fake fic title game so I decided to go for it. If you’d like to be added to my permanent taglist click here!

Twitter Profiles

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

more to come…

Permanent Taglist (47/50): @icedcoffeemorn​​ @blckwidowbucky​ @jamesbuckybarnes-anon @buckysmischief @heyhihellowhatsup0 @whitewolfandthefox @sovereignparker @dumblani @chewymoustachio @daughterofthenight117 @stuckonjbbarnes @mariaenchanted @niall2017 @aliceaddellheidde @lexy9716 @lilliannaansalla @willowtree42095 @superblyscrumptiousdonut2 @nekoannie-chan @vintagepigeon @also-fangirlinsweden @old-enough-to-know-better73 @lil-stark @wonderlandfandomkingdom​ @shadesofgreyngold @marvelgurl @a-daydreamers-day @rumoured-whispers @ccmarvelxx @harpersmariano @aikeia @supraveng​ @dottirose​ @amelia-song-pond​ @pineprincess​ @redridingpants​ @everythingisoverrated​ @barnesafterglow​ @blizzspeaks​ @untraveled-road​​ @jennmurawski13​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​ @tlcwrites​ @mysweetlittledesire​ @writing-for-marvel​ @where-thesundoesntshine​ @cornmousequeen​ ​​​

Hot Girl Shit Taglist (25/25): @ietss @winters-moon-child @artemis-the2nd @kmuir1 @solarapower @rainbowkisses31 @emmabarnes @starlightcrystalline @shadowsndaisies @poppunkdork @simplybarnes @speedysimp @writerwrites @valsworldofcreativity @sleepingspacedragon @intense-socks @methadonepretty @wonder-cole @wxstedhexrt @brooklyn-1918 @fighterkimburgess @that-one-gay-girl @justsayk @marie9753​ @ofstarsandvibranium​​

It has been uhhhhhhh too long since I read anything on tumblr 👀

Piggybacking off of your post about writers: It takes five seconds to tap your account name and make a side blog where you can reblog fics if you read a lot and don’t want to clog your main feed. I was so glad someone suggested that in an ask somewhere else, because I have an unhealthy fear of being judged for reblogging smut (I know I shouldn’t, but I do), so I created a side blog that doesn’t mention my name where I can reblog and comment on works to help the author and share my enthusiasm for their work. I hope this helps others who didn’t think of this option before, it’s a win-win for writers and readers!

that's definitely a good alternative. it takes very, very, very, very minimal effort to tap/click the reblog button. if you don't like interactions, you don't even have to say anything or give us feedback. just REBLOG that shit. simple as that.

i'm so tired of everyone jumping through a bunch of hoops and loops as to why they "can't" reblog writers' works and support them. just say you don't want to and then don't complain when no one wants to give you free shit anymore lol

Flesh and Metal | The White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 6,062

Summary: Bucky Barnes is everything you ever wanted—soft, thoughtful, devoted. He loves you with a quiet intensity that should make you feel like the luckiest person alive. But after so many months of being together, he still hasn’t touched you. Not like that. When you finally confront him, you realize the truth is so much deeper. He does want you. He just doesn’t know how to ask. And tonight, for the first time—he’s finally ready to give in.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Sub!Bucky (lots of begging you guys), Angst, Swearing, Dominance & submission dynamics, Self-doubt & insecurity, Trauma responses & PTSD, Fear of abandonment & rejection, BDSM themes (light control, praise, permission-based dynamics), Overstimulation & begging, Implied past abuse

A/N: hey guys! this is my first ever story here, and i've worked so hard on it, my brain might dissolve through my ears tonight. i hope you'll like it, happy reading 🤍

📍Masterlist

It has been four months. Four months and one day, to be exact, since Bucky Barnes became mine. I’ve never heard so many people congratulate me and warn me in the same breath, but I never cared. Not when he’s been so precious, so thoughtful, so achingly romantic. Not when he’s spent every single day making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

I love him more than life itself. And with him—life and death feel closer than they should.

So why does it feel like I’m still not enough?

Four months, and he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not like that. 

Every time I try, every time I lean in, every time I press just a little too close, he pulls away. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s a hesitant step back, sometimes it’s a firm grip on my wrist, pushing me away just enough to make it clear.

I tried everything. Cute lingerie. Whispered invitations. I even got my hair done for our anniversary last night. Nothing helped, I couldn't shake his composed demeanor, no matter what I did.

Maybe, he doesn’t want me at all. Why would he?

The Bucky Barnes could have anyone. Someone like Natasha—gorgeous, cool, effortlessly magnetic. The kind of woman who could hold her own against a super soldier, the kind who wouldn’t hesitate. The kind who makes sense with him.

Me on the other hand? What was I thinking, believing I would be enough? Just a simple girl, coming from a boring family, with no interesting backstory, nothing to show, nothing to–

"Baby?" Bucky put his face an inch from mine, which immediately snapped me out of my spiralling thoughts. "You okay? Is your stomach upset?" He pointed to the remaining of mac and cheese he cooked. 

He grew to be extremely good at reading my expressions over the past few months. He usually doesn't need to ask; he just knows what's wrong, and eliminates the problem without a word. This time, though, he didn't know. How could he?

"No," I say flatly.

"Sure? Because–"

"I am fine," I snap, louder than anticipated. 

I immediately regret my tone when I see Bucky stiffen, the sound of his metal arm clenching into an unbreakable fist. He takes exactly three steps back from me; measured and calculated. His eyes terrified; I can almost see how he is searching for the possible threats or punishments he would receive, now that he senses the change in the mood. He's still as a sculpture, except for the arms; they are shaking from how strongly he is sqeezing his fist.

Oh, I fucked up.

"I'm sorry. It's just been a really hard week on me, I-"

"You're hurt." 

It's not a question, it's a fact.

"I'm not hurt–"

"I hurt you."

It's not a fact, it's a crime. At least that's how he says it.

I look down to the tiled floor where I can still spot the signs of Bucky's cooking. I cannot look at him. I would need to lie to his face and that is one thing I was never able to do. Not after what he's been through. 

I notice a small movement from him as he takes another step; farther. Way farther away from me. I take a deep breath and force myself to look at him, wishing I didn't as the sight instantly breaks my heart; his eyes are filled with tears, and he's so confused. Scared. Terrified of what is coming. He's gripping onto the side of his shirt, like he always does when he feels unsafe. A lump forms in my throat as I try to open my mouth to speak. I've ruined him. 

"I– uh." The sound I made was barely a whisper, but it made him visibly flinch. "Do you... Do you not... want me?"

Bucky's terrified gaze turns into utter confusion in a matter of seconds. He blinks – for the first time in maybe minutes – as he's struggling to understand my question. I collect all my leftover courage and hope to keep talking. 

"You push me away," I say, trying to be as soft as possible. "We've been together for months, but never... together."

I feel so stupid for not being able to just straight out say it. I'm hoping he somehow understands what I mean, but judging by his scrunched eyebrows, I'm gonna have to be more specific.

 I let out a big sigh and close my eyes to make the embarrassment less painful. "Bucky, we never had sex." 

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his face drops. I lose him again somewhere very far away from me, and he keeps looking at me like I am about to destroy him completely. 

"If you don't want me, that's okay," I assure him, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. "I know I'm not the prettiest girl, and you've probably seen better—"

"No!" he snaps, so I lift my head up. He looks horrified, like I've just said something unspeakable. I wait for him to continue, but instead, he keeps staring at me, as if his eyes could tell everything he is unable to.

"No?" I echo. "Then why do you run every time I try to touch you like that?"

He breaks the eye contact by strictly looking at the kitchen counter right in front of him; or at anything that is not me. From all the months I've spent in his presence, I recognize this look too well. He's ashamed. 

"Bucky..."

Silence. He grips the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. A nervous tick, but to him, a grounding mechanism. He's really trying not to lose himself.

"I—, I don't—," he stutters. "I don't know how."

"What?" I blink. “Bucky, you’ve—” I hesitate. “You’ve been with other women before.”

His head jerks up with a flicker of panic and frustration.

 “That’s not—that’s different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky is refusing to look at me, so I stand up from my seat to make way towards him. He takes a sharp breath when I'm within his reach, but doesn't move. That's a good sign. 

"Look at me, baby," I ask, softly. His eyes snap up instantly, and I see it all there. The fear, the desperation, the battlefield in his head. "Tell me what's wrong."

He tries to do so; he opens his mouth, swallows, exhales, shakes his head, tries again, but he fails, no matter how hard he tries.

"Do you want me?" I ask bluntly.

He nods, still staring at the marble countertop. Okay.

"Are you scared to ask for what you want?"

Another nod. 

"Do you trust me?"

This one is instant.

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

He lets out a shaky breath before he swallows. He turns his head to me, face flustered, his chest moving up and down as he tries to regulate himself.

"Please, can you—," his voice dies before he can finish. He clearly is struggling, like he doesn't know how to want things and the fact breaks a small part of my heart permanently.

"Go on, Bucky. What do you need?" I encourage him.

"I—," he stutters, and then shakes his head hard, like the words are physically hurting him inside his head.

 His body, however, tells the truth on behalf of him. The way his hands tremble and his chest heaves with each exhale, the way his metal fingers twitch against his thigh—he is fighting himself.

I let the silence stretch, waiting, watching the way his face twists with frustration, with hesitation. With want.

“Baby,” I say softly.

His eyes cracks open, blue burning with something raw, something pleading. He sucks in a breath, and for a moment, I think he finally gives in, but then he shakes his head again, hard, turning his face away.

I click my tongue, grabbing his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You want something. I can see it. I can feel it.”

His chest rises sharply, lips parting, but still, he doesn't speak. I lean in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. 

“Do you need me to guide you?”

His entire body jerks, a sharp inhale ripping from his throat. His fingers are clenching into fists, the tremor rolling through his shoulders like a quake. But he still doesn't answer me.

My grip tightens slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Bucky, if you don’t tell me what you need, I can’t give it to you.”

He exhales shakily, a frustrated, broken sound. His brows knit together, his hands lifting before falling back to his thighs, his whole frame trembling.

“Please,” he whispers.

My heart clenches. “Yes?”

His head dropped forward, breath ragged. “Please… please tell me what to do.”

Oh. 

Oh, fuck.

I smile, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel the weight of what he's just asked for.

“I’ll show you.” I say, and I find my voice firm. Commanding.

His breath stutters, his entire body tensing, every muscle coiled tight with restraint, with hesitation. He’s fighting it, clinging to the instinct to resist—until I lean in, my mouth brushing over the shell of his ear.

 “If you'll be a good boy for me.”

The sound he makes—soft, broken, fucking relieved—rips through me like a shockwave. My core tightens, ignites, burns, a volcano threatening to erupt at the sheer power of it. 

Bucky Barnes is submissive. For me. 

"Follow me," I say, and as if I freed him from an invisible curse, he makes his way after me.

All at once, every doubt I ever had—about myself, about us—disintegrates. How did I not see this before? How could I have been so blind? He doesn’t need distance. He doesn’t need time. He just needs me. Me in control. Me guiding him. Me telling him exactly what to do.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most intoxicating realization of all, I don't know what is.

I may not be the most experienced woman alive, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that he needs me to be present. He needs me to take this. Own this. There’s no room for doubt, no room to shy away, when he trusts me to take care of him.

I release him just to check his expression, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but to my surprise, I find none. Not a single trace. His eyes track my every movement, locked onto me like a soldier awaiting an order.

And it shouldn't turn me on the way it does.

"Do you want me right now?" My voice is steady, even as I close the space between us, just by one step. 

His gaze sweeps over me, dragging from my lips, to my throat, to my body before he gives a sharp, assured nod.

 "Then take off my dress." 

He moves instantly, without hesitation—like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he met me. His fingers find the hem of my dress; his touch cautious, reverent, like he’s afraid I might pull away at any second. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.

The contrast of his warm, flesh hand on one thigh, and his ice-cold vibranium fingers on the other, sends a shiver tearing down my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the fabric over my head, the brush of his knuckles against my skin leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Once I’m bare before him, he takes a small step back—just to look. His lips part slightly, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faster, deeper. His eyes—piercing, devastating—roam every inch of me, burning me from the inside out.

And then, he moves.

He throws the dress across the room without looking, never once taking his eyes off of me. His entire body is vibrating, like he’s barely holding himself together, barely restraining the need thrumming beneath his skin.

The sight of him is stealing every breath I have left.

“Can I take your shirt off?” I break the silence, my own voice softer now.

“Please,” he begs.

I waste no time. I step in, close enough for his ragged breath to ghost over my skin, and strip him bare. It’s a summer night, so he’s only wearing a thin, black V-neck, already clinging to the sweat on his chest–or at least, he was. With one fluid motion, I pull it over his head and let it drop to the floor.

I take a moment, just a few seconds, to admire him.

His body is all strength, broad shoulders and sculpted muscle carved by battle and time. Scars litter his skin, testaments to wars fought and survived, and yet, under the soft glow of the moonlight, he looks like something untouchable. Ethereal. Unreal.

I swallow hard, licking my lips as my gaze travels downward, over his defined abs, the way they tense under my attention, down to the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. I feel it then—the heat pooling low, the unbearable pulse between my thighs. And he’s just standing there, watching me, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.

I’m already so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing.

"Undress me," I whisper. 

His breath catches, eyes flash with hunger, the way they always do when he wants but won’t take. But this time, he moves.

With careful fingers, he reaches behind me for the clasp of my bra, hesitant yet desperate. This is as far as we’ve ever gone. Four months of waiting, of skirting the edge, of Bucky refusing to let himself see me without clothes. Back then, I thought it was because he didn’t want me, because I wasn’t enough.

But now? Now I know the truth. He wouldn’t have known what to do. He was afraid to ruin this. Afraid to ruin me.

I snap out of my thoughts as I feel the cold air of the AC dance on my bare torso. My nipples instantly harden as a result, and Bucky notices it just as quickly. His lips are apart, and he's staring at them like an animal on his prey. The way he wants me fills me with every ounce of confidence I’ve ever needed.

"You can touch them," I whisper, not sure he even heard me, but then he takes two steps towards, putting his flesh hand on my waist.

I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as his warm, steady touch trails up my skin. His movements are slow—painfully, torturously slow—like he’s memorizing me with his hands, drinking me in through touch alone. He reaches my left breast and he cups it, his thumb immediately finding my hard nipple. His breath shudders, sharp and heavy, his chest rising with a strained inhale as he circles my achingly hard peak with his thumb, teasing, testing, learning me.

I struggle to hold in my moan, my teeth sinking into my lip as he pinches it, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight between my legs. And fuck, he’s watching. His vibranium arm remains stiff at his side, fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist, his jaw slightly slack, his lips parted as he watches himself touch me.

He’s fascinated. Hypnotized. Like this is the first time he’s ever allowed himself to truly want something.

"Both hands, please." My voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, just a needy, broken plea. His head snaps up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes meet mine.

His metal hand, still clenched in restraint, relaxes. With slow, careful hesitation, he brings it up, inch by inch, his fingertips skimming my ribs before finally—finally—he touches me. A shiver rips through me, my body instinctively arching into the icy contrast of metal against my heated skin. I don’t pull away; if anything, I lean into him, chasing the sensation, craving more.

"You're being so good for me," I praise, my voice low.

Bucky fucking breaks.

His entire body stutters, trembles; his breath hitching, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as a wrecked, desperate whimper falls from his lips.

Fuck. That has to be the sexiest sound in the world.

“Can I—” His voice cracks, his fingers flexing against my skin. “Can I please kiss you?”

He is pleading, over and over, his voice shaky, utterly undone.

“Please, I need it. Please.”

His words shoot straight to my core, the need in his voice a direct pulse between my legs. I want him so much, I might sublime from the heat he ignites inside me.

I don’t hesitate. I grab his arm, pulling him against me, forcing his bare chest to crash into mine. He melts against me, his body burning, muscles taut, already trembling with restraint. And then, I kiss him. Or maybe he kisses me. Either way, the moment our lips meet, Bucky loses himself.

He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s drowning and I’m his only air. His mouth is hungry, relentless, desperate, lips crashing into mine as he’s trying to devour me whole.

And fuck, his hands.

They roam everywhere, one gripping the small of my back, the other skimming just beneath my panties, teasing, taunting me, and just when I think it couldn't get any better, his metal hand clamps around my ass, gripping tight, keeping me steady. Feeling the cool vibranium pressing into my heated skin, I moan straight into his mouth, my body shuddering in his hold.

“Put me on the bed. Now.”

The words leave me in a command, and Bucky moves before I can even take another breath. With one arm, just one, he lifts me with ease, like I weigh nothing to him. He lays me down, gentle but firm, already moving to cover me with his body—but I stop him.

“Not yet.”

I shake my head, and he immediately halts, his breathing labored, controlled. He looks wrecked, like he's using every bit of self control to keep himself away from me. Still kneeling between my legs, still so fucking obedient, and yet—his eyes. His fucking eyes, they’re eating me alive.

“Take it off,” I order, nodding toward his jeans.

Bucky keeps his eyes locked on mine, hands trailing down, slow and deliberate as he reaches for the button of his jeans. With a quick flick of his fingers, they’re undone. His piercing gaze never leaves me, his eyes dragging over every inch of my body, devouring, worshipping.

I don't have much time before he stands up and slowly pushes his jeans down. I gasp when I see the thin, black material of his boxers that do nothing to hide him. The thick, heavy outline of him, pressing against the fabric, takes my breath away.

I’ve never seen him like this before. Not even close. I’ve felt him—hard, pressing against me on nights where he’d let himself have just a little. But then he would stop and shut it down. I couldn't understand why, not until now, and I don't have one second to think about it, because he pushes his boxers down. His cock is finally bared to me in full, and Jesus fucking Christ.

He is huge. How is that gonna fit?

“Please,” I hear a small plea towards him, and I shot my eyes back to his face. 

His breath is wild, erratic, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air, like he’s on the edge of breaking. His flesh hand is poised, ready to touch himself, to relieve even an ounce of the pressure, but he doesn't. Not without my word. I bite my lip, reveling in the power of it, in the way his entire body trembles under restraint.

“Take this off, too,” I instruct, gesturing to the lace panties that I’d bought months ago—back when I thought he’d see them then.  Back when I thought we’d be here so much sooner. 

But I don’t have a single complaint left in my body, because when Bucky finally moves—he rips them off. The thin fabric tears from me in one sharp pull, and for a split second, I wonder if he just ripped them in half.

His eyes drag over me, drinking in every inch of bare skin, mapping the places he’s never let himself truly look at before. I feel just how wet I am, now that there’s nothing to soak up the slick. I can feel it all pooling between my thighs, proof of just how badly I want him.

A flicker of  shyness grips me—how did I get this lucky? How did I end up with him, undone and starving, in front of me? But I don’t let myself hide; instead, I sit up slowly, deliberately, my movements calculated, letting myself kneel on the soft mattress.

I look up at him, like I could devour him with a single breath. The six-foot-tall ex-assassin is towering over me, radiating pure heat, his entire body coiled tight like a predator barely holding back.

And then, soft as a prayer, I say, “I want you.”

As if I’ve broken a curse, Bucky snaps. His fingers clamp around my throat, his mouth slamming into mine, the sheer force of it knocking me back onto the bed. He pins me down, all of his weight pressing into me, heavy, suffocating, absolutely fucking perfect. The way he kisses me makes me crazy; he's hungry, possessive, and so filthy, I can only moan as a response.

His cock, thick and heavy, sliding between my soaking slit, his length gliding right over my clit with each slow, torturous grind.

“Fuck—” I moan straight into his mouth, my hips instinctively tilting up, chasing every ounce of friction he gives me.

I lose every bit of control I had left. Overcome with greed, I grab at him, pull at him, take as much as I can. My fingers tangle in his long hair, keeping him locked to me, refusing to let him break the kiss for even a second. 

I let my other hand wander; I trace the sharp lines of his back, trailing lower, until my palm finds his ass. I squeeze, hard, forcing him to rock against me even harder, dragging his cock rougher, deeper through my slick folds. My breathing is a wreck, my body moving instinctively, clinging to him, needing more, more, more.

I want him. All over me. Inside me. Taking me apart.

“Can I—” His voice shatters, breathless. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wrecked with need.

“Can I please put it in?”

And fuck, he looks at me like a puppy, wide-eyed, begging.

“Please, I’ll make you feel so good,” he purrs against my neck, teeth grazing my skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses.

“God, yes,” I groan.

Bucky grabs himself, his fingers shaking with need as he positions his cock right at my entrance. He could thrust in immediately, take what we both want without hesitation, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pauses; his eyes flick back up to mine, searching, waiting, needing something more.

And I know exactly what he wants.

“Be a good boy and fuck me, Bucky.”

I'm way past hesitation or shame. All I want is him taking over me, claiming me, pressing me into himself. The words shatter something inside him; his mouth parts, his pupils blown wide, and then—without ever breaking eye contact—he slides inside.

A broken moan leaves my lips as my spine arches, my body opening for him, stretching around him, and fuck, he fills me.

Completely. Entirely. Devastatingly.

I’ve been aching for this moment for months. I’ve fantasized about him taking me, and now he’s finally inside me. A deep pressure builds low in my belly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as he pushes deeper and deeper, until I feel the blunt tip of his cock press against my cervix.

He’s so fucking hard. I can feel him throbbing inside me, feel the pulse of his cock against my walls, and it drives me insane. I wait for him to finally move, but after a few seconds of stillness, I open my eyes.

Bucky is watching me so carefully, his eyes flicking over my face, searching for even the slightest sign of discomfort. His arms shake violently, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets beside my head. He’s breathing fast, erratic, his small, shaky breaths cold against my ear. And he’s moving too slowly, like he’s terrified of losing control.

“Relax, baby. You can let go.”

I lift my hand, gently stroking his beautiful face, my voice barely a whisper. His eyes soften, then immediately darken.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, ruined.

“You can’t,” I assure him. “I can take it. I want to take it.”

The sound that escapes him—a helpless whimper, like he’s been waiting his entire life to hear those words. His body trembles, his control hanging by a thread, his cock twitching inside me at the sheer relief of it.

He might be above me, but he is completely at my mercy.

“You’re doing so good,” I murmur, just inches from his lips, my breath fanning over his skin. “Don’t stop.”

The second I say it, he melts.

Raw, desperate need unleashes from him so suddenly, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I wheeze in surprise, barely able to keep up before he grabs the bedframe above my head with his vibranium arm and picks up the pace—hard. The deep, wrecked moan that rips from his throat sets me on fire; a wildfire raging low and uncontrollable, consuming every last of my coherent thoughts. All I know is him—the way he moves, the way he fills me, the way every precise thrust hits where I need him most.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he collapses into me, his mouth claiming mine in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His thrusts are relentless, shaking the entire goddamn bed, and I have to grip his vibranium arm for dear life just to keep myself in place.

Somewhere in his haze, even now, he thinks to protect me—his flesh hand cradling the top of my head, shielding me from the bedframe. My chest tightens at the gesture, and I let my lips trail down his sweat-slicked neck in silent gratitude, my teeth grazing over his skin.

Something inside me snaps as I feel his salty skin on my tounge. My nails rake down his back, digging into the hard muscle, desperate to leave my mark. My teeth sink into his shoulder, biting, scratching, taking him. We’re sliding against each other, slick with sweat, the heat of the summer night making everything feel even filthier, more raw, more real.

And Bucky is falling apart.

He’s moaning, breaking, unraveling against me, the sounds deep and ragged, each one rougher than the last. If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t know how utterly overwhelmed with pleasure he is—I’d think he was in pure agony from the helpless little cries slipping from his lips.

“Tell me I’m good for you,” he whispers, almost afraid to ask, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Bucky.” 

The words fall from my lips like a promise, and fuck, the sharp, broken gasp he lets out shreds me to pieces. It’s high and desperate, so fucking needy, and it goes straight to my core.

He kisses me, hard and possessive.

“I’ve been waiting…” His voice is unraveling, barely understandable.

”… for so fucking long.”

Then suddenly—

Thrust.

“And you—”

Thrust.

“Feel—”

Thrust.

“So—”

Thrust.

“Good.”

His voice rasps in pure, guttural pleasure. I’m nothing but a puddle beneath him, completely ruined, and somehow, he’s not finished.

His rhythm snaps, his thrusts turning harder, rougher, deeper, more possessive.

“Mine,” he snarls, his voice low, primal. He slams into me, hard, forcing me to take it.

“Mine, you understand?”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. There’s no rational thought left, no words, just pure, consuming pleasure. So instead, I match his pace, my hips rolling up to meet every devastating thrust. The way his words set me on fire, I let the flames consume me. My orgasm builds dangerously fast, and I’m hanging by a fucking thread, barely holding on under the brutal precision of his movements.

“Bucky—God—”

His name falls from my lips like a prayer, breathless and desperate.

“I’m—”

Judging by his increased pace, he knows exactly what I'm trying to say. He lifts himself, just enough to look me in the eyes, and I’m trying so hard not to let my eyes roll back, not to completely lose myself in him.

“Please.”

His voice shatters, breaking apart in my ear, pleading.

“Please cum on my cock. Please, baby, please—”

This is all I need to spiral. The coil inside me snaps violently, my entire body arching, shattering as a scream tears from my throat. I crash into pleasure, drowning in it, my walls clenching tight around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

“Oh, fuck—” Bucky’s voice breaks, his hips stuttering, his rhythm completely unraveling as he feels me fall apart around him.

“That’s it—fuck—that’s my girl.”

His praise sends a violent aftershock through me, my body trembling, shaking, completely spent. I gasp for air, trying to regulate myself after the most devastating orgasm of my life, but I don't stand a chance. Bucky's not finished, not yet.

“I—I can’t—”

Bucky’s voice isn’t even human anymore. It’s a shattered, breathless little whimper, choked between desperate gasps, his body trembling like he’s about to break. His hips falter, his cock twitching so agressively inside me I swear I can feel it in my throat.

But he won’t let go. Not yet.

Not without permission.

“Please—”

The word falls apart in his throat, barely even understandable.

“Please, baby, please—please let me cum, I need it, I need you, I can’t hold it, I can’t—”

He’s whining, his breath is gone, his voice is gone, his body is gone; he is completely, utterly mine.

“Release it, baby.” My fingers tighten in his hair, dragging him deeper inside me. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”

And that’s it; he doesn’t just fall apart—he disintegrates.

His hips slam forward, burying himself so fucking deep inside me, holding us together, his muscles locking up, convulsing. And if this wasn't enough, he whimpers.

“Ohhh—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

His cock twitches and throbs uncontrollably, and I feel everything. The first violent, overwhelming pulse. The hot, thick flood of him spilling deep inside me. His hips keep jerking, his muscles keep locking up, his whimpers keep breaking apart into desperate, breathless sobs.

“Baby, baby—please, please, oh my God, I—I can’t—”

His hands claw at my waist, face burrowed into my neck, his breath a gasping mess. His voice cracks, completely breaking apart, and then a single, desperate sob escapes from him.

He cries. Bucky Barnes cries when he cums.

His body shakes uncontrollably, his hips rocking forward on their own, like he’s trying to push it even deeper, like he’s chasing something he’ll never be able to reach.

“Baby, baby—please hold me, please—fuck, I love you, I love you so much—”

His voice is cracking, completely gone, and I gasp as I feel another orgasm building inside me. Another slow, rolling wave, ignited by his moans, his desperate little whimpers, the way he’s still trembling inside me.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—”

The second he realizes what’s happening, it destroys him all over again.

“Baby, you’re gonna— Fuck, fuck, fuck—please, baby, please—”

His hips snap forward as a last burst of desperate energy, his hands gripping my waist so tightly I feel the bruises forming.

“Oh, baby—please, please cum on my cock again, I wanna feel it—please, baby, please, please—”

The filth of it, the raw need in his voice immedately shatters me. I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, my walls tightening, pulsing, taking him deeper, squeezing him so hard he sobs.

“Oh—oh fuck, baby, I’m still cumming—”

His cock throbs again, another weak, helpless little spill, and he whimpers so high and wrecked he sounds like he’s dying.

“I can’t stop—baby, I can’t stop, I can’t stop—”

His breath is gone, tears spilling onto my skin, his voice a trembling, begging mess, pleading for the final release. Not a moment later, he collapses.

His body slumps into mine; arms useless, his breathing erratic and broken. His tears still fall, his entire body shivering, overstimulated, still whimpering, still sobbing.

He’s still inside me, throbbing. Utterly gone from this world.

His hands stay locked firmly around me, fingers clutching, shaking, gripping, like he’ll die if I let go. And on top of that, he just won't stop crying. Soft, helpless little sobs hide into my skin, as he's holding onto me for dear life.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice so broken and small.

“Baby, please don’t let go—please don’t go.”

My heart shatters to a million pieces in a matter of seconds. It becomes evidently clear that he's not here right now. He’s somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere cold, somewhere where he had nothing and no one. I feel it in the way he clings to me and his hands shake as they grip my waist. The way his face tucks into my throat, burrowing, searching, nuzzling like he’s trying to disappear into me; like he’s afraid this isn’t real.

"Shhh, Bucky,” I murmur, kissing his damp temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though I wanted my words to soothe him, he breaks even more instead. His breath catches on a sob, his entire body curling into me, fingers fisting in the sheets, in my hair, in anything he can hold onto. 

“You’re so good to me,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “So perfect, so soft, I—fuck, I don’t deserve this—”

His lips quiver against my skin, hands tightening around me, pulling me closer. The realization that he’s not just crying from overstimulation, hits me like a brick. He’s crying because he’s never felt this before.

Never felt this safe. Never felt this loved. Never felt this cherished, taken care of. 

“Bucky,” I whisper, cupping his tear-streaked face, making him look at me.

His blue eyes are glassy and vulnerable, still wet with tears. God, he looks so much younger like this. Like a little boy, back in the ‘40s, nineteen years old, held too many responsibilities, never got held in return.

I immediately want to fix every bad thing that's ever happened to him.

“You deserve all of this, my sweet boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead. “You deserve every single second of love. You deserve to be taken care of.”

He lets out a tiny little sob that slits my heart in half, like a butcher knife.

“But I—” His voice cracks, his fingers digging into my waist. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—”

His breath hitches, his chest rising, falling too fast. I know him enough to realize he’s panicking, his brain is fighting him, pushing against the comfort, trying to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

I also know how to shut it down. I pull him into me, wrap my arms so tightly around him that he has no choice but to believe that this is real. I'm real.

“It’s okay, baby,” I say gently, stroking his hair, feeling his body relax against mine. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me love you.”

He immediately eases into me, his breath slowing, his shaking finally dying down. He doesn't know, but he's holding my own broken pieces together too, since I've never felt a love so consuming before. 

“If I fall asleep,” he whispers, as if he is about to say something unthinkable, “will you be here when I wake up?”

My dear God. 

"Of course, Bucky. I'll be right here, always," I promise, my voice firm, not leaving any space for doubts in his broken mind.

He buries his face into my neck as an answer, and with that, Bucky Barnes is fast asleep in my arms.

Where the Wild Things Heal | The White Wolf

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (1st Person)

Word Count: 8,315

Summary: Bucky Barnes is free of the trigger words—but not of his past. One night, when a nightmare fractures his mind, pulling him back into the Winter Soldier, you fight to bring him home. Armed with nothing but a whispered phrase—a line you’ve woven into your happiest moments—you reach for him in the darkness, hoping he’ll remember. Hoping he’ll choose to come back to you.

Warnings: Violence & Physical Harm, Panic Attack & PTSD Symptoms, Mental & Emotional Trauma, Dark Themes of Identity & Control, Implied Past Trauma - but you also get to laugh a lil

A/N: this was NOT meant to be this long, but I got carried away because they were just so precious 🤍 hope you like it, happy reading!!

📍Masterlist

Thump. Crack. Scream.

I am ripped from my deep sleep so violently that the world tilts, my vision whiting out as I jolt upright. My breath catches, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The sheets are damp beneath my palms, my skin slick with cold sweat. And then I notice—the bed beside me is empty.

Bucky is gone.

I quicly look at the red digits on my nightstand— 2:38 am. What's going on? My breath catches as I shove the blankets aside, my feet hitting the cold floor with a quiet thud. I can't help but notice how the air feels thick, charged, like a storm is about to break.

Then I hear another crash. A heavy thump, followed by the wet, splintering crack of wood breaking apart.

It's coming from the living room.

I push myself forward, my legs unsteady, forcing me to grasp the bedroom wall for support. The cotton of my sleep shirt clings to me like a second skin, drenched in cold sweat, almost suffocating me. My heart races as I step into the hallway, where shadows stretch jagged, elongated by the flickering glow of the streetlights outside.

I hear a sound of breathing. Not mine. Barely human.

It’s harsh, like an animal just let out of a cage. The unmistakable grind of metal against wood scrapes through the silence, followed by the low snarl that makes my stomach clench. Please don't let this be what I think it is.

I take a deep, wobbly breath, but my lungs feel too tight, too small. My fingers grip the doorframe for stability as I turn, and—Oh my God.

The living room is wrecked—no, annihilated.

The coffee table split clean in half, the jagged wood reaching up like broken ribs. The bookshelf, gone, its contents strewn and shredded all over the floor. One of the kitchen chairs lies in pieces, crushed into the floor like it said something offensive.

And in the center of it all—Bucky.

He’s barefoot, shirtless, standing among the wreckage like a fallen god in the aftermath of his own storm. His chest is heaving, his vibranium arm locked in a deadly grip around the remains of a chair leg. His flesh hand is shaking violently, fingers twitching like they don’t know whether to grab or destroy.

There’s blood on his knuckles. I don’t know if it’s his. And I don't know if it's not his, then whose it is. Deep concern runs through me before I open my mouth to call his name, but then he moves.

His back muscles flex, every inch of him wound tight, ready to detonate. His breathing is so sharp and frantic, it's a miracle he doesn't pass out. And when he turns—slowly, painfully—I almost throw up my heart.

This is not my Bucky. This is the Winter Soldier.

This can't be. Sheer terror floods my body. For one, razor-sharp second, silence hangs between us—then, with the speed of light, he lunges.

 I don't even have time to scream.

A wall of muscle and rage crashes into me, knocking the air from my lungs before I can react. Cold metal and burning skin collide against me as we slam into the couch—my back hitting the cushions so hard my vision goes white.

His hand, his vibranium hand, clamps around my throat—hard.

I gasp and choke as I try digging my nails into his wrist, like it could leave a mark on the vibranium, but his grip doesn’t budge. A burning pressure spreads through my neck, crushing and suffocating, cutting off every desperate gulp of air before it reaches my lungs. The vice around my windpipe tightens, a crushing force, pressing harder and harder—so brutally, that black spots bloom at the edges of my vision.

I try to kick out, my legs thrashing everywhere, searching for leverage beneath his weight, but it’s useless. He’s too heavy and inhumanely strong.

I force my eyes open, even if they sting with hot tears I don’t remember shedding. My body shakes violently beneath him, the lack of air barely keeping me contious, and still, all the physical pain cannot compare to the sight of him.

A single, heart-wrenching sob breaks free from my strangled throat, because the eyes that meet me are unrecognizable. His usual warm, blue eyes—the ones that have looked at me with so much adoration, with quiet, aching tenderness—are completely gone. What’s left is empty. Colder than the surface of Antarctica.

His face is void of emotion and somehow that makes all this so much worse. There is no rage, no cruelty, no satisfaction. No sign of the man who once held me like I was something breakable. There is only precision, like a weapon, a killing machine.

I let out a shuddering, gasping sob, my fingers still scratching, trembling, and begging against his grip—all for nothing. 

But I’ve been warned that this could happen. That one day, the past would sink its claws into him, drag him under, erase the man I love. And now, I am seconds away from being his next casualty.

I have to bring him back before he kills me.

Before he lives with the weight of it.

Six months ago - Wakanda

The library hums with the bright, bubbling laughter of children as we gather for our daily reading. Out of all the moments I cherish as a teacher, this is my favorite. Watching their curious eyes light up, their minds painting the story, like a movie only they can see. Nothing compares to it.

"Alright, what should we read today?" I glance around, expecting eager suggestions, but instead, I’m met with a chorus of scattered chatter and shrugged shoulders.

I smile gently. "No ideas? Looks like I get to choose, then."

That’s when the smallest girl in the class steps forward, clutching a book I don’t recognize. It’s worn, faded with time, its cover barely holding together—a testament to how well-loved it must have been. Gently, I take it from her, my fingers brushing over the fragile, crumbling edges. The title is impossible to read; the cover is too far gone, lost to years of eager hands and turned pages. I flip through the first few pages, searching—and then I find it.

"The Hobbit?" I echo, blinking in surprise as I glance at the worn pages. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if it’s too complex for a group of ten-year-olds. "Well... this one’s a little more challenging than what we’ve read before. But if you all want to give it a try, I’m happy to!"

"What’s it about?" one of the boys pipes up.

I pause, tapping my fingers lightly against the book, thinking of the best way to explain it. How do I sum up dragons, wizards, and an adventure of a lifetime in a way they’ll love?

"Alright, picture this: There’s a tiny guy named Bilbo, who just wants to stay home, eat snacks, and live a peaceful life—"

"Same," one of the kids mumbles, making a few others giggle.

I chuckle. "Yeah, well, tough luck for him, because a wizard shows up at his door like, ‘Surprise! You’re going on an adventure!’ And before he can say no, BOOM—now he’s running from trolls, fighting giant spiders, and stealing treasure from a dragon that could literally barbecue him in two seconds."

A few gasps and wide-eyed stares fill the room. Smiling, I lean in, lowering my voice for dramatic effect.

"Oh, and somewhere along the way, he picks up a weird little magic ring… that may or may not be extremely cursed."

"Whoaaa," they gasp in surprise.

I grin. "So, what do you guys think? Wanna see if our tiny hobbit friend actually survives this mess?"

"Yes!" They exclaim as a collective. 

I look at them like a proud mom, warmth filling my chest as they settle in, eager and excited. Just as I part my lips to begin reading, a shadow moves in the doorway.

My breath catches. For a split second, I see him—tall, silent, barely standing there, like he doesn't want to be seen. I blink once, twice, and by the time my eyes refocus, he’s gone. I shake my head, exhaling softly, pushing the strange unease away.

I must have imagined it.

"So, where was I?" I smile as I carefully put my finger to where the story begins. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

Before I know it, we are on page 63. My throat is aching, but the kids have been hanging onto every word, eyes wide with curiosity. Their quiet, eager faces have left me with no choice but to keep going.

I’m just about to turn the page when the door swings open, shattering the silence, pulling everyone out of their deep concentration. A few kids jump, some snap their heads toward the entrance, and there she is—Shuri.

She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, with an expression so sharp it could cut through the book in my hands. But I know better. She’s just putting on a show.

"Oh, good. You’re all alive." She nods. "Your parents were about to put up missing child posters."

The kids freeze. Hell, I freeze.

Shuri tilts her head, eyes twinkling with mischief. "What? You think I’m joking?" She pulls out her Kimoyo beads and taps on them. "Go on. Call your mom. Let her know you still exist."

One of the girls shoots up from her chair, searching for the nearest clock. "WAIT, WHAT TIME IS IT?!"

Shuri snorts. "The time where you go home before I have to adopt all of you."

The moment the words leave Shuri’s mouth, pure, unfiltered panic erupts.

"Oh, no, my mom’s gonna kill me!" One of the boys yelps, shoving his notebook into his backpack so fast it nearly rips.

"I thought it was, like, four o’clock!" A girl gasps, grabbing her shoes from under the table. Why her shoes were off is beyond me.

Chairs scrape against the floor, papers fly, and in a matter of seconds, my once captive audience is now a stampede of frantic children, rushing for the door like their lives depend on it.

"Bye, Miss!" "See you tomorrow!" "Thanks for the story!" Their voices overlap in hurried goodbyes as they dash past Shuri, who barely moves, watching them go with an amused smirk.

Once the last kid bolts out, I slump back in my chair, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Shuri raises a brow. "What the hell do you feed these kids? I’ve never seen a group of ten-year-olds sit still that long. Are you drugging them?"

I playfully roll my eyes, reaching for my water bottle. "It’s called storytelling, Shuri. You should try it sometime."

She hums, unconvinced, stepping further into the library. "Mm-hmm. Sure. Either that, or you’re a witch."

Shuri walks over to the table, and that’s when her eyes land on the book. She freezes immediately, her teasing smirk fading, brows knitting together.

"Wait."

I glance up at her, mid-sip. "What?"

She points to the battered, old copy of The Hobbit. "Where did you get this?"

I frown. "One of the kids picked it out today. Someone might have left it around somewhere. Why?"

Shuri doesn’t answer immediately. She just stares at it, like it’s something impossible. Then, slowly, she reaches out and flips through the pages, her fingers barely touching the fragile edges. When she finally speaks, her voice is much lower.

"This belongs to the White Wolf."

The second I hear that name, my entire body tenses.

Everyone in Wakanda knows about the White Wolf. It's the name spoken in whispers, in tones of both respect and caution. The name I’ve heard a hundred times, but never thought would have anything to do with me. Not until now.

"He’s never let anyone touch this book before," she continues, but I can barely hear her over the loud, erratic thumps of my own heartbeat. "It’s not just a book to him. It’s his anchor."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

Shuri sighs, closing the book gently. "Bucky doesn’t talk about his past. Not much, anyway. But I’ve seen him with this. When he first came here, when he was still healing, still afraid of his own mind, I’d find him reading it, over and over. Like he was trying to remember something. Or trying not to forget."

She taps a finger against the faded cover. "This is the only thing he brought with him when he left the outside world behind. It’s been on his shelf for years. And I have never, ever seen him let it out of his sight."

I glance down at the book, the pages worn from years of being held, flipped through, read in silence.

Then the realization hits me like a brick—the shadowy figure I saw earlier, standing in the doorway, silent, unmoving. Watching. Listening.

It was him. Bucky was there. And for some reason, he left his most treasured possession behind, in my hands.

"Oh, Shuri..." I say, my voice coming out all wobbly, thick with something I can’t name. "I didn't know, I swear. I never would've touched it if I did."

I swallow, staring down at the worn cover, running my fingers along the fragile edges. The poor man has been through so much, and here I am, taking away the one last thing he cherishes. The guilt sinks deep, clawing its way under my skin. 

"Where is he?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Shuri raises a brow. "You’re serious?"

I glance up at her, feeling the weight of the book in my hands. It’s heavy in a way it wasn’t before. "I need to give it back."

She hesitates. "No one just... visits him."

I know. Everyone knows.

The White Wolf is left alone. By choice, by necessity—maybe both. No one wanders too close to his little cottage at the edge of the Wakandan landscape.

No one risks disturbing him because no one is stupid enough to try.

Except, apparently, me.

Shuri watches me carefully, as if she's waiting for me to take back my words, to laugh it off, to come to my senses. But when I don’t, she lets out a low whistle. "Damn. You really feel bad, huh?"

I nod, throat tight. "He left it here, Shuri. He was listening, and then he left it." I exhale, trying to steady my nerves. "I don’t know why, but... I just can’t keep it. I have to bring it back."

Shuri huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "Well, if you get mauled by a super-soldier, don’t say I didn’t warn you."

That doesn’t help. Like, at all.

I curse the gods—every single one of them—as my feet carry me toward my inevitable doom.

Why did I take this job? Why did I thik it was a good idea to move here, to teach English to Wakandan children, when I could’ve stayed on my ass in Brooklyn, sipping overpriced lattes and minding my business? But no, no. I just had to be adventurous. I just had to do something meaningful. And now, because of some ancient, battered book, I’m marching toward the White Wolf’s isolated den like I have a death wish.

I can already imagine it—he rips the book out of my hands, glares at me with cold, unforgiving eyes, and then... what? Kicks me out? Snaps at me? Growls?

I shudder.

God, what if he’s actually terrifying? What if he doesn’t say anything at all, just stares at me until I crumble under the sheer weight of his presence? Or worse—what if he doesn’t even acknowledge me? That thought somehow feels worse than all the others.

By the time I reach the edge of the village, the Wakandan landscape stretching wide and open, the small cabin finally comes into view. My stomach lurches.

This is it. My last day on Earth. At least I get to go out somewhere beautiful.

I hesitate, standing in front of the small gate that separates his quiet solitude from the rest of the world. I swallow hard, shifting the book between my sweaty palms. I should turn back. I should leave it on the porch and run to the North Pole. But before I can even think about retreating, the door swings open.

My breath traps in my throat. For a split second, I think he must have heard me coming, that he knew I was here, standing outside like an idiot, clutching his book like some kind of offering.

But then, he steps out and stops dead in his tracks. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because he wasn’t expecting me. Or anyone, for that matter.

His eyes lock onto mine, and all my rational thoughts suddenly perish from my mind.

His long hair is tousled, falling just past his jawline, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost golden at the edges. His sharp features—cheekbones cut from marble, a mouth made for sin, a jawline that could kill a person on impact—should make him look unapproachable; dangerous, even. But he's so far from that. His soft, piercing, ridiculously blue eyes aren’t cold like I thought they’d be—they’re just quiet. Unreadable. And so, so warm.

I swallow to relieve the dryness in my throat. 

My dear God. He is excruciatingly beautiful.

"H—Hi," I stutter, and I already feel like an idiot. "I—I, uh—" My throat closes up as I realize that holy shit, I never planned what to say. I came all this way, marched straight into the depths of no-man’s-land, and I didn’t even think about what the hell I was going to say when I got here. "I have your book."

He's just standing there, not moving an inch, while I'm making the biggest fool of myself. His mouth quirks at the corner; the smallest, faintest hint of a smirk—like he’s amused.

I want to die.

"You came all this way... to bring it back?"

His voice is low and steady, a bit rough around the edges. I'm sure he hasn’t used it in a while.

I nod too fast. "I—I didn’t know it was yours," I blurt out. "Shuri told me after the kids left, and I just—I felt bad. I mean, it’s important to you, and I didn’t want you to think I—well, that I stole it. Because I didn’t. Obviously. I mean, I would never steal from you. That would be—" I stop myself.

Oh my god, shut up, shut up, shut up.

He just blinks at me, his smirk deepening, like he doesn’t really know what to do with the shy, stammering girl standing in front of him, gripping his book like it’s her lifeline.  He finally takes a step closer, and when he reaches for the book, his fingers brush against mine—just barely. A light touch. A test. It makes my heart beat so fast, I just know my Kimoyo beads are going to think I'm dying.

"That was brave of you." His voice is softer when he speaks again.

I blink. "What?"

He lifts a brow, glancing down at the book before looking back at me. "Most people wouldn’t come here. Not just to return a book."

I stare at him, heart pounding. I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to explain that I was actually scared shitless the whole way here.

"I—uh, I just—" I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck. "I felt... bad. Really bad. I mean, I didn’t know it was yours, obviously, but when Shuri told me, I just—"

I shake my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze again. Big mistake.

His eyes are still on me, watching. Waiting, for what I'm about to say, and somehow that makes the words tumble out even faster.

"I shouldn’t have touched it," I blurt out, gripping my fingers together. "I—I don’t even know how it ended up in the pile with the kids’ books. But if I’d known—" I shake my head again, voice pitching higher with every word. "I swear, I wouldn’t have even looked at it. I wouldn’t have let them—"

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and for some reason, that makes me even more nervous.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head again. "I just... I don’t think I have the right to have it." My voice is softer now, quieter. "It’s important to you, and I—I shouldn’t have even brought it here, I just—"

The words hang between us, stretching out into the warm Wakandan air.

His face suddenly softens, and it’s so subtle, I probably wouldn't have noticed it if I wasn't panicking. A flicker of surprise, maybe even confusion spreads on his face, before something deeper settles behind his eyes. As if he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not used to people caring about how he feels.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe some quiet, sharp dismissal that sends me scurrying back down the hill with my tail between my legs.

A small, measured exhale snaps me out of my thoughts, and then he does something that absolutely was not on my list of possibilities.

He hands the book back to me.

I freeze, staring at the worn, faded cover as if it’s suddenly caught fire in his palm.

"What—?" I choke out. "I—I don’t—"

"Finish it," he says simply.

My head snaps up. I must have misheard him. I have to be hallucinating.

"F-Finish it?" I echo dumbly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, watching me again—this time with the faintest trace of amusement.

"You read to them, right?" he says, nodding toward the book. "The kids?"

I nod, too stunned to do anything else.

"Then finish it," he says again, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "It’s been sitting on my shelf for years. It won’t kill me to part with it a little longer."

I just stare at him, completely, utterly shocked.

I came here expecting frost. Cold dismissal, irritation, maybe even anger. But this? This is something else entirely.

I swallow, fingers curling gently around the book as I hold it to my chest. "I—thank you," I manage. It’s a weak, pathetic response, but it’s all I can get out.

He just nods, and I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that I’m still standing here, still talking to him. Maybe it’s the fact that he gave me his book—the one thing he apparently never let anyone else touch. Or maybe it’s just pure insanity, but before I can talk myself out of it, the words tumble out.

"You should come."

"Come where?" His voice is low, a little raspy, as if he’s trying to figure out if I actually meant to say that out loud.

I wet my lips, gripping the book tighter.

"To the readings," I clarify, heart hammering in my throat. "With the kids."

Silence. A long, stretching silence. His expression cracks just for a second, a flicker of something like want, maybe even hope, before it disappears behind his carefully set jaw. His gaze drops. Not to the book—to the ground.

And I feel it before he even says it. The sadness. The fear.

"I can’t," he murmurs. And god, it’s so soft, it makes me want to hug him.

"Why not?"

He exhales, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek like he’s debating whether or not to tell me the truth.

"I’m not good around kids." His voice is flat, even, but there’s something weighted behind the words. Something like guilt.

I take a small step closer, lowering my voice. "But—"

"I shouldn’t be around them." His fingers twitch at his side, like this conversation is already too much. "It’s not a good idea."

"You—"

"I don’t trust myself," he blurts out, and this time, he doesn’t look at me.

And just like that, I get it. This is a man who has spent years convincing himself that he is dangerous, that he is something to be feared. That even now—healing, trying—he cannot risk being close to something as soft, as pure, as innocent… as a child.

That realization hits me like a brick to the chest. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, and that he never was, but I can’t. Something tells me he wouldn’t believe me.

"Okay," I say softly. "I understand."

He finally looks at me again, but I wish that he didn't, because there’s something so deeply sad in his eyes. Standing here, staring at the quiet, heavy ache on his beautiful face, I realize just how wrong I was.

He isn’t a man to be feared. He’s a man who fears himself. And I despise myself for ever thinking otherwise.

"Thank you again, for the book. See you around", I say as I slowly turn away, and he lets me.

I feel his eyes on my back the entire way down the hill. Not moving, not calling me back. Just watching.

I can’t stop thinking about him all night. Not when I make it back home, not when I try to lose myself in a book, not even when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I feel like I swallowed a stone, like there’s a weight in my chest that won’t lift, no matter how many times I tell myself to let it go.

But I can’t, because it isn’t fair. It's not fair that he’s all alone out there. He’s spent so long avoiding people, keeping himself away from warmth, from comfort, from company—not because he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. He thinks he doesn’t deserve it, and it crushes my heart with a force of a building collapsing.

I roll onto my side, clutching the book to my chest.

This story—his story—is about adventure. About finding courage. About leaving behind the safety of what you know and learning that you’re capable of more than you ever imagined. If there’s anyone who deserves that lesson... it’s him.

I make my decision before the sun even rises.

If he won’t come to the reading nights, I’ll bring the reading night to him. No one, not even the White Wolf, should have to be alone.

The moment the school day ends, I’m already moving, practically buzzing with excitement. I sling my bag over my shoulder, feeling the slight extra weight from what I’ve packed inside; snacks, drinks, a small thermos of tea, just in case. If I’m going to make him sit and listen, I’m going to make sure he’s comfortable while he does it. And for some reason, the thought of that? Of bringing him something warm, making him feel normal for even a split second? It makes me... giddy. Like I’m about to do something ridiculous and impossible.

And god, I can’t wait.

The memories of yesterday's walk to his little cottage flods my mind while I'm making my way there again. I can't believe I thought I was gonna die. The only danger that surrounds him is how dangerously beautiful he is, nothing else.

I run up the hill, still out of breath when I finally make my way to his door. I knock once, twice, nothing. For a solid five seconds, I stand there. Just as I consider knocking again, the door swings open so violently that I nearly fling myself into another dimension. And there he is, Bucky Barnes, standing in front of me, looking like I just hit him over the head with a frying pan.

His hair is damp, the scent of coconut and honey practically radiating from him. He is very much not dressed for visitors—he's wearing only sweatpants, no shirt, no metal arm. That's when I realize that he just got out of the shower.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I was not prepared for this. I force myself to keep my gaze on his face, and only his face, because if I let my eyes even think about dropping, I am absolutely going to lose my mind.

"Did I forget something?"

I blink. "What?"

"You’re—" he gestures vaguely toward me. "Here. Again."

"Yeah," I say, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Obviously."

He stares.

I stare.

"Why?"

I clear my throat. "I, uh... brought stuff."

More staring.

"Stuff?"

"Yeah. Snacks. Drinks." I lift the thermos. "Tea."

He blinks. I blurt out the rest before I lose my nerve.

"For reading night."

Bucky’s entire face scrunches in confusion.

"For what now?"

I barrel forward, ignoring how my voice is getting higher with every word.

"Since you won’t come to reading night, I figured I’d bring reading night to you. So, yeah. Here I am."

Bucky looks at me. Then at the bag. Then back at me.

"Are you serious?"

"Yep."

He exhales. Long. Slow. Like he’s really regretting opening the door.

"You came all the way out here..."

"Yep."

"With...tea."

I shake the thermos a little. "Good tea, too."

His jaw tenses.

"To read. To me."

"Yep."

Silence. A long, painful, my-life-choices-are-questionable silence. Bucky presses his lips together, staring at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then, so slowly that I know he’s questioning every decision that led him here—

"Are you high?"

"What?!" I sputter, nearly dropping the thermos. "No!"

He tilts his head, suspicious. "Drunk?"

"Of course not!"

"Did Shuri put you up to this?"

"I—what? No!" I groan dramatically, shoving past him into the cabin before he can stop me. "Listen, Barnes," I say as I drop my bag onto the table, pulling out all my carefully packed snacks.

He looks personally offended.

"You—" He points at me. "—just invited yourself in."

"Obviously."

"In my house."

I hold up the bag of Wakandan fruit chips. "Brought snacks."

His jaw tightens.

"To read."

I scrunch the snack bag. "Candy, too."

Bucky drags a hand down his face like he wants to strangle me but doesn’t have the energy.

"I have no idea what you’re doing."

I grin up at him. "Yeah, well. Can’t have you reading alone, can we?"

His brows knit together, like I just proposed something entirely illogical, which, to him, I probably did. His gaze drifts to the book in my lap, then, to the tea and snacks I carefully laid out, and finally, back to me. Something in his eyes softens, just enough that if I weren’t looking so closely, I might have missed it. Without another word, Bucky sighs, grabs his t-shirt from the chair, and lowers himself onto the couch.

Not next to me, not even close—he sits at the farthest end possible. But hey, progress is progress. And so, reading night begins.

He doesn’t relax, not at first. He sits stiffly at the farthest end of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, like he’s bracing for something. It’s not hostility, not exactly—but it’s not comfort, either. He’s tense in a way that says he’s not used to this, not used to someone willingly sitting in his space, talking to him without expectation.

I don’t acknowledge it and I don’t call it out. Instead, I just open the book and start reading.

At first, he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes flicker between me and the floor, his knee bouncing slightly like he’s thinking about leaving. To my luck, he doesn’t. He stays, silent and unmoving, like he’s waiting to see how long I’ll keep this up.

So I do. I keep reading.

Somewhere between the first and second chapter, something shifts. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Bucky stops watching me and starts listening. His knee stills, the sharp lines of tension in his shoulders begin to smooth out, and before I know it, he’s no longer eyeing me with suspicion—he’s watching my hands turn the pages.

By the time I hit an hour, my throat is raw, and I force myself to stop. I close the book gently, stretching my sore neck, and that’s when Bucky snaps back to reality. His head jerks toward me, his expression unreadable, but there’s something almost dazed in his eyes, like I pulled him out of a trance.

"I should go," I murmur, rubbing my throat.

He doesn’t reply right away. Doesn’t tell me to stay, but doesn’t agree, either. He just watches as I gather my things, his fingers flexing subtly against his knee like he almost—almost—reached for me.

But then, as quickly as the moment comes, he stops himself. "Alright," he mutters, voice rough from disuse.

He stands when I do, but doesn’t walk me to the door. Doesn’t move at all, really. He just watches as I pull my bag over my shoulder, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something, but ultimately deciding against it.

I nod at him once, a silent goodbye, and step out. I already know I'm going to be back the next day.

The fire crackles softly, casting warm flickers of light across the cabin. Bucky is sitting at the far end of the couch again, just like the first night, but something is different. He’s not as stiff, not as closed off. His hands aren’t locked in tight fists against his knees, and every once in a while, I catch him watching the book instead of me.

It’s progress.

I keep reading, letting my voice fill the comfortable silence between us. And then I reach the line—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

I pause, rolling the words over in my mind. They feel soft, weighty, like they mean something more than just a farewell.

"That’s..." I hesitate, glancing up at him. "That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?"

Bucky’s gaze lingers on the book for a second too long before he shifts, leaning his forearms onto his thighs. His face is unreadable, but he doesn’t look away.

"Yeah," he says, voice quiet. "It's one of my favorite lines."

It’s not much, but it’s something. A tiny glimpse behind the guarded walls.

I let out a small chuckle, nudging him lightly with my elbow. "That’s the most reaction I’ve gotten out of you so far. Should I be honored?"

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Maybe."

I grin and turn back to the book, continuing on, but the air between us feels different now. Charged. Like I unknowingly stumbled onto something important. I don’t know it yet, but that sentence—those simple words—will keep finding their way back to us.

It happens the next time I visit. And the next.

Whenever I reach that line, I glance at Bucky without meaning to. And every time, he’s already looking at me.

One night, after I close the book and get up to leave, I decide to test something. With a teasing smile, I toss the words back at him—

"May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks, Barnes."

Bucky exhales, shaking his head, but I swear I see something warm flicker in his expression. He doesn’t say anything, not that night, but the next time, just as I turn to go—

"Same to you," he murmurs.

I freeze, looking back at him.

His face is carefully neutral, like it doesn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t just return a piece of something that belongs only to us.

I don’t call him out on it, I just smile. I come back the next night. And the night after that.

At first, I tell myself it’s just for the book, just for the kids. But I know better. I’m not reading for them right now—I’m reading for him. And he lets me.

Every night, I find him waiting, sitting on the couch, never asking me to stay but never telling me to leave either. He doesn’t sit quite as far away anymore. It’s subtle at first—his knee a little closer, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his body angled toward me instead of away.

I pretend not to notice, but I do. It happens slowly.

One night, he’s just near enough that our shoulders almost touch when I turn a page. The next, I can feel his warmth without even trying. And the next, I can hear him breathe when I read.

When I close the book, I always say the same thing. "May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks."

And every time, he waits. He never responds immediately. He lets the words settle, like he’s measuring the weight of them before giving them back.

"Same to you."

That’s how I know he’ll let me return.

It’s been weeks.

I don’t knock anymore, I just step inside. And I don’t sit at the far end of the couch, I sit next to him. Close enough that our knees brush when I move, close enough that I can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He doesn’t pull away.

Tonight, his posture is different. Relaxed. His vibranium fingers rest on the couch cushions between us, so close I could close the gap in an instant. I read as I always do, my voice steady, words tumbling into the quiet of the cabin. And I can feel him listening—not just to the book, but to me.

By the time I finish the chapter, it’s late. The fire is low, casting soft, flickering shadows against the walls. I shut the book gently and stretch, sighing.

He watches me. I know he’s watching me, I feel it everywhere. I look at him, expecting him to say something, maybe a goodnight, maybe our thing. But instead, his gaze flickers lower—to my lips, to my throat, to my fingers still resting on the book between us.

And then, he moves.

It’s careful, so much slower than I expect, like he’s giving me time to stop him. He leans in, just enough for me to feel the warmth of him, to catch the sharp, clean scent of pine and firewood clinging to his skin. His lips hover over mine. He doesn’t touch me, not yet, but his breath ghosts over my mouth, and for a second, I swear I forget how to breathe at all.

I don’t move, I don’t blink. And then—he kisses me.

It’s so much softer than I thought it would be. Bucky Barnes is all sharp edges, calloused hands, a body hardened by war. But his lips? They’re gentle. Careful. Like he’s still afraid to take.

The kiss is barely there, just the lightest brush of his mouth against mine, a question more than an answer. And that’s what undoes me.

I exhale, shakily, my fingers curling into the fabric of my own shirt. I should move, should lean in, but all I can do is sit here, drowning in the quiet, aching tenderness of it all. Bucky hesitates, like he thinks he’s done something wrong, like he’s about to pull away, but I don’t let him. I chase after him, my hands coming up to cup his face, to hold him there. And this time, it’s different. This time, when our lips meet, he doesn’t hold back.

A soft, desperate sound rumbles in his throat as he presses forward, kissing me properly now. His hand slides up, fingers ghosting over my jaw, my cheekbone, threading through my hair like he can’t bear not to touch me. The warmth of him spreads everywhere. I sigh against his mouth, and it’s that sound that does it—something in him snaps.

He pulls me in deeper, a hand slipping to my waist, dragging me closer and closer.

I let him have me that night. Because God, how I wanted him to.

"You did what now?"

Shuri’s voice nearly echoes in the vast Wakandan library, her eyes wide with unfiltered shock. I watch as she sets her cup of tea down so slowly, so carefully, like she might drop it if she moves too fast.

I bite my lip. "I... slept with Bucky."

Her expression doesn’t change. She just blinks at me, mouth slightly agape, as if trying to process the words.

"I knew something was going on," she finally says, leaning back in her chair. "The way you were always sneaking off, carrying snacks like a lovesick fool—but I thought, oh no, she wouldn’t do anything reckless."

I shift uncomfortably. "It’s not reckless."

Shuri’s brows lift. "Not reckless? Not reckless? You slept with the most unstable super soldier alive, and you don’t think that’s reckless?"

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off with a dramatic sigh, waving a hand in front of her face. "Wait, wait, before I scold you, tell me... how was it?"

I nearly choke on air. "Excuse me?!"

Shuri smirks. "Come on, I know it had to be something."

I feel my face burn hotter than the Wakandan sun. "I’m not talking about this with you."

She laughs, delighted, but then, her expression sobers. The teasing fades, replaced by something far more serious.

"Alright, alright," she says, studying me. "So, what, you have feelings for him now?"

I inhale sharply, because that’s the real question, isn’t it? The thing I’ve been trying to tread carefully around in my own mind. Even though it scares me, I don’t hesitate when I answer.

"I think... I think I love him."

Shuri watches me closely, fingers tapping against her knee. "Then you need to listen to me. Carefully."

I nod, my stomach twisting at the shift in her tone. She exhales, and for the first time, there’s no humor in her voice at all.

"Bucky’s mind is not safe."

I blink. "What?"

She leans forward. "You know what they did to him. You know what HYDRA turned him into. Just because the trigger words are gone, it doesn’t mean he’s free. He’s still haunted by it. He still wakes up thinking he’s in a cage."

My throat tightens.

"I’ve seen it firsthand," she continues. "Some nights, he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who he is. And if that happens when you’re with him, if he snaps—"

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to. A cold shiver runs down my spine.

"I know he wouldn’t hurt me," I whisper, but the words feel fragile, like I’m trying to convince myself.

Shuri tilts her head. "Do you?"

I stare at her, my pulse pounding in my ears. Because the truth is—I don’t.

I’ve seen the way his hands twitch when he dreams. I’ve seen the way his shoulders lock up at sudden noises. I’ve seen the fear in his own eyes when he realizes how much strength he holds in his hands.

Shuri softens slightly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I’m not saying this to scare you. I’m saying this because I love you, and I know you love him. But if you’re serious about him, you need to be prepared."

I swallow. "Prepared for what?"

Her expression turns grim.

"For the moment you have to bring him back."

Present day

The world is narrowing.

My lungs burn like fire. Every desperate, gasping inhale is cut short by the unrelenting steel around my throat. My body fights—uselessly, weakly—nails scraping at his wrist, legs kicking out beneath him, but it’s like trying to stop a storm with my bare hands.

His grip is iron.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to die.

The thought slams into me like ice-cold water, and panic overtakes me. Not because of the pain or the black spots creeping at the edges of my vision, but because it’s him.

My Bucky.

And when he comes back—when he realizes what he’s done—he will never forgive himself.

Tears spill down my temples as I force my lips to move, but no sound escapes. There’s nothing left in my lungs. I’m too lightheaded, too far gone, the world tilting, twisting, breaking apart—

No.

I can’t leave him like this.

I have to bring him back.

My hands shake, my chest heaves, my vision is fading, but I manage to force the words out, a breathless, choked whisper—

"M—may the… wind under… y-your wings… bear you…"

Bucky stiffens. A shuddering tremor runs down his spine, his fingers twitching around my throat—but they don’t let go. I can’t tell if he’s hearing me or if it’s just luck, instinct, or a trick of fate.

I try again, barely audible, but desperate.

"…w-where the sun s-sails… and… the moon…walks."

A violent jerk wracks through his body. His grip loosens, just enough that I suck in a shuddering gasp, the first real breath I’ve had in what feels like forever, but I don’t stop.

"Bucky."

His whole body locks up. His breath stutters, falters. I can feel the tremor in his hands now, the slight hesitation where before there was only brutal, unthinking force.

"Bucky, it’s me."

And that’s when it happens.

His fingers slip away from my throat completely, as if they were never really there at all. He staggers backward like he’s been struck, his vibranium arm swinging wildly before he catches himself against the remains of the coffee table.

His chest heaves. Eyes darting across the room, over the wreckage, over me, and then, they land on his hands.

I watch his whole world collapse.

He lifts his flesh hand first, staring at his fingers like they belong to someone else, like they are something vile, monstrous. But then his gaze drops lower—to my neck. My throat is raw, burning, bruised, I can feel it, but I don’t have time to process it because Bucky sees it too.

And the moment he does, a broken, guttural noise rips from his chest. He stumbles backward, shaking his head, eyes wide with absolute, soul-crushing horror.

"No... no, no, no—" His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, barely a sound.

I can see it—the way his mind is spinning, unraveling, trying to understand how he got here, what he’s done. His breath shudders, his whole body trembling so violently it looks like he might fall apart right in front of me.

Then, he does. His knees give out. He crumbles, hitting the floor hard, his hands fisting in his hair as he gasps for air like he’s the one being choked now.

"What did I do—" He’s shaking his head, pulling at his own scalp, curling in on himself like he’s trying to disappear. "What did I do, what did I—"

I don’t even think before I move toward him.

"Bucky," I rasp, my voice hoarse and broken, but he doesn’t hear me.

His breaths come too fast, too shallow, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged movements. His flesh hand claws at his hair, his vibranium fingers digging into the floorboards hard enough that I hear the wood splinter beneath his grip.

His whole body is shaking.

"I hurt you—" His voice is wrecked, strangled, barely audible through his erratic gasps. "I hurt you, I— I can’t—"

I see it happening. The rapid-fire panic, the loss of control. The way his hands start twitching, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like they are still weapons. His chest heaves, ribs trembling, body rocking slightly as he folds in tighter on himself, as if making himself small could undo it.

I drop to my knees, ignoring the burn in my throat, ignoring the ache in my body, and I touch him. A gentle, steadying hand against his shoulder.

"Bucky," I whisper, softer this time.

His whole body jerks, like he expects me to flinch away, like he deserves for me to flinch away. But I don’t.

I squeeze lightly, pressing my palm flat against his shoulder blade, feeling the shaking, the unsteadiness, the way he is completely unraveling in front of me.

"You’re safe," I murmur, my fingers pressing against the back of his neck, stroking gently, grounding him. "I’m safe. It’s okay, Bucky. You came back."

His breathing stumbles, like he’s trying to catch it. His fingers twitch against the floor again, but this time, they don’t clench. I see the moment he realizes, the exact second something shifts, cracks open inside him. His gaze lifts, blurry and disoriented, landing on me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

"It worked." He blinks rapidly, still fighting the storm in his chest, but his eyes flicker, searching, processing. "The words," he exhales, half-dazed, half-stunned. "They... worked."

His expression is a mix of wonder and exhaustion, grief and relief, like he can’t quite believe it, that even through the darkness, I was able to reach him.

I give him a soft, trembling smile.

"Of course they did," I whisper, brushing my fingers through his hair. "I told you I’d bring you back."

A shuddering breath leaves him, his body still shaking, but he’s here. I really did bring him back.

And I know, no matter how deep he falls, no matter how lost he gets, no matter how many times the Soldier tries to take him from me, I will always reach him.

Because these words are his anchor. And I am the one holding the rope.