#hbb writes

so before anyone starts running their mouth about how i “can’t take hate” or “owe explanations,” read that again and remember that behind this account is a real, breathing human.

over the past month (and longer), i’ve been dealing with - ai allegations - harassment in my inbox and on anon - people dissecting my writing, my posting schedule, my motives and yes, actual death threats

i’m including screenshots because i’m done protecting people who clearly had no problem trying to scare me into silence.

and let me be very clear about the ai thing since y’all are weirdly obsessed with that accusation

i do not use ai to write my fics. i never have. i don’t need to.

i’ve been writing some form fanfic for years. publicly. consistently. with a very obvious voice that hasn’t magically changed overnight. if you think second person pov + smut + emotional beats = ai, that is genuinely a you problem.

dislike my writing? cool. block me. think i’m overrated? fine. block me. think my stuff isn’t for you? then why are you here. BLOCK ME.

but jumping from “i don’t like this blog” to threatening my life or my family is unhinged behavior, full stop.

and no, i’m not going to be polite about it. i’m not going to soften my language to make it easier for the people who did this to swallow. i’m not going to apologize for disappearing when my safety was on the line.

if you sent hate, if you participated in dogpiling, if you fueled rumors, or if you’re the type of person who thinks anonymity means zero consequences, this post is for you.

if you’ve been supportive, patient, kind, or just quietly waiting for me to come back, thank you. truly. i saw it, even when i couldn’t respond.

this blog exists because i love writing. it does not exist to be a punching bag.

i will block freely. i will protect my peace.

and no, i probably shouldn't be back so soon. but i'm sick and tired of allowing some spineless ANONYMOUS person dictate my life. they don't get that power. i refuse to crumble because someone couldn't handle what i'm capable of.

final boundary:

any further harassment, accusations, or threats will be blocked and documented. no replies. no debate. no explanations. anon will be closed if needed. i am not here to prove my humanity, justify my work, or make people comfortable at my own expense.

if you’re here in good faith, we’re good. if not, this is not the space for you.

You hobble into the common room like a war survivor, belt hanging loose (not even your belt, by the way—Bucky’s, still looped through Bucky’s pants that are sliding off your hips), shirt misbuttoned to the point it’s actually working against the definition of a shirt, hair looking like a tumbleweed lost a fight with a tornado. Hickeys trail down your throat like evidence markers at a crime scene.

The room goes quiet.

John Walker—of all people—looks up from his mug of coffee with the expression of a man staring into the abyss. His brows knit, his mouth twitches, and then he squints at you like he’s trying to solve a riddle no human mind was meant to unravel.

“What’s up your ass this morning?”

You don’t even have time to form a witty comeback. You’re halfway through deciding if you can string together words without collapsing when it happens.

Arms—big, warm, possessive—wrap around your waist from behind. You know them instantly. You melt instantly.

Bucky.

He presses his mouth to the side of your neck, right over one of the bruises he put there six hours ago, and grumbles in that low, gravelly voice still wrecked from the night before, “Mornin’, doll.”

“Question answered,” Yelena deadpans from the couch, biting into an apple like this is just Tuesday.

John, however, is about to experience spontaneous combustion. His face morphs through at least seven stages of grief in under five seconds. “Jesus Christ, Bucky, you—I—what the—” He gestures at you helplessly, then at Bucky, then at the floor, like somehow it’s to blame. “You two—you—I—”

Bucky doesn’t spare him a glance. He just kisses you. Slow, hot, thorough. The kind of kiss that makes your knees give up and file for early retirement. You cling to his shirt to avoid face-planting, the world spinning into a haze of warmth and mint toothpaste and him.

John lets out an unholy sound, somewhere between a groan and a scream. He’s having Nam flashbacks—and not the ones he actually had.

Yelena just chews louder.

The rest of the team disperses after the spectacle, but you? You’re not getting away that easy.

Bucky, apparently, has decided your body is under strict protection detail. Every step you take is shadowed by him. Every attempt to stand upright is intercepted by a steadying hand on your lower back. You try to make a cup of coffee—he plucks the mug from your shaky hands and makes it for you, black with a spoonful of sugar just the way you like it. You glare at him over the rim as you sip, but it doesn’t land because he just smiles like you’re the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

“You don’t need to baby me,” you mumble.

He kisses your temple. “Not babying you. Just takin’ care of what’s mine.”

Cue the butterflies in your stomach doing a conga line.

By noon, it’s clear you are not surviving this day with dignity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time you stand up too fast, every wince or sigh, Bucky’s on you like a hawk. He tucks pillows behind your back. He rubs circles into your thigh absentmindedly while you both sit on the couch watching some old black-and-white movie. He brings you water like you’re dehydrated (you are). He brings you lunch even though you swore you weren’t hungry (you eat all of it).

When you try to go shower, he follows. Not in the “we’re about to fuck again” way, but in the “I’m sitting on the counter, making sure you don’t slip because your legs are jelly” way.

“Bucky, I can shower by myself.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, clearly not moving. “Pretty sure you almost collapsed brushing your teeth.”

You point a finger at him, soap in your hair. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

God help you—you do.

Later, you curl up in his lap while he fiddles with something on his phone. He’s absently stroking your hair, murmuring soft things into your scalp whenever you shift. You’re boneless against him, half-asleep, your body singing in both exhaustion and satisfaction.

“Don’t know how you expect me to focus on anything today,” you murmur.

He smirks, chin dropping to rest on your head. “Wasn’t expectin’ you to, doll. All I need is for you to let me take care of you.”

Which—damn it—melts you into a puddle right there.

Of course, John doesn’t let it go.

You run into him in the hall around three. He stops dead when he sees you, still swallowed in Bucky’s sweatpants and one of his Henleys now, hair damp from your shower, still marked up like a billboard for “Bucky Barnes’ personal property.”

“Seriously?” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “All day? This is gonna be an all day thing?”

You blink at him innocently. “What do you mean?”

He groans like you’ve stabbed him in the chest. “You know what I mean.” He points to your neck, then your shirt, then the hickeys probably peeking above your collar. “Jesus Christ, you look like—like—you look like college!”

Before you can respond, Bucky strolls up behind you, slides his arm around your waist, and kisses the top of your head. John audibly chokes.

“Somethin’ wrong, Walker?” Bucky asks mildly.

“Wrong? Wrong?!” John gestures wildly. “Barnes, you—she—this is—”

Bucky leans down and kisses you full on the mouth again, slow and indulgent, while John makes a noise like he’s being waterboarded. You barely stay upright, gripping Bucky’s shoulders while your knees buckle.

When Bucky finally pulls back, John’s gone. You think he actually fled the building.

“Think he’s finally gettin’ used to it,” Bucky says smugly, leading you toward the kitchen.

The day winds down with you sprawled across the bed, Bucky massaging lotion into your sore thighs. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he works out the ache he put there. He kisses the inside of your knee, the dip of your ankle, your shin, every press soft and grounding.

“You know you didn’t have to—” you start.

“Shh,” he cuts you off, eyes flicking up to yours. “Lemme do this for you, sweetheart.”

And you let him.

Because how could you not? He’s Bucky. He’s the reason you’re walking funny, sure, but he’s also the reason you feel so… whole. Seen. Wanted. Loved.

When he finally crawls up beside you, pulling you against his chest, you’re already half-asleep. He tucks the blankets around you, presses his lips to your hairline, and murmurs the last thing you hear before drifting off:

“Get some rest, doll. I’ll always take care of you.”

And he does.