The Emerald Witch Files

Helmut lies half-reclined against the headboard, one arm draped loosely around you, the other idly smoothing over the fabric piled across your legs. He doesn’t fidget—he never really fidgets—but there’s a quiet restlessness in the way his fingers trace absent patterns, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

You’re tucked against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. For once, he’s… still.

“Is this your doing,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused, “or have I been… domesticated?”

You huff a quiet laugh into his shirt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is unfamiliar,” he corrects gently. His hand shifts, fingers brushing up your arm, then settling at your shoulder—firm, anchoring, but careful. Always careful with you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

“You’re not trying to escape,” you tease softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “That’s new.”

His gaze drops to meet yours, something softer than usual lurking there—less guarded, less sharp. “I find,” he says slowly, “that I have very little interest in leaving… when you insist on building fortresses like this.”

“Fortresses?” you echo, smiling.

“Mhm.” His thumb brushes lightly over your sleeve. “Strategically impenetrable. Excessively comfortable. Quite dangerous, you know.”

“Dangerous?”

His lips curve into a gentle smile. “You make it very easy to forget the rest of the world exists.”

That lands quieter than you expect.

You shift slightly, pressing closer without thinking, your hand curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt. He notices, because of course he does—and his arm tightens around you in response, pulling you in like it’s instinct. Like it’s necessary.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The room feels small in the best way—dim light, soft fabric, shared warmth. Safe, in a way that doesn’t come easily for either of you.

His chin dips, resting lightly against the top of your head. “You are warm,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Wow. High praise.”

“Do not let it go to your head,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

Your fingers trace a slow, absent line along his side. “You’re not exactly complaining.”

“I am evaluating,” he replies.

“Oh yeah? And your conclusion?”

He exhales softly—almost a sigh, almost something heavier. “…that I may allow this again.”

You laugh quietly, settling more comfortably against him. “How generous of you.”

His hand stills for a second—then resumes its slow, grounding movement. “You misunderstand,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “I am not being generous.”

You glance up again, curious.

Your head is pounding. Your patience is nonexistent. And your boyfriend—technically speaking, legally questionable but emotionally established—has been hovering in your kitchen like a man experiencing character development against his will.

“Okay,” Wade says carefully, from the doorway. “I’m just gonna say it.”

You groan into the couch cushion. “If you say anything about crystals or herbal tea, I’m throwing something at you.”

“I was gonna say I brought snacks,” he replies.

You lift your head slightly. “…what kind of snacks?”

There’s a pause. A suspicious pause.

“…the emotionally supportive kind.”

You squint at him. He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid. Which, for Wade, is basically Olympic-level restraint.

He’s holding a bag. And not shaking it. That alone is concerning. “I also,” he adds quickly, too quickly, “did not get you ice cream even though I wanted to. Because you said dairy was a war crime earlier. So I respected that. Growth. I’m growing.”

“You’re rambling,” you say flatly.

“I know,” he says immediately. “It’s because I’m being normal at you.”

“That’s worse.”

“I know.” He steps closer. Stops. Steps back. Then stops again.

You watch this with increasing suspicion. “…are you okay?” you ask.

Wade points at you. “You are in pain.”

“Yes.”

“And I am… a man… in proximity… to a woman in pain.”

“That’s usually how periods work, yes.”

“I am trying VERY HARD not to be weird about it.”

That earns a tired blink.

“…you are currently being weird about it.”

“Correct.” He drags a hand down his mask like he’s physically restraining himself from saying something dumb. “I just—okay—look,” he says. “You’re suffering, and I can fix things. I fix things. That’s my whole brand.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No.”

“Smart.” He finally sits on the edge of the coffee table, very carefully not sitting too close. Which is… new. Wade Wilson: personal space enthusiast, apparently.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you acting like I’m made of glass?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. Pause. “I’m acting like you’re made of… mildly explosive emotional glass that also hurts a lot and I would like to not be murdered.”

“That’s fair.” You shift slightly, wincing as another cramp rolls through.

Wade notices instantly. Of course he does. He goes still. Too still. Like a dog trying not to jump on furniture it was explicitly told not to jump on.

“I can get you heat pads,” he says quickly.

“I already have one.”

“I can get you another one.”

“I don’t need two.”

“I can get you—uh—painkillers?”

“I already took some.”

“I can get you—”

“Wade.” He stops. Immediately. You sigh, softer now. “I’m okay. Just hurts.”

That does it. Something in him shifts. The energy drops. Not gone. Just… gentler. “…okay,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I hate that I can’t punch it.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Yeah. Me too.”

He hesitates again. Then slowly sits down on the floor in front of the couch like he’s negotiating with gravity. “…can I do something stupidly useless but emotionally supportive?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Define useless.”

“I can insult your cramps.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“I can threaten them.”

“I don’t think they care.”

“I can absolutely fight them.”

You stare at him. “…you’d lose.”

“I would go down swinging.”

That actually makes you smile a little more. Wade sees it. Freezes. Points at you.

“THERE. That. That’s the goal.”

“What is?”

“Not pain. That. The face thing you just did.”

“You mean smiling?”

“I mean your soul stopped screaming for like three seconds.”

You lean your head back. “…you’re weirdly good at this.”

Wade goes very still. Then, “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel feelings and I don’t like that I have those.”

You snort.

He takes a breath. Then, quieter, like it’s physically painful: “…you want me to stay?”

There’s no joke in it now. No performance. Just him. Trying very hard not to be annoying about caring.

You look at him for a second. Then nod. “Yeah.”

Wade exhales like he’s been defusing a bomb. “Cool,” he says quickly. “Great. Awesome. I will be here. Not emotionally competent. But here.” Pause. “I brought snacks.”

You sigh. “…bring them here, idiot.”

He perks up instantly. “YES. Okay. I knew I was useful.”

“You’re not useful.”

“I am emotionally adjacent to useful.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

You leaned in, letting your fingers brush over the jacket, teasing the fabric just enough to make him shiver. Your hand traced down the length of his tie, over his chest, skimming buttons and seams, and then hovered over his waistband. “Patience, Zemo,” you whispered, your lips brushing his ear. “I control when you get to feel good.”

He swallowed hard, gaze fixed on you, body tense like a bowstring. Your fingers slid inside the waistband of his trousers, gliding through the thin layer of fabric, teasing him without fully touching. His breath hitched, a low sound escaping his throat.

“Ah… that’s it,” you murmured, fingers ghosting over him. “So sensitive. So eager to obey. You want this… don’t you?”

His eyes flickered, dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide. A strangled, quiet “Yes…” escaped him, almost shameful, almost desperate. You smiled and increased the pressure slightly, palm pressing over the fabric, teasing, circling, never giving him the release he craved.

“You’re not allowed yet,” you said softly, and he groaned, arching slightly against your touch. You let your hand rest there for a moment, watching him squirm, watching the subtle flush creep up his neck. “I said… not yet.”

Minutes passed like this, your teasing never stopping—circling, pressing, stroking through the fabric of his pants, letting him hang on the edge again and again. He jerked sharply with every subtle touch, each time closer, each time barely holding back.

“Do you feel me, Zemo?” you whispered, fingers brushing more insistently now. “Do you feel how much control I have over you? How much you want me?”

His body was trembling now, hands clawing at the armrests. You pressed harder, moving your palm in slow, deliberate circles over the fabric, the heat from his arousal pressing back through the cloth. A sharp, strangled cry escaped him, muffled against his jaw as his first orgasm hit, hard, right through his pants.

But you didn’t stop. Oh no—you only leaned closer, letting your fingers roam again, sliding, pressing, teasing him mercilessly, making him twitch and whimper. His second release came quicker, a shuddering mess of desperation spilling into the fabric, and yet he tried to maintain composure, trembling against you.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, hand resting against his chest now as you watched his rapid breathing. “So obedient. So easy to push… you feel so good like this.”

You continued your teasing, slow, torturous, alternating between soft, ghosting touches and firmer pressure, keeping him on the edge, never letting him fall fully. Each groan, each strained breath only made you smile, a mixture of affection and control.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, he gave in completely, a final shuddering climax wracking his body. He collapsed back into the chair, pants damp, face flushed, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.

You pressed a hand gently to his forehead, letting your fingers trace his hairline. “Shh… shh… it’s okay,” you whispered, voice soft, gentle. “You did so well.”

He leaned into your touch, exhausted, shivering slightly. His chest heaved, hands loose at his sides, and finally, he allowed himself to be vulnerable in a way only you ever saw.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple, trailing down to his cheek. “I’m proud of you,” you murmured, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. “You’re mine… and I’ll always take care of you.”

He exhaled shakily, murmuring something indecipherable, a soft, breathless sound of relief and gratitude. You wrapped him in your arms, letting him relax fully, holding him close, murmuring soft praise, brushing lips over his temple, his hair, whispering every word like a secret only he could hear.

Eventually, his breathing slowed, the tremors fading, leaving only the warmth of shared intimacy and trust. You pressed one last kiss to his forehead, fingers threading through his hair.

“Next time…” you teased lightly, voice soft but teasing. “We might see just how many times I can make you come before you even touch me.”

The door explodes inward. Not from fire. From force. Heavy boots. Tactical precision. And then he’s there. Black combat gear. Mask. Metal arm glinting faintly in the firelight.

The silhouette you know before your mind allows the name. The Winter Soldier. He doesn’t rush to you. He walks. Controlled. Measured. Through smoke and falling embers like it’s just another mission parameter.

Your voice comes out small. “You…”

He tilts his head slightly. Assessing. Alive. That’s what matters. The floor groans beneath you. Something collapses below. Heat pulses upward.

You flinch. He steps forward. One gloved hand grabs your jaw — firm, not brutal — forcing you to focus on him. “Look at me.” His voice is low. Mechanical calm. Programmed reassurance. “Safe.”

The word lands like a command. Your breathing stutters. Because part of you remembers this. Training rooms. Conditioning. Extraction drills. He was always the one who came through the smoke. Always the one who pulled you out. Hydra designed it that way. Create danger. Introduce the savior. Repeat until dependency replaces doubt. You shake your head weakly. “You set this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either. Another explosion somewhere below. The stairwell access buckles. Time is narrowing — intentionally. His metal hand slides to your wrist. Firm grip. “Move.”

It’s not a suggestion. 

You stumble after him into the smoke-choked hallway. The emergency lights flicker red. The air tastes like chemicals, not just wildfire. 

Hydra’s signature. The stairs are partially collapsed. Debris litters the steps. Heat licks up through broken windows.

He goes first. Then reaches back. Not frantic. Certain. You hesitate at the top of the cracked landing.

He looks up at you. And for half a second — just a flicker — you see something almost human behind the mask. Or maybe you imagine it. “Trust me,” he says. That’s the real weapon. Not the fire. Not the height. Trust. 

You take his hand. He guides you down every unstable step. Positions his body between you and falling debris. Shields you from heat bursts. Calculates weight distribution before each shift.

It feels like a rescue. It feels like protection. It feels like the old missions when he’d drag you from simulated ambushes while handlers watched behind mirrored glass.

Your heart pounds. Fear melts into something else. Relief. Gratitude. Dependence. Exactly as intended.

Outside, armored SUVs idle in the alley. No sirens. No firefighters. Just Hydra retrieval. You slow when you see them.

Reality cuts through the smoke. “This isn’t rescue,” you whisper.

He tightens his grip. Not painful. Final. “Extraction,” he corrects.

Your pulse spikes. “I left.”

Silence.

Then his metal hand slides from your wrist to the back of your neck. Firm. Guiding. Controlling trajectory. “You were never cleared.”

The alley glows with reflected firelight. Smoke cloaks everything beyond a few meters. The world feels small. Contained.

Hydra burns your life down. He carries you out. Your knees weaken. Not from heat. From the realization. They didn’t just want you back. They wanted you grateful.

And as he opens the vehicle door and positions you inside like fragile cargo, he leans close enough that his voice bypasses your ears and settles directly in your spine. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur. A lie. A practiced one.

The music never starts.

Helmut’s hand stills mid-motion. Then, with deliberate care, he lifts the needle back before it can touch the vinyl. Silence settles instead.

He turns to you fully now.

“Liebling,” he says, quieter, “look at me.”

You don’t want to. The light hurts. Everything is beginning to hurt. But you do. And that’s all it takes. The faint crease between his brows deepens—not dramatic, not panicked. Helmut does not panic. But there is something sharper beneath the surface now. Focus. Precision. Care sharpened into something almost surgical.

“When did it start?”

“A few minutes ago,” you admit, voice small despite yourself.

He crosses the room immediately. Not rushed—never rushed—but efficient. Controlled. Like every movement has already been calculated. “Up,” he says gently, offering his hand.

You hesitate. “I can walk—”

“I know you can,” he interrupts, not unkindly. His thumb brushes once against your knuckles, grounding. “You shouldn’t have to.”

That’s the thing about Helmut Zemo. He never treats you like you’re weak. But he refuses to let you suffer unnecessarily. You let him help you up.

The bedroom is already dim. You don’t remember when he started doing that—keeping one room perpetually prepared, curtains thick and drawn, lights low and warm. A space carved out just for days like this. For you. He guides you to the bed, movements quieter now, like the world itself needs to soften around you.

“Shoes,” he murmurs. You barely register him slipping them off. “Drink this.”

A glass presses into your hand—cool, steady. Water. Always water first.

You take a sip, then another.

“Good,” he says, almost to himself.

The pain is building now—slow, crushing pressure behind your eyes, crawling into your skull. You wince, pressing your fingers to your temple.

His hand intercepts yours. “Don’t,” he says gently. His fingers replace yours. He knows exactly where to press. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough to ground you, to dull the sharpest edge of the pain. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles at your temple, his other hand bracing lightly at your jaw.

You exhale, shaky. “I hate this,” you whisper.

“I know.” There’s no empty reassurance. No it’ll be fine. Just truth. And presence.

Minutes blur. Or maybe it’s longer.

The pain crests and you curl slightly into yourself. Helmut adjusts instantly, shifting behind you on the bed, guiding you back until your head rests against his chest. One arm wraps around you firm enough that you don’t feel like you’re drifting apart. His fingers find your wrist. Counting. Always counting.

You noticed it once, asked him about it. He’d only said, “Your pulse tells me what you cannot.” Now, he tracks it quietly, adjusting his touch when your breathing stutters, when your body tenses. “Breathe,” he murmurs near your hair. “Slowly. With me.”

You follow his rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. The world narrows to that. To his voice. His hands. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

At some point, you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

His hand stills. “…For what?”

“For being like this. For—” You gesture weakly. “Ruining things.”

The silence that follows is different. Not soft. Not gentle. Sharp.

Helmut shifts, just enough to tilt your chin upward despite the way you flinch at the movement. “Look at me.”

You do, barely. And there it is—that intensity he usually keeps buried. Not anger. Not at you.

Something more dangerous. “You are not an inconvenience,” he says, each word precise. “You are not a burden. And you do not ‘ruin’ anything.” His thumb brushes under your eye, softer now. “This,” he gestures faintly to you, to the room, to the quiet he has built around you, “is simply something we manage.”

We.

Your throat tightens.

“You understand?”

You nod. He studies you for a second longer, as if committing the moment to memory, making sure the thought is gone—erased.

Then he presses a light kiss to your forehead. “Good.”

The pain doesn’t vanish. It never does. But it dulls. Edges soften. The pressure loosens its grip, bit by bit. You drift, half-asleep, still tucked against him. Helmut doesn’t move. Not when your breathing evens out. Not when your grip on his shirt loosens. Not even when time stretches long past comfort.

He stays exactly where he is—one hand resting over yours, the other still lightly at your temple, just in case. Always just in case.

He tied you slowly. Not rushed, not rough but urgent. His fingers looped the silk around your wrists, pulling the fabric snug but not painful. After each knot, he smoothed his thumb over your pulse, pressing a kiss to your skin. Every gesture was both a claim and a comfort, a reminder that his control was deliberate and careful.

When he leaned back to admire his work, his eyes darkened. “So beautiful like this. Soft, bound, waiting. Do you know what you look like, mein Engel?” He brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “Like art. And I will ruin you until you are trembling on this bed, begging me for more.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively, and his gaze flicked down.

He chuckled low. “Already desperate. And I have not even touched you.”

The first wave of torment was silence.

He spread your knees apart with the firmest pressure of his hands, settling himself fully clothed between them. Instead of pouncing, he only… looked. His eyes traveled over you, slowly, deliberately, the way a man inspects fine wine before savoring the first taste.

Minutes ticked by. Your breath came shallow, your wrists tugged faintly at the silk. He tilted his head, smirking. “Impatient?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heat flooding your cheeks.

He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear, his voice velvet filth. “Good. Stay that way. The longer you ache, the sweeter it will be when I finally devour you.”

And then he kissed the inside of your thigh — just one soft kiss, maddeningly close, before pulling back again.

The next torment was his mouth, used in fleeting strokes. His tongue pressed against you once, hot and wet, making you gasp — then he pulled away, licking his lips like a man sampling dessert.

“So sweet,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “But not yet. Not until I have you begging in every language you know.”

“Please,” you whispered already, shame burning.

He chuckled. “So soon? Nein, liebling. You must work harder for me.”

His fingers came next. Two of them slid inside you with excruciating slowness, curling just enough to make sparks burst behind your eyes. His thumb ghosted over your clit, lazy, practiced. You felt the orgasm building — hard, sharp, unstoppable — until he pulled his hand away entirely, leaving you sobbing.

Your wrists jerked against the silk, body arching. “Helmut, please—”

His lips pressed to your temple, absurdly gentle as he whispered, “Shhh. I will give it to you. But only when you are perfect for me.”

He did it again. And again. Each time dragging you higher, each time abandoning you on the edge. Tears slipped down your cheeks from the ache, the emptiness, the sheer need clawing at your insides.

“Do you feel how undone you are?” he whispered, thumb tracing your jaw. “I have not even truly started. You will break so beautifully for me.”

When he finally gave his mouth to you in earnest, you shattered. His tongue worked with devastating precision, his hands locking your hips down against the mattress. He devoured you as if starving, murmuring praises between the licks and sucks. “That’s it… come apart for me, my sweet girl… oh, I love how you scream for me.”

One orgasm tore through you. Then another, and another, his relentless pace refusing to let you fall back down. You thrashed, wrists burning against the silk, begging him incoherently, until your vision blurred with stars.

And still he whispered, “One more, liebling. I know you can. Give it to me.”

By the time he finally pressed into you, you were wrecked. Shaking, limp, every nerve alive.

He moved slowly, deliberately, savoring the way your walls clenched around him. His forehead pressed to yours, his words spilling like prayers and profanity all at once. “Do you feel how perfectly you take me? Look at me, darling. Yes… that’s it. You are mine. My sweet angel. My ruin.”

Every thrust dragged another orgasm out of you until you were sobbing, clinging with bound wrists, your body beyond control. He kissed the tears from your cheeks, groaning into your mouth as if you were undoing him as much as he undid you.

When he finally spilled into you, he held you tight, his breath ragged, his lips trembling against your ear as he whispered your name like salvation.

Aftercare was worship.

He untied you slowly, carefully, kissing each wrist as though the faint marks were sacred. He massaged your arms, eased you into his chest, and pulled the blanket over both of you. He gave you water, held it to your lips when your hands shook too much.

Then he curled you into him, your cheek pressed to his heartbeat, his hand stroking your hair in lazy circles.

“Mein Engel,” he murmured in Sokovian, over and over, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “My angel. My beloved. You are safe now. You are perfect.”

You just groan, hand over your mouth. “Don’t talk to me.”

And that’s when it clicks.

—

After the test, after the stunned silence and the shaky laugh that turns into something softer, something real, Tony Stark breaks. Not in a bad way. In a completely, hopelessly gone for you kind of way.

“Okay, absolutely not.”

You blink up at him from the couch. “What?”

“You are not walking anywhere ever again,” Tony says, already pulling out his phone. “I’m designing a mobility solution.”

“…I just went to the bathroom.”

“Dangerous terrain. Slippery floors. High risk environment.”

“Tony—”

“FRIDAY, remind me to install heated flooring and—no, wait, anti-slip and heated. Both. Obviously.”

You stare at him. “…you’re insane.”

He crouches in front of you, hands gently cupping your face, suddenly serious. “You’re growing a human,” he says quietly. “My human. Our human. I’m allowed to be a little insane.”

Your expression softens instantly. “…okay. A little.”

He spoils you relentlessly. Midnight cravings? Already handled.

You mumble something half-asleep about wanting strawberry milk and grilled cheese at 2:13 a.m., and before you even fully wake up, he’s back—hair messy, shirt wrinkled, holding a tray like it’s a five-star meal.

“Your Michelin-star disaster, madam.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

Doctor appointments? He’s there. Early. Too early. “Tony, it’s at 10.”

“Yes, and it is currently 8:12. We are late.”

“We are not late.”

“We are spiritually late.”

The first time he hears the heartbeat, He goes completely still. Like someone unplugged him. Your hand tightens in his as the sound fills the room, fast and steady and real, and when you glance over, Tony’s eyes are glassy.

“Hey,” you whisper, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

He lets out a shaky breath, laughing under it. “That’s— that’s my kid.”

“Our kid,” you correct softly.

He nods, swallowing hard. “…our kid.”

—

He talks to your belly constantly. At first it’s jokes. “Listen, kid, I’m gonna level with you—your mom? Way out of my league. You’re gonna need to help me out here.”

Then it turns into rambling stories, soft confessions, things he doesn’t even realize he’s saying out loud. “You’ve got the best mom in the world,” he murmurs one night, palm resting gently against you as you lay in bed. “She’s… everything good I didn’t think I deserved.”

You pretend to be asleep. But your eyes sting anyway.

When you get bigger, slower, more uncomfortable—

He adjusts without a second thought. Shoes? He’s kneeling, tying them.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Baths? Already run, perfect temperature. Back pain? His hands are warm and steady, rubbing slow circles like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

“I feel like a whale.”

He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “You’re my favorite whale.”

You snort. “That was terrible.”

“I’m sleep-deprived and in love, cut me some slack.”

And when the baby finally comes, Tony is a wreck. Pacing. Hovering. Running his hands through his hair every five seconds. “Is she okay? Are you okay? Is everyone okay? Why is no one updating me every three seconds—”

“Mr. Stark—”

“I have anxiety and a lot of money, let me cope!”

But the second he hears that first cry, Everything else disappears.

Later, when it’s quiet again, when the world feels softer, they place your son in his arms.

Tony looks… terrified.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly, reaching for his hand. “You’ve got him.”

“I know, I just—he’s so small.”

The baby fusses slightly, tiny fingers curling, and Tony freezes like if he breathes wrong, he’ll break him. Then,  “…hi,” he says softly.

And something shifts. His shoulders relax. His grip steadies. The baby in his arms quiets, like he already knows him. Tony lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Oh my god.”

You smile, exhausted and glowing. “What?”

He looks up at you, eyes shining. “I made a person.”

“You helped.”

“I greatly contributed.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you did.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then gently to the baby’s head. “…I’m gonna spoil him rotten,” he murmurs.

“You already do that to me.”

“Yeah, but now I have two of you.” He grins softly. “I’m in trouble.”

Later that night, when it’s just the three of you, Tony sits in the dim light, your son tucked carefully against his chest, impossibly small against him.

He hums under his breath, absentminded, one hand gently rocking. “…you’re gonna be okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. Both of you.”

Loki stands across the room like someone has just placed a suspicious explosive device on his rug. “…Darling,” he says slowly, voice tight with restraint, “what is that.”

You clasp your hands together. “A dog.”

“I am aware it is a dog,” he replies sharply, green eyes narrowing. “I meant why there is a dog in my home.”

The mutt lifts its head and looks at him. Then immediately growls. Low. Warning.

Loki freezes. 

You blink. “Oh.”

The dog bares its teeth. Not a full attack—but a very clear I will ruin your day expression.

Loki points at it. “Your beast is threatening me.”

“He’s not my beast yet,” you say quickly. “He’s just… adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” Loki echoes.

The dog lets out a sharp bark.

Loki actually takes half a step back.

You stare. “You fought alien armies.”

“Yes,” Loki snaps. “And they had the courtesy not to smell like fermented socks on my living room floor.”

You kneel beside the dog, gently rubbing the scruffy neck. The mutt immediately melts under your touch, tail wagging weakly. “There you go, sweetheart,” you murmur softly.

The transformation is instant. The growling stops. The dog leans into you like it’s been starved for kindness for years.

Loki watches the scene with deep suspicion. “…Why does it like you.”

“I don’t know.”

The moment Loki shifts one step closer— Grrrrrr. The dog’s lip curls again.

Loki stops mid-stride. “Ah,” he says dryly. “It hates men.”

You glance up sheepishly. “The shelter said he… might have some trauma.”

“Might?”

“Yes.”

The dog barks again when Loki breathes too loudly.

Loki crosses his arms. “I am a god.”

The dog responds by snarling.

“Apparently he didn’t get the memo,” you say.

Loki stares at the animal like it has personally insulted his bloodline. “You have brought a filthy, hostile creature into my residence that smells like a swamp and threatens violence upon me.”

The dog wags its tail at you.

You look up with your best pleading expression. “He just needs love.”

Loki sighs deeply. You know that sigh. It’s the sigh of a man about to lose an argument. “Fine,” he mutters.

You light up. “Really?!”

“But,” he says sharply, raising a finger, “that thing is not sleeping in our bed.”

The dog immediately trots over— And collapses directly onto Loki’s boots. Loki looks down. The dog looks up. They stare at each other. Then the mutt slowly… very deliberately… sneezes on his foot. You clap a hand over your mouth trying not to laugh. Loki closes his eyes. When he opens them again they glow faint green. “Do not test me, creature.”

The dog growls.

Loki leans closer, lowering his voice. “I have turned men into frogs.”

The dog barks loudly in his face.

You finally lose it, laughing.

Loki straightens, utterly offended. “This is disrespectful.”

But then the dog limps slightly when it shifts position. Just a small hitch in its step. Loki notices. Of course he does. His expression changes for only half a second. The dog settles down beside your feet, exhausted.

You scratch its ears gently. “He’s been in the shelter for months,” you say softly. “No one wanted him.”

Loki watches quietly. The mutt’s tail thumps weakly. You smile down at it. Loki exhales. Then mutters something under his breath.

A faint shimmer of green magic flickers. The smell disappears. The mats untangle slightly.

The dog blinks.

You blink. “…Loki?”

He turns away stiffly. “I refuse to live with a creature that smells like death.”

You grin. “You fixed him.”

“I fixed the odor,” Loki snaps.

The dog slowly gets up… and cautiously approaches him. Loki freezes again. The dog sniffs his boot. No growl this time. Just a cautious sniff. You hold your breath.

Loki does not move. “…If it bites me,” he says flatly, “I will send it to another dimension.”

The dog gently bumps his ankle with its nose. Loki looks down. Slowly… very awkwardly… he lowers a hand. The dog flinches at first. Then hesitantly leans into the touch.

You melt. “Oh my god.”

Loki glares at you. “This means nothing.” The dog’s tail begins wagging. “…It is merely tolerating me.” The dog licks his wrist. Loki goes still. “…I regret everything.”

The gang had clearly underestimated you. Big mistake.

“Stark! Nobody moves, or she—”

The man didn’t finish.

You were already moving.

Soft, careful steps gave way to a predator’s stride. You dropped the glass, catching it mid-air and shattering it with a practiced flick against the marble wall. He froze. Mistake #1.

A swift elbow to his stomach sent him toppling backward into the nearest table. Mistake #2. A kick to his knee, snapping it like dry twigs, and his gun clattered harmlessly to the floor. Mistake #3.

The others hesitated. You smirked. A light, melodic hum escaped your lips—sweet, almost angelic, but the aura around you screamed death. One of them lunged, and you caught his wrist mid-swing, twisting it until a sickening pop echoed in the room.

Tony was frozen, eyes wide. “Y/N… holy hell.”

You moved like liquid, a blur of soft curves and lethal precision. Tables were upended, chairs flew, and the sound of fists meeting flesh punctuated the chaos. A man tried to grab you from behind; you spun, sweeping him off his feet with a perfect leg hook, sending him crashing into the bar. Mistake #4.

The leader, desperate, tried to pull a knife. You caught it between your fingers, bent it backward until it snapped, and tossed him onto the floor. He stared up at you, trembling. You crouched, tilting your head with a smile that should have been comforting but wasn’t. “Anyone else want to try?”

Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.

Tony finally found his voice, half-amused, half-panicked. “You’re… you’re insane.”

You dusted off your sweater, not a hair out of place. “They underestimated the soft girl.”

By the time the police arrived—too late, naturally—the rival gang had vanished, leaving only a dozen unconscious, bruised, or broken men in your wake. Word would spread. Whispered warnings would ripple through the city. And all because the girl who looked like silk and sugar had a backbone made of steel.

Tony came up behind you in the penthouse later, pouring drinks. “You just… you just obliterated a whole gang by yourself. And you looked adorable doing it.”

You took the glass, smiling faintly. “That’s the point. Soft doesn’t mean weak.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re my kind of chaos.”

You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body. Dangerous, lethal, beautiful—and, yes, Tony-approved. “Careful,” you murmured. “They might underestimate you too.”

Tony smirked. “Let them. I like a challenge.”

That’s all the invitation you need.

You move closer, tucking yourself against his side, and Bucky shifts instinctively—adjusting, accommodating, making space even though there isn’t much to spare. His arm comes around you, solid and warm, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

For a few minutes, it’s perfect like that.

Then he sighs.

A deep, sleepy sound—and before you can react, he rolls just enough that his weight follows.

He doesn’t pin you down suddenly. He settles. Slowly, carefully, like he’s testing whether this is okay. His chest presses against your shoulder, his thigh drapes over your legs, and his arm tightens just a bit around your middle.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

He’s heavy. Not in a bad way—just real. Grounding. Like gravity decided to be kind for once.

You let out a soft laugh. “Bucky.”

He freezes instantly, lifting his head. “Too much? I can move—”

“No,” you say quickly, hands coming up to rest against his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He blinks. “…You sure?”

Instead of answering, you relax into the couch, letting his weight fully settle. Your body sinks into the cushions, pinned in the coziest way imaginable. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, his warmth soaking through you until the cold from earlier feels like a distant memory.

He exhales, relieved, and lowers himself back down—still careful, still mindful.

“Guess I’m a lot,” he mutters.

You smile and tilt your head, cheek brushing his shoulder. “You’re basically a human weighted blanket.”

There’s a pause.

Then he huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. His metal hand shifts, resting flat against your side like he’s anchoring himself.

“…Means I’m doin’ my job, then.”

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time gets fuzzy when you’re wrapped up in him like this.

His breathing slows, deepens. His chin dips to rest against the top of your head, and when you shift slightly, his arm tightens automatically, protective even in sleep.

Nothing bad could reach you like this. Nothing loud. Nothing sharp. Nothing lonely.

You’re warm. You’re held. You’re safe.

And Bucky Barnes—broad, heavy, gentle Bucky Barnes—is asleep on top of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A maze of concrete and echo. Footsteps behind you—more than two. The sound ricocheted off the walls, sometimes ahead of you, sometimes behind. The building shifted as if it were alive, locking gates, slamming security doors.

“Left,” he hissed, and you skidded into a narrow hall you’d never seen, your shoulder scraping against a wall of cold pipes. The world narrowed to the pounding of your heart, the sound of your shoes on wet cement, and the iron grip keeping you from falling behind.

Once, a shadow moved ahead of you—too tall, too fast. A shot cracked the air. The round sizzled off the plates of his metal arm, sending tiny arcs of electricity snapping across his knuckles. He didn’t flinch.

You stumbled over a bundle of cables in the dim light, nearly falling. His arm yanked you upright with such force it almost dislocated your shoulder. But his eyes—glacial, burning, unblinking—met yours for half a second, and you saw it there: he would not lose you.

Down a flight of rusting stairs. Through a door that screamed on its hinges. Into a tunnel smelling of mold and stagnant water.

The air began to change—less processed, more alive. You could taste it before you could see it: outside.

When you emerged, the cold slapped your face like a baptism. The night stretched in every direction, enormous and wild. Your lungs burned with it.

Only when the facility was a dim, poisonous glow far behind did he stop. His knees hit the wet leaves. His hands stayed locked around yours as if afraid you’d dissolve into the dark.

“You’re free now,” he said. His voice was quiet, but you could feel the chains in it—words spoken by someone who’d never once believed them for himself.

------

The first year was the hardest.

You lived like shadows—always moving, never staying long enough for your names to stick in anyone’s mind. Cheap motels with broken locks. Windowless basements where you could smell the mold more than you could breathe. A cabin once, so far from the nearest road that the silence felt like a living thing pressing in.

He found work where he could—construction, repairs, fixing engines in greasy sheds that reeked of oil and old coffee. You took whatever came: washing dishes, stocking shelves, even one ill-advised week at a gas station where you could feel the security camera tracking every movement.

Sometimes, after the day’s grind, you’d catch him staring at you across whatever cramped table you were sharing. Not in suspicion—never that—but in quiet memorisation, as though one day you might be taken from him and he was trying to store away the map of your face.

Nights were strange. Some were quiet, the kind of quiet that let you imagine a different life. But other nights—more nights—he’d jolt awake, breathing like he was still running. You’d feel his grip tighten in the dark, the cold weight of vibranium over your wrist, holding you in the now. You never asked what he dreamed. You just stayed there, whispering words you weren’t sure either of you believed until the trembling stopped.

By the fourth year, you’d learned the rhythm of hiding. The sharp edges dulled. You planted a small garden outside a one-room cabin in Vermont. He built you a bookshelf from scavenged wood. You stopped flinching every time you heard boots in the hallway.

---

Age 25

The air was brittle with winter, sharp enough to cut through the thin layer of warmth they’d stolen for themselves. The small safehouse deep in the woods smelled faintly of smoke and damp pine, the last fire they’d risked now reduced to cold ash in the grate. Outside, the snow had swallowed the world in silence, an endless white expanse that made them feel invisible. Untouchable.

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, his metal arm resting across his knees, eyes fixed on the door as if daring the universe to try. You sat beside him, knees brushing his, mending the small tear along the seam of his shirt with careful stitches. Every touch lingered longer than it needed to. Every glance carried too much.

“We’ll make it through winter,” you whispered, not sure if you were saying it for him or for yourself. “Then we move farther north. Off the grid completely.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the frost-glazed window, scanning the treeline like he always did. But his flesh hand found yours, holding it for a beat too long, as if he knew time was running out.

The knock came so softly, you almost missed it.

Three knocks. A pause. Two knocks.

Your blood froze. That wasn’t the pattern.

Bucky was on his feet before you could stand, pulling you behind him. The metal arm flexed. He grabbed the rifle leaning against the wall. His breathing slowed, his voice dropping into that dangerous, steady tone that told you the Winter Soldier was close to the surface.

“Stay behind me. No matter what.”

The front door exploded inward with a flash of smoke and splintered wood. Cold air and chaos flooded in. Shadows surged through the doorway — black masks, rifles, boots pounding on the floorboards.

The first shot missed him by an inch. The second didn’t. You heard the sickening impact of a dart embedding in the flesh of his neck. Bucky’s snarl was more animal than human as he tore it out, but another soldier was already on him, followed by two more.

You didn’t even see the dart coming toward you. Just a sharp sting in your shoulder — heat flooding your veins — the room tilting violently.

Your last clear sight before the darkness swallowed you was Bucky — on his knees, blood at the corner of his mouth, roaring your name as they forced his face to the floor.

----

Age 25 - the day after capture

You woke to light.

Not sunlight — harsh, sterile, blinding white above you. The air smelled of metal and disinfectant, every breath burning your lungs. Your wrists were strapped to the sides of a cold table, your ankles secured in iron restraints. A thick band of steel pressed against your forehead, holding your head still.

Your eyes darted, panic clawing up your throat.

Machines hummed all around you. Surgical trays gleamed with instruments you didn’t recognize — some bladed, some needle-tipped, some mechanical in ways that made your stomach turn.

And then you saw him.

Bucky.

Not the man you’d lived with in the safehouse. Not the one who touched your hand in the dark when no one else could see.

The Winter Soldier.

He stood on the other side of the glass wall, expression blank, metal arm at his side, his entire body still as stone. His gaze was locked on you, but there was no recognition. No flicker of warmth.

Behind him, a man in a white coat scribbled notes on a clipboard, glancing between the two of you like you were test subjects in an experiment.

“Subject is prepped,” one of the handlers said. “Proceed with conditioning.”

A tray rolled closer to your head. The hum of the machinery grew louder. Your restraints bit into your skin as you struggled, breath breaking into panicked gasps.

The doctor leaned into your line of sight, his voice disturbingly calm.

“You will not remember him after today.”

Through the glass, Bucky didn’t move.

He sorts them with practiced efficiency, fingers moving automatically—metal brushing cardboard, the quiet click of pieces touching. There’s comfort in the predictability of it. In knowing that this piece will only fit one place, that if he keeps going long enough, the picture will make sense.

Unlike memories.

Unlike him.

Halfway through assembling the frame, his phone buzzes on the counter. The vibration makes his shoulders tense before he can stop himself.

Then he exhales when he sees the name.

Steve.

You eating? Sam says you forgot lunch again.

Bucky snorts under his breath, something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth. He types back with his flesh hand, slower than he used to be.

I’m fine. Got coffee.

A beat passes. Another piece clicks into place.

That’s not food, Steve replies. I’ll bring something by tomorrow.

Bucky doesn’t argue. He never does anymore.

He sets the phone aside and goes back to the puzzle, turning a piece over and over in his fingers. It’s blue and gray, a sliver of sky. He tries it in three different places before it finally fits with a soft, satisfying snap.

That sound—click—does something to him.

It grounds him.

Sometimes, when the nightmares are bad, when he wakes up tangled in sheets with his heart racing and phantom pain screaming up his left arm, he comes out here and works on a puzzle instead of trying to force himself back to sleep. He tells himself: Just finish the edge. Or just match the colors. Small goals. Achievable ones.

Proof that his hands can still make something instead of destroying it.

The clock on the wall ticks quietly. Midnight passes without him noticing.

He pauses when his reflection catches in the dark window—scruffy jaw, tired eyes, a man stitched together from old scars and newer regrets. For a moment, the weight of everything presses down on his chest. All the things he can’t fix. All the pieces that don’t fit no matter how hard he tries.

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.

Then he reaches for another piece.

This one has part of a tree on it—branches stretching upward, stubborn and alive. He fits it into place, then another beside it, and another. Slowly, the image grows clearer. A forest at dawn. Light breaking through leaves. The promise of something still standing after the long dark.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the section is finished.

When he finally exhales, it feels like letting go of something he’s been carrying all day.

By the time he stops, the puzzle isn’t done—but it’s close. Just a handful of pieces left in the box. Enough for tomorrow. He likes knowing there’s more waiting.

Bucky carefully straightens the pieces, aligning the edges, making sure nothing’s out of place. He covers the puzzle with a clean cloth before turning off the kitchen light.

As he heads for the bedroom, the rain outside softens, easing into a quiet drizzle.

For the first time that night, his chest doesn’t feel so tight.

The world is still broken. He knows that.

Without a word, he turned his shoulder, exposing the ragged tear in his uniform and the raw skin beneath. You reached out, your fingers trembling as you brushed away the dirt and blood, your touch light but deliberate. The skin was warm beneath your fingertips, but there was a coldness in his gaze that unsettled you.

Suddenly, his body tensed. A flash of something dangerous sparked in his eyes — anger, frustration, pain — and his metal hand jerked, brushing roughly against your arm. You flinched, nearly dropping the ointment.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low and rough. “Don’t push me.”

Your heart thundered painfully in your chest. You’d heard the rumors, the whispers about how quickly Soldat’s wrath could ignite—and how terrifyingly swift and brutal it could become. You wanted to believe that beneath the fury was a man worth saving, but in moments like this, the line blurred into something unrecognizable.

The silence between you stretched taut. You could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him like wildfire — a dangerous, volatile presence that you couldn’t ignore. You wanted to help him, to soothe the storm, but every move was a risk. Every breath you took might be your last if you misstepped.

He shifted again, jaw clenched, eyes flickering briefly to yours before returning to the wound. The tension remained, a sharp edge that could cut through flesh and bone.

“Don’t be afraid,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with as much steady calm as you could muster. “I’m here to help.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of something—maybe gratitude, maybe regret—but the warning was clear.

“Stay close. But don’t get too close.”

Your hands continued their careful work, the dangerous presence of the Winter Soldier a constant, chilling reminder that trust here was a fragile, fleeting thing.

AGE 10

You were barely ten years old—small, fragile, and swallowed whole by the vast, unforgiving corridors of the HYDRA facility. The world here was a cage of cold steel and harsh lights, far from any place a child should ever be. Yet, there you stood, clutching a worn metal tray loaded with medical supplies, heart pounding so loud you were certain everyone could hear it.

Ahead of you, strapped rigidly to a metal chair, sat Soldat—half man, half machine. His metal arm gleamed with a dull, ominous sheen, while his human flesh bore the scars of countless battles and experiments. His dark eyes flicked your way—stormy, unreadable, and filled with a dangerous kind of fury that sent a shiver through your small frame.

The training chamber smelled sharply of antiseptic, sweat, and something metallic that made your stomach churn. The dull thud of boots echoed off the concrete walls as Schmidt and Zolof watched from the observation booth. Schmidt’s face was a mask of cold amusement, while Zolof cracked his knuckles eagerly, ready to witness the next display of brutal efficiency.

Your fingers trembled as you moved closer, the weight of the syringe in your hand suddenly unbearable. You forced your eyes down, focusing on the bandages and antiseptic wipes, doing your best to steady your breath. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.

Soldat’s gaze followed you. You could feel it burning into your back as you knelt beside the chair, hands moving mechanically as you prepared to clean the deep gash carved into his forearm. The wound was angry and raw—edges ragged and bruised—proof of another violent encounter.

You dipped a cotton swab into the antiseptic, bracing yourself for the sting. The moment the liquid touched his skin, he tensed violently, muscles bunching beneath the surface like coiled steel. You held your breath, waiting for a reaction, a snap of anger, a sudden lashing out.

But he didn’t strike. Not yet.

Instead, his heavy metal hand twitched, surprisingly gentle, and reached toward you—not to harm, but to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. The contact was so unexpected that your breath hitched, and for a brief second, you dared to hope.

His eyes softened—not fully human, but softened enough to crack the cold shell that usually encased him. You looked away quickly, cheeks burning with shame and relief, not trusting yourself to meet that fragile expression again.

Suddenly, Schmidt’s voice crackled through the intercom, sharp and cutting.

“Careful, child. This one is fragile. Push too hard, and he will break.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening. This was no ordinary patient. He was a weapon, a living machine—dangerous, unpredictable, and broken in ways you couldn’t begin to understand.

Your hands worked quickly, carefully, replacing the bandages over the wound. Every movement was cautious, deliberate, as if you were handling something made of glass instead of flesh and steel. Soldat didn’t speak; words were a rarity. But his eyes never left you, tracking every motion with an intensity that felt like a physical weight pressing down on your chest.

Halfway through, he shifted suddenly, muscles coiling with the tension of a predator ready to strike. You flinched, expecting the inevitable lashing out. But instead, his grip on the chair tightened, jaw clenching as if forcing himself to stay still.

A long moment stretched between you, filled with nothing but the sounds of your quiet breathing and the low hum of the machines monitoring him.

Then, without warning, his metal hand moved again—this time resting lightly on your arm, grounding you in a way that both terrified and comforted you.

“You have to learn to trust me,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His eyes flickered, unreadable, and for a heartbeat, the mask of the machine slipped. Something human peeked through: pain, confusion, maybe even longing.

But then Schmidt’s sharp bark shattered the moment.

“Enough. Step back, child.”

Soldat’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer before he turned away, the coldness returning like a wave washing over fragile shorelines.

As you stepped back, you could feel the weight of his eyes following you—the unspoken acknowledgment of a fragile bond forged in the cold crucible of that room.

For the first time since you’d arrived in this hellish place, you dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t completely alone.

Because… well. Because it felt wrong to take it off. Like a promise, or a tether. Something small that said someone will come.

It happens on a routine mission. Supposed to be simple.

An old HYDRA facility, half-collapsed, buried under years of neglect. Steve goes in first, shield raised, heart steady. He’s done this a thousand times.

Then the floor gives way.

Concrete screams. Metal twists. The world drops out from under him.

He wakes up wedged in a pocket of debris, one arm pinned, shield somewhere out of reach. His comm is dead—cracked clean through. His ribs ache in a way that tells him at least one is broken. His leg is trapped, numb below the knee.

He tries to shift.

The ceiling groans.

“Okay,” Steve mutters, breath shallow. “Okay. Don’t be stupid.”

Minutes pass. Or hours. Time blurs when you’re alone and buried.

He thinks about yelling, but the dust in his lungs makes him cough instead. Thinks about prying himself free, but every movement threatens another collapse.

He thinks—absurdly—about Tony’s stupid grin.

His wrist catches the faintest glint of light.

The bracelet.

Steve stares at it for a long moment.

“…Son of a bitch,” he whispers.

He presses the button.

There’s a soft chime. A vibration against his skin.

Emergency signal received.

Steve exhales, shaky and relieved and a little embarrassed. “Told you I didn’t need—” he coughs, cuts himself off. “Just… hurry.”

When help comes, it’s loud.

Sirens. Voices. The whine of drills and the crunch of debris being pulled apart piece by piece. Someone calls his name—Sam, he thinks, somewhere above.

Light spills in as the opening widens.

“Cap!” a voice shouts. “We’ve got you. Stay still.”

Steve squints, blinking against the brightness. He can make out silhouettes now—helmets, reflective stripes.

Then one of them steps closer.

Broad shoulders. Familiar posture. A presence that hits Steve like a punch to the chest.

The man kneels carefully in front of him, gloved hands gentle as they assess the situation. The paramedic’s helmet tilts, and for a split second Steve thinks he’s hallucinating.

Long hair tucked back. Sharp cheekbones. A face he’s seen in nightmares and memories and wanted posters and old photographs.

Steel-blue eyes widen.

“…Steve?”

Steve forgets how to breathe.

“Bucky?” His voice cracks on the name like it’s fragile. Like it might break if he says it too loud.

Bucky Barnes—alive, real, wearing navy-blue EMS gear instead of HYDRA black—stares at him, stunned. Then his expression shifts, professional training snapping into place even as something raw and emotional flickers underneath.

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, like he’s afraid Steve might disappear. “Okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

He reaches out, steadying Steve’s shoulder, touch warm and grounding.

Steve swallows hard. “Tony’s gonna love this,” he murmurs weakly.

Bucky huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sob. “Yeah? Well, you can thank him later. Right now you’re stuck, Rogers, and I’m the one getting you out.”

As they work, Bucky never lets go—one hand always on Steve’s arm, his wrist, his shoulder. A silent promise threaded through every touch.

I’m here. I came. You’re not alone.

When they finally free him, when the stretcher clicks into place and Steve is lifted into open air, he doesn’t let go of Bucky’s sleeve.

“Don’t disappear,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky meets his gaze, eyes shining. “Not a chance, pal.”

There are no rose petals in your bath.

Early on, your love had tried his best to be romantic, creating a path with rose petals to a large claw-foot tub that was absolutely teeming with them. The water was lightly fragranced, and while it had been the perfect temperature, you were covered in petals afterwards, including in some places that petals truly did not belong. You hadn't complained - you'd never put your sweet Baron down for trying to do something romantic for you - but he had somehow known how much you disliked them.

No, today, your bath is fizzy and bubbly from bath bombs. The shimmery swirl of the water doesn't bother you in the same way as the petals, and steam gently drifts from the surface to show it's the perfect temperature. You sigh blissfully, letting your lover take your robe from you and press kisses along your shoulders while you kick your slippers off into the corner out of the way. Zemo hangs up your robe for you, then takes your hand to help you into the clawfoot tub, a smile overtaking his face as you sink into the water with a happy moan.

"Good?"

"Perfect." You correct him, "Or, near enough."

"I love you dearly, liebchen, but I do not enjoy boiling quite like you do." He retorts, bending to kiss your forehead, then leaning against the counter in his adorable little silk robe. You pout at him, and he pouts right back, mocking you playfully. Eventually, as the water cools to a normal, livable temperature, he approaches to nudge you forwards and slip in behind you. You're both clean - freshly showered, but needing some intimacy and relaxation after a long, long day. Once he's settled, he lifts you carefully, holding you steady above him as he runs the head of his cock through your folds, then pulls you down into his lap, impaling you upon him. You curl into Zemo's arms, leaning against his chest and letting your eyes close, satiated in your fullness. It's been a while since you've been able to do this. He's been gone for nearly two weeks on a mission he's been very hush-hush about, but he returned to you unharmed, and that's all you can ask for. The hours of running around town with him after picking him up at the airstrip at the crack of dawn because you couldn't help but want to be there with Oeznik when he landed had certainly taken it's toll on you.

"Will you read to me tonight?" You ask him, and he squeezes you closer, tracing his fingertip over one pert nipple, then cupping your breast in his hand.

"Have I ever said no?"

You smile.

"Shortly after we first met. It was very rude of you, bärchen."

Zemo rolls his eyes at you, but his smile is fond as he presses it to your temple.

"You were very rude, liebling. You punched me in the throat." He reminds you, and you grin to yourself, pressing your bottom back into his hips.

"You broke into my house - how was I to know you were with my friends? Anyways, you've long forgiven me. I hardly think you were even mad, my love, you were rock hard when you pinned me to the wall. In my own home. That you had just broken into." Your voice is playful, and Zemo groans against your shoulder, knowing he has lost. It had been rather rude of him.

"Little did I know that the little ex-SHIELD agent would bend over my counter for me the moment we were alone in Riga. Besides, Sam told me that they called you." His stubble rubs against your neck, and you sigh, letting him rock you ever so gently as you take comfort in his arms.

"Excuses, excuses."