ronearoundlightly

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (30)

Tony Stark's Daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slow burn

Furnace, part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: When Tony tries to put Cloak in danger, Lil'Sam steps in, giving her father more to worry about. Later, Samantha realizes she's developed a crush on someone she shouldn't--her friend, Bucky.

Warnings for budding romantic attraction and feelings of insecurity about them. Mild language. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY. WC 4.2k

CHAPTER THIRTY—August-September 2039

Sam rubbed her eyes furiously. When she slept, she dreamt of staring at even more screens. It was hard to know when she really was awake and working.

Bruce usually blurted out the next question on his lengthy list for Sam to work out an answer to while he continued down the line. Today focused entirely on a problem the team had toyed with for months, but she didn’t know why it was so urgent now. No one told her what was going on…not on purpose, at least, and after months of pushing to be heard and included, to no avail, Sam’s mental investment whittled down to the size of pea. That tiny lump still kept her from sleeping well anyway. 

Sam yawned while Banner mumbled something under his breath before turning to her.

“I’m sending you a mock up for a containment casing. Run diagnostics for allowing sensory control of the Space Stone, will you?”

“No prob, Bob,” Sam said flatly, nearly cross-eyed from fatigue. She adjusted a few parameters in the model before getting up to stretch. “‘Bout time for a pick-me-up, I think.”

She didn’t get the chance to leave the lab.

An alert sounded on Bruce’s console, prompting the doctor to heatedly warn someone over comms that “we aren’t ready yet.” Whoever it was didn’t listen, and after removing his glasses, Banner’s frustrated pinch of the bridge of his nose told her it was her father. By now Sam recognized this as the universal symbol for: No, Tony, please don’t. Bruce pinched his nose often.

Tony burst through the double doors, ordering the men who followed him to clear the center of the room. “The idea is to not blow up the room, but no promises,” he shrugged. He pointed to several tables. “Goes, goes, be careful with that one—”

“It’s untested, Tony.” Bruce stood, shooing a lackey away from snatching the stool he sat on.

Tony stayed facing the door. “Doesn’t matter. Time’s up and we need to see what we are up against.”

“What’s happening?” Sam’s station was pulled over to a far corner. Unsurprisingly, Tony didn’t answer her.

Tyrone walked in, wearing one of the minimal space suits used for travel to the orbiting station. Tony clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good—” Tony held on to the helmet while Ty adjusted a glove “—they’ll be in with it shortly.”

Bruce stepped forward. “If the signal just went off that a ship is outside of the solar system, we have enough time to practice this.”

“Not really,” Tony snapped, “if that’s the main ship of Annihilus, we need to know right now and keep it from getting to Earth. If it’s a scout ship, we need to keep the fleet from getting bigger.”

Sam tried to get close to Ty. “You’re teleporting to space? Have you ever done that before?”

Ty’s dark eyes lowered to fiddle with a clasp.

Tandy raced in, bright red in fury. “Like hell you’re going, Ty.”

Sam turned to Dee. “Have you ever given him enough energy for that?”

“They don’t want me to do it,” Dee choked back, “they want him to use that thing.”

A man and woman carried in a heavily armored trunk. Sam knew what lay inside.

She gripped Ty’s arm. “You can’t touch that thing,” she warned. “Even without direct contact, the radiation exchange damages homosapien tissue, particularly blood vessels.” She turned to her father. “He can’t touch that, Tony.”

“Kid, this is not a negotiation. Cloak here is an Avenger in all but name—that’s next month, right?—so he knows the risk.”

“You can’t expose him to that without testing it,” Sam insisted.

“Sit back down, or leave,” Tony spat back. “This has nothing to do with you.”

Ty interrupted. “Actually, sir, so far I’ve only used Lightforce from Dee—Dagger…sir.”

“I’ve heard you like cereal, too,” Tony added, spinning a finger to speed up the pace of the two charged with the heavy trunk.

“—and he won’t just have a radiation burn from the damn stone. He could die.” Tandy stepped between Tyrone and Tony for good measure. One good grip of Tony without his armor and Dee could have him on his ass.

“Well, I hope not,” Tony said calmly, “but he’s a big boy. Energy is energy, and he’s gonna need a boatload. Move, Black Swan.”

The agents finished the security protocols, opening the trunk to reveal a glorious flash of blue light. Tucked in lead lining sat the Space Stone, a raw ingot of power from the Big Bang itself.

Sam rounded on Tony once again. “You want the info so bad, get it yourself. But Ty isn’t doing random interstellar teleport without practice.”

Tony looked at Tyrone, reaching around Dee to hand the helmet over. “He’s got the coordinates where the ship pinged.”

“Sam, you said it yourself,” Bruce added, “if an apparatus can aid in controlling the energy—”

“We aren’t even sure it’s the right type of energy,” Sam screamed, her anger rising in time with Tandy’s.

Ty coughed for attention. “I want to help, but that distance is going to take a lot out of me. I’m not gonna drain Dee to—”

“No,” Sam and Dee screeched in unison. Fists white with rage as she glared at Tony Stark, Tandy concentrated her power towards her fingers, but before the girl could spray the room with daggers, Sam grabbed her arm, syphoning the Lightforce into herself. 

The light rippled and magnified beneath her skin until a hum was audible across the whole room. “You want your recon so bad,” Sam asked, “you got it.”

Sam smacked her hand down across Tyrone’s forearm, and the two disappeared in an eerie cloud of inky thick fog.

One-hundred and four seconds later, the pair reappeared in the midst of an explosion of yelling between Tony, Bruce, and Tandy. Sam’s frozen body clanked onto the floor. Ty detached his helmet, mid-apology. 

“I didn’t know she was doing it,” he murmured, shaking.

As Tony stood, terror blocking any movement he made, Bruce flung himself forward to check Samantha. Tandy moved Ty away to comfort him, watching the rest intently.

Frostbite receded as the pink returned to Sam’s skin, and in a lengthy, frightful gasp that howled through the room, she started to breath again.

Hoarse still, Sam sat up to look at Ty. “You saw it, right?”

“Yeah,” Ty breathed, “I saw them.”

“Nevermind, I fixed it now,” Sam burst at Tony while rushing away.

He followed, pissed. “Oh, you fixed it? And we’re supposed to take your teenage word for it?” The reverberation in the open Wakandan halls echoed their angry words.

Sam spun around. “Then don’t take my word for it. Take all that oh-so-precious Earth-saving time to check my math. You can help me with my homework.” He felt spit hit his neck Sam was so close. “I’d be so grateful!” She mocked him with a bow.

“You don’t think I’m doing all this for you, so you can be safe here? Pay attention, Sam, I’m afraid of what being around me would do to you.” Tony grabbed her arm, clutching the delicate connection with his daughter. “People hunt me down. They torture. They kidnap. They kill.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“I just want you to—” He heard it again. The snap. The bone under his hand collapsed, making the same hollow sound as Thanos’s fingers on Titan.

Sam’s face sank faster than her body. Her sunken cheeks, the deep grey under her flat brown eyes, the almost plastic gloss of her skin. The sickly face of his daughter morphed with a devious grin. The short hair darkened and pulled back from her face, revealing a sharp peak and crazed eyes. The nose pointed above an equally sharp goatee, and there beneath Tony, arm in his hand, kneeled Lemuel Dorcas.

The grin parted. “How’s our girl doing?”

Tony punched the sweat-soaked sheet off in the dark. Another nightmare. One of hundreds to plaque his life. At least this time Sam didn’t become Pepper, he thought. He could never shake Pepper crying while her arm hung mangled, but nowadays Dorcas crept into these dreams more frequently. He knew it wasn’t real.

The evil doctor’s lingering question echoed in Tony’s mind. Our girl. Who was Sam now? Who did she belong to?

She’d laid cold and unmoving on the lab floor, all to prove him reckless and hotheaded.

Four ships. 

Not a scout, the start of a gathering. They were scanning the system. Tony’s longshot chance was to keep Satellite Station cloaking how advanced their planet was and hope the ships passed them by. Earth needed to go dark immediately.

Tony would never tell her, but Sam may actually have saved them by stopping the use of the stone; that was the exact energy signature they needed to avoid Annihilus detecting. For the first time since the Stone War, he was grateful Vision had never been restored to use the Mind Stone. Perhaps that was the only good thing to come out of its destruction in the facility explosion that killed his wife.

He could use more recon on how the ships were scanning and how much they already knew about Earth. However, after the stunt she pulled, Sam wasn’t allowed near Ty, and even if Ty teleported out there again, how long would it take to find answers? Could they even understand what he’d find?

Four hours of sleep, Tony thought, good enough. He dressed and left for the lab.

Your brain goes to strange places when you’re bored. Sam’s fresh appreciation for life without direction framed the sentiment in gaudy, bright gold in her mind. You’re so far down the rabbit hole…

She’d been banned from her “job” since teleporting. Unable to see Tandy and Tyrone while they took on further Avengers’ duties, Sam lived without interaction most days, lonelier than her basement in Wakanda. She was allowed no tech devices either, seeing as she her proficiency was known and highly suspect by Bruce and Tony.

Bucky suggested keeping a journal. He explained over another homemade lunch that he used to keep notebooks while hiding in Romania. “Helps collect my thoughts, practice what I want to say. Sometimes, when I write out my version of what happened in a confusing situation, I can see it from a different perspective,” he’d explained over tomato soup. Sam had offered her grilled cheese sandwich expertise to compliment the meal. Bucky had even let her use her hands to cook them, though she knew he thought it a little unsanitary.

In her lengthy entries in Composition books, Sam wrote directly to Missy, as if her long gone friend could respond to the new dramas of life with Tony Stark. After a while, her thoughts answered her in Missy’s monotone: flat yet sarcastic, and somehow loving, too.

Nothing distracted her from overthinking one very particular thing Sam noticed: Bucky was always around. Not everyday because he’s got shit to do. He went out of his way to get her out of her room. If Wilson were here, he would too, so would Dee and Ty. When Bucky said goodnight, he hugged her tighter than necessary. Didn’t he? 

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than comforting. Right? Couldn’t be. 

Sam ate like an animal and bowled like an old woman. She’d yelled at him, and she made him angry enough to yell at her. So…Can I be trusted to think this out logically? I’ve died twice this year so far.

He’d woken up to stop her and Tony from fighting…after Big Sam saw them in the atrium. Because he protects people. That’s the job. He protects everyone in the building, everyone in the world. That’s it. Bucky simply saved the day, again…and then kissed my head and smelled my hair…

You think, you don’t know that.

He taught her to cook, multiple meals now. He bowled with her. Like a date, but definitely not a date. He…

Does he smile more? Sam swore Bucky smiled more, but he’d been on other dates. He could like one of them. 

But he touched her shoulder or arm when asking what she was up to or how her day was going. He wanted to talk to her. That’s stupid. He did that before, even on the ship to Wakanda, even at the wedding; I’m only noticing now that I’m bored. 

And you smelled him first. 

Sam sighed. Bucky’s scent was a mix of warm linen, citrus soap, and musk…paired with her daddy-issue tears smudged onto his pectoral. Sam acknowledged that was a little perverted, especially since that olfactory memory eclipsed any part of the accompanying arguments she had with Tony, a relationship that drained her entirely. 

Her emptiness refilled with a wholly different feeling, an antsy excitement, an uncertainty, a deep shame. That’s not normal. Right? He’s simply a good hugger. Oh my god, just shut up!

Her brain warred with her now, as it did everyday recently. Nights were the worst. Sam could keep it together when Tony called her Sass. She could block out some of it while working but pushed aside with no other distraction… 

How does anyone get anything done? Hormones are stupid. 

You’re better than this. Buck up—

GODDAMMIT.

Her discomfort radiated to every cell. Sam wished to scream the tightness in her throat loose, blow apart the pressure crushing her chest with an inferno. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sam couldn’t do it. She avoided the root of the feeling for weeks. She had a relationship with her father, albeit rocky, one of the only things she had ever truly wanted, but Tony alone wasn’t enough. Dee and Ty weren’t enough. 

The guilt of wanting this, however, him in particular, it threatened to suffocate her soul for a greedy child.

Yet still, each little thought haunted her. Bucky Barnes haunted her. 

Tonight in particular, her room became a stifling prison. In the open air of the grounds, in the dark, the rolling chirp of insects harped a symphony of company. At least this was a cool, breezy prison. She was still alone though, and the heat turned over and over in her gut, growing.

The steely blue halo surrounding the moon became an eye, and the dark, wispy shadows of clouds became long, soft hair. It’s not real. She could feel it between her fingers, and the heat grew. Stupid. The low bass of echoing water spoke to her gently, calling Sam from her screen-dreams to food down the hall, and the heat grew. Quit thinking. Her hand met the button of her jeans to push the blaze back, but then the cool metal slid over her fingers as a familiar military jacket. 

You’ve got to be kidding. 

Sam released her hand, almost crying out in frustration, instead letting a few tears fall in trade for silence.

No, she repeated. No, no, no, no. He’s not yours to want. He’s never going to be yours. Let it go now. Let this die now and move on. But how does something fed by absence, fed by nothing real or logical, die? Nothing encouraged this feeling except fantasy and hormones. Sam was smart enough to know that. Intelligence changed nothing. Intelligence killed no emotion, stifled no threatening bursts of flame. Control was a joke. 

Before she could stop, the tears became soft sobs, broken by uncontrolled heaving breaths. The bugs were loud; the ringing in her ears was louder. The reverberation of warring forces inside her grew violent, the yellow hue under her skin guaranteeing an unhappy resolution. Raising her left arm in anticipation, Sam could feel something inside about to snap.

Arms wove around her chest and waist from behind, gripping her sides with a solid clutch. “I’ve got you. It’s ok,” a beloved voice sounded, “you’re alright.” 

Without permission, her body melted and drained of fight. Where the hell did he come from?

Do you even care?

The void left by her sudden loss of heat was sickening. Sam’s tears flew out as the dam broke. The body so betraying her seemed to double down on its own vulnerability towards Bucky Barnes. Stupid.

Sam collapsed her weight against him, crying like a baby unable to speak. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeated. Bucky slowly released her to sink to the soft grass and sat beside, face to face, his hand calmly resting on her leg. 

Oh, great, watch me cry. Sam struggled to make herself quiet, but the delicious discomfort radiating across her leg slowed her progress to regain equilibrium. She was trying to smother freshly lit kindling.

“Here,” Bucky started, holding out a pair of earbuds, “I find music helps.”

Sam didn’t move. “Helps with what?”

“Sleeping,” he replied. “Nights have always been hard for me.”

Sam tried to swallow, hearing herself gulp to rid her throat of an immovable rock. She settled the headphones in without looking up.

Even with a slow, steady hum of gentle jazz, the lump remained and her tears fell. After a few bars, his hand left her thigh to wipe her cheek, and whether in relish or disbelief, Sam’s eyes closed to push the last salty drops loose. His thumb swept over her cheek one more time.

Sam felt tortured by his presence. She spat at herself internally. 

That is a gross exaggeration. He actually was tortured for years, decades even, and you, little idiot girl, who hasn’t even lived for two decades, have no right. 

She forced her eyes open, sniffing dramatically to move her head away. He returned to clasping his hands around his knees.

Sam braved a peek up. “Oh my god.” She raised her head entirely. “Where’s your hair?”

Bucky laughed, clean shaven and cropped. “I have that effect sometimes.” Sam kept staring. “Captain America needs to be PR ready for November. Nat’s orders.”

The ceremony was set to induct Cloak and Dagger, her best friends if she ever got to see them again, into the Avengers’ team proper. New blood. Fighters. They deserved the honor, but Sam hid her frustration. She was just as powerful, if untrained. 

Whose fault is that?

Sam pulled out an earbud. Her mind went blank, staring. He was a whole different person. Sam had to take in all the new details. Pieces of his face she’d never seen in person before, the ghost of his military portraits from the 40s, like the old footage Sharon had showed her of their unit were brought to life in front of her. She fumbled for words. 

“It’s not always…pain,” Sam finally admitted, eyes darting across his calm face then retreating to the shadowed tree line behind him.

Bucky nodded with a knowing look. His relaxed, pristine face made Sam more uncomfortable. He had no idea. He listened to her nonsense as if it were important, as if she was even intelligible in this blubbering state. She gulped again. Her mouth opened and closed like a gasping, stupid fish. She wiped her face with a shaky hand to break his gaze.

Oh yeah, you’re doing great. Really seductive.

With him sitting right beside her, everything overwhelmed her. The breeze became suffocating with the addition of his musk and a new element, aftershave. She just knew it was there; it was the same air that brushed across his face. The moon that so reminded her of his eyes shone down on them both, and those eyes could see it, too, could see her, too. His soft hair and rough hands were within reach, and Sam’s chest felt crunched between the 18-wheeler of her desire and the pavement of reality.

Bucky remained calm, oblivious, lazily rolling his eyes over the training field and Sam alike. He let the next song play. Sam thought he might be able to hear her pounding heart without his own cover of headphones. Instead, the intoxicating man with dark hair checked his small device and leaned back onto his own bent arms, stretching out like a feral cat beneath the moon. 

She pushed the earbuds back. Sam’s arm twitched involuntarily, clenching against her shirt. You’re killing me here. What’s your next smooth line? ‘I like the way the moonlight hits your crotch?’ Oh, damn it, stop. 

In her mind, she was crawling all over him in a dozen different ways, but then she caught the change in her breathing and slapped a hand violently against her mouth and nose, hard enough to feel a twinge against the nerve running to her eyes. Don’t break your own nose. He didn’t see, did he?

His face is less than four feet away. It’s safe to say he sees you.

Sam was totally unqualified to handle this. Lila had been too old to talk to her about boys. Laura had thrown in a few vague phrases about ‘the right time’ and ‘when you’re ready.’ Nat allowed herself a few crude jokes around Sam before she stopped calling or coming to visit, but not even a mild reference to sex during training. Annie had encouraged her to ‘have fun’ with Lucas because he was a ‘nice guy.’ Meanwhile, her best friend in the whole world was a computer program which could quote anatomically correct articles on the science of attraction and physical intimacy. Sam thought she might throw up just thinking about it. Tandy would know what to tell her if she were here.

You need to let this go. You need to let it die now and move on. The voice in her head was starting to sound like Missy, clinical and objective, unsympathetic.

Bucky had known her since she was a baby. His most vivid memory of her was probably still a four year old screaming at him, calling him a monster while he tried to help her. 

Ungrateful, spoiled brat. That’s all you are to him. End of story. Sam had to tip her hat to the voice of Missy; she sure knew how to quash an argument. The diminishing cracks were soothing in this instance, distracting.

Sam snapped to alert when a hand broke her dead stare at her own crossed arms. Bucky looked down at her with an outstretched arm, waiting. She plucked out an earbud.

“You ready for bed?”

The hell? 

Bucky half-retracted his arm, seeing her shocked face. “You don’t have to,” he corrected, “if you don’t want to.”

Oh, god, shut up! Trying to suppress a firework show under her skin,Sam repeated her imitation of a fish out of water.

“Keep the music if you want,” he added, holding out the control.

That’s not exactly what she wanted, but Sam supposed that was the less awkward of her options. Before she answered, Bucky glanced the song detail on the tiny screen of his player, taking the earbud Sam removed and putting it in his own ear with a smile.

“This is a good one,” he said, grabbing her hand to pull her off the cool ground. “You’ll like this one.” Without warning, playful Bucky pulled her close as if to dance.

His smell assaulted her, muting all thought. The linen and soap wrapped in something sweet she couldn’t place. He was right though; the smooth instrumentals were like a lullaby with the soft swaying movement in his arms.

Words sprang to life mid-song.

“I can’t believe that you’re not here with me, to have a laugh or share a tea with me…”

Sam let herself breath deeply. He smelled like grass, that was the new sweet note. She kept her face away from his chest, but he’d taken one of her hands in his, Bucky’s right hand against her waist. It was a terrible test she was bound to fail.

Her brain gave up, and the music filled her head.

“To never look into those eyes again, the sun might just as well not rise again…”

Sam looked up as the song rang out in one ear, and a falling star caught her eye. She almost thought about how romantic this all was until the fiery streak continued to approach. 

The spot grew, headed straight for the compound. What the hell is that? More alarming still: it turned in the air above the trees to aim at her and Bucky on the lawn.

“Get behind me, Buck.” Sam pushed past him, stirring what she could in her arm, forcing the pressure of her anxiety forward. Fireworks might be necessary.

A silver suit landed twenty meters away. Tony? It looks too small—

Bucky tried to grab Sam’s shoulders to pull her out of the way. “Who are you? Why are you here?” He stepped to the side, a palm on Sam’s stomach, holding her back.

The surface of the humanoid suit rippled into a mimicked body and a face. 

Sam’s face.

“I’m finally able to return to you,” it intoned.

Holy shit, Sam froze. “Missy?”

[Chapter 31: Miss]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #alternate universe #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

Steve Rogers, number 4, a kiss where it hurts (imagine him making it stop hurting) xxx

*no pairing listed but could work in Fools Rush In, It Had To Be You, Autumn Is Healing, Threadbare, or as a stand alone. While those series do specify female readers, this is written gender neutral. He calls you 'sweetheart' one time.

A Dark Day and A Bright Night, one of my Valentine's Fics of 2024

Warning only for description of a bad mental health time. (I know not everyone experiences this in the same way, but I tried to cover the gist and focus on Steve's comfort of you.) Otherwise, just sweet, caring fluff! WC 1781

There are invisible barriers everywhere, and they stop no one but you.

No one else can hear the muddled whispers of what else you could have done, what more you should have accomplished, how disappointing it is that anything took so long.

You can’t do any better. You can’t go any farther. There’s a line in the sand no one can see. Sometimes, no one can see you.

Nothing matches up. Work fast-forwards around you in chaos while you slog through, treading water with all the energy of someone who has been out at sea alone for days and days. You grow so tired.

There are moments you power through, mind racing to gain lost ground on an endless, looped track. You grow so tired, and it’s never just one thing. It’s water and sand and nothing all at once, vast forces beyond your control.

What else? What more? Why so long?

There are barriers no one else can see, and it’s not their fault because it doesn’t match up. We move through life at different paces. We experience different struggles. We are stopped by different forces.

“How was work?” Steve asks, a chipper smile on his face as he places dinner in front of you.

“Fine.” There are no other words.

“Really? Seems the project is right on schedule, thanks to you.”

You see him pause before he takes his first bite, and rush to pick up your fork, knowing it’s best to participate, knowing the barriers may be invisible but effort is not.

He eats his mouthful, and you stare.

Dinner isn’t a line in the sand, but it feels like one, another interaction you’ll be disappointing in, another fear you can’t explain.

“Not my best work, but it got done,” you manage, mechanically feeding yourself, showing the effort, making a show of the effort. “How was your day?”

It’s a flat question. The response is muddled by water and wind and doubt.

Why can’t you focus? Why can’t you do better for him? Why does he stay?

Steve can’t see any of it. He can’t get to you because there’s no one place you’re trapped in.

You do the dishes. You watch TV. You start your bedtime ritual, and you’ve participated as little—and as much—as possible because treading water is lonely. You grow so tired.

Tomorrow could be better. You can do better tomorrow. It’ll take effort.

Tomorrow you’ll work harder and you’ll be less afraid. But that’s what you thought the last time you were stuck. That’s what you think each time you find a line in the sand.

You stare at your reflection, still treading, still scared, still misaligned.

“Did you hear me?” Steve loosely holds you with his palm on your hip. Standing behind you, face sullen in the mirror, he asks where you’re hurting.

To Steve, there has to be a solution. Each mission must have a goal.

You spit, rinse, and put your toothbrush in the holder.

“Just tired.” That’s the sand he cannot see.

“Seems like more than ‘just tired,’” he huffs, unsatisfied, and turns you toward him. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing you can help with.” That’s the water he cannot navigate.

You’re on your own.

He smirks humorlessly. “That’s never stopped me before.”

But you don’t have the words. All that comes out is “my head.”

“Headache?” He reaches for the medicine cabinet. “You need some—“

You shake your physically fine skull. “No. It’s not a headache.”

Steve’s face…changes in a way you’ve never seen before. You expected confusion, perhaps pity, but this is something all-together reminiscent. His eyes dart around the bathroom like he’s taking inventory, and for the first time today you aren’t the most distracted person in the room.

Then he returns to you.

“I think I’d like a nice bath. Will you join me?”

He sets it all up, using the best smelling bubbles, setting out the softest towels, and inviting you back into the little spa he created by handing you a lovely chocolate.

When you try to refuse because you’ve already brushed your teeth, he replies, “live dangerously,” and pops a bonbon for himself.

Hopefully, it is dark enough for Steve to miss the tears in your eyes.

He lets you settle in the water against him, playing by splashing warmth over the parts not submerged. He kisses your shoulders and neck, the back of your head. Steve keeps himself attached by the lips, breathing you in but feeling so far away. Your mind wanders to nowhere, thinking nothing.

“Feels good—I mean, bett—feels okay, yeah?”

He suds up his hands and washes a bit of you, but your muscles are tight and curled.

You’re tucked into yourself, small as can be.

“Can you try to relax for me, sweetheart? Can you let yourself float?”

The tub works for a guy Steve’s size. There’s a little space but not enough to stretch out completely.

The tension in your body is slow to release. You manage to let your arms, knees, and feet peak through the bubble clouds.

Steve nudges, “and your neck?”

You didn’t realize you were holding it up.

There is infinite space to lay flat in your endless sea. Floating offers a respite, a view of the sky, the same sky blanketing your beach.

Invisible barriers at least spare the scenery.

You and Steve watch the fragrant foam burst for a while. It takes you much longer to truly relax back into Steve. The quiet of the bath drowns you with the noise in your head.

What else? What more? Why so slow?

It’s never just one thing. It is all things, all at once, and nothing at all. All of the elements to survival and understanding are there if you just focus your attention, if you just put in the effort, but you are so tired.

Steve wraps you in his arms to press you deeper into his chest.

“Sometimes my ma would burn dinner,” he starts quietly, voice rough from holding back all his questions you can’t answer, “and we would scramble around, combing the cupboards. We’d make the oddest meals out of bits and bobs. Maybe half of it, we should’a never touched, but we did what we had to. Ya know what? Those were some of the best times. We did the best we could with what we had—sometimes less—and that’s what made her so amazing. On what she probably considered her worst days,” Steve kisses behind your ear, “I admired her the most. Formed some of the best memories.”

“Let me guess. Because she smiled the whole way through?”

“Nah,” he muses, chuckling enough to shake you in the water, “she threw a pan once. Loosened the door of the stove she slammed it shut so hard. She cried usually until we were sat down eating. Always tried to give me the most food because I was so small… 

“I made it a game. I only took a bite if she did. Win-win.” 

He stays quiet for a beat, assured you’re hearing him.

“You’re not ruining anything by crying,” he says solidly, almost loud in the confines of the bathroom. “Good things can still happen. You still did good today.”

He continues. He details little things he admires about you; how hard you work for yourself, for him, he notices all that. He wants you to see what he sees.

There’s no barrier stopping him.

The water turns tepid, and Steve gets out first to ready a towel for you. There’s a difference between him treating you like a china doll and his doll. His doll is not breakable. He isn’t gentle because you are fragile; he does it to preserve you for the next day, and the next. Steve refuses to place any more burden on you than already falls.

He’s right there, strong, noble, and determined with forces working against him.

He’s scared and he doesn’t understand. He can’t fight. He has to scramble to catch up, to change plans, to make a meal out of nothing, to turn nothing into something. He doesn’t understand why he’s in a different sea, or why he can’t get to you standing on the same damn beach. His hand is right there on the barrier, but his shouts are muddled.

It’s not fair, and it never will be.

He physically lifts you up, wrapped in a plush bath sheet, his hug strong enough to thump against that clear wall that springs from your line in the sand.

That’s when you realize the barrier isn’t impenetrable. You can still see the scenery. You can still hear muddled sounds.

Some of his voice gets through. Sunlight and warmth get through. The water still buoys you up.

If there are directions to go, there are paths to take.

If there are ways in, there are ways out. 

There are invisible barriers everywhere, but they don’t stop Steve from being there for you.

One more chocolate. One more brush of your teeth. You trade the fluffy wrap of a towel with the cozy wrap of a t-shirt, and he makes sure you’re comfortable.

A simple goodnight kiss alone might tip you over into exhausted euphoria, but Steve is not that kind of simple.

He props himself up on an elbow and rolls you onto your back.

Kissing your right temple, he whispers, “I love you.” Kissing your left temple, he confesses, “I love your voice,” the peak of your forehead, “I love your spirit,” between your eyebrows, just above one ear, and the other.

“Miss you when I’m not here. Miss you when you’re not here. I miss you even in my dreams.”

Then, and only then, do you get that simple kiss goodnight. His soft lips melding to yours for a long, soothing moment before you two drift off to sleep.

When you dream of a beach and an ocean and nothing at all, you miss him, too. You remember his presence, and the truth becomes as clear as the sky above.

There are pieces of you to love. You are a loved thing. You are light and heat and sound that can get through, even when misaligned, even when you don’t match up, even when not in the same sea.

Steve’s love is invisible, but you know it’s there. It’s not a limit to fear. It’s not a barrier to turn away from. His love is not an obstacle you want to get past.

Not every invisible force is bad.

Sometimes, barriers slow you down, let you listen, make you rest, and help you float.

There are barriers everywhere, but nothing between you and Steve.

Ransom Drysdale and a kiss out of spite ⬅️ ➡️ Ari Levinson and a kiss out of envy

A/N: oof. *walks away crying* I'm fine. It's fine.

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#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #captain america fanfiction #captain america x reader #captain america x you #gender neutral reader #steve rogers x gn!reader #gender neutral y/n #gender neutral insert #gn!reader #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

one more one more, jake + a kiss where it doesn't hurt?

Jake Jensen x gn! ops!reader

This Can't Be The Moment, a tale for Valentine's 2024

Warnings for mentions of blood and injuries, gross humor, mild language and angst, pining (we don't know if it's mutual). Sadly, I thought of a whole follow up to this which I know I won't have time for before VDay, but they're cute. We'll see if anyone wants more! WC 899

gif by @dhawanmasters; divider by @cafekitsune

I was sick yesterday so you get two ficlets today 😘

You promised.

You promised yourself: no attachments.

You were a Loser barely two days before the goateed dork with a pirate hat sexy-talked his own computer within earshot, and then it was game over. You were attached.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; he was so ridiculous in his damn boxers, so cute with his complete inability to recreate that sexy-talk with a real person, and so, so ridiculously cute when you harassed him.

Thus, you are now his Banter Bro. You two snip at each other constantly, to the immense annoyance of the team (mostly Clay), but just as quickly as you fall for Jake Jensen, you’re tested. It’s only three weeks into your tour with them that part of a mission goes south.

Roque burst through the doors of the safe house carrying you to the nearest flat surface.

“What the fuck?” Jake shrieks at the sight, hands shielding his dignity like it matters, like you don't all know he does that. “Warn a guy, why don’t ya!”

“We need pressure on the wound. Now! Jensen, right now!”

He flails over and pushes his hands into your gut where Roque tells him to, and your mission partner rushes into the next room for the med kit.

“They brought a lot of knives to a gun fight,” you’re able to gurgle out before Jake shifts his palms to stop more blood, and you scream.

“What happened to that pretty pair of snub-noses you keep in your boots? They not helpful?”

Your smeared-red hand grabs his wrist. “Dude grabbed a kid, but when I--I tried to negotiate for her, three of them jumped me.”

Jake ponders that for a split second. “Yeah, ok. Fair. Maybe th—”

“Jensen, hold ‘em down,” Roque barks again, spreading out the tools and bandages he found. “This 'in’t gonna be pretty.”

He prepares the clotting powder and yells for Jake to move his hands.

The next minutes are a blur of searing agony and suffocating restraint. Thank god Roque didn’t have any bullets to fish out or you might have bitten a permanent mark into Jensen’s forearm as he held you still. You already proved that your trigger fingers are working just fine by squeezing the shit out of his hands.

“Right? Fuck—You’re fine,” Jake smirks half-heartedly, covered in your blood. “Basically good as new. Better maybe? I don’t think I’ve heard you this quiet…ever.”

Sarcasm may be the only thing sustaining you.

“Ok, new bet. I get to stab you in the stomach four times and see who handles it better.”

“Quadruple-P? Pass,” Jake shrugs. “I’m not that kinky, Pin Cushion.”

Damn it. That’s it. That’s your new nickname. You can smell how excited he is to lord this over you.

Jake helps raise you up so Roque can wrap around the gauze.

“How have I just had field surgery, my clothes cut off, and you’re still less dressed than me, Jensen?”

He laughs with you anxiously. There’s a good chance you won’t last the night, and you know it. There’s an even bigger chance of an infection or sepsis if they don’t get you heavy meds soon.

“Oh, ya know,” he drawls. “I’m just over here, making the best of a bad situation.”

Roque takes off his gloves and goes to update Clay. He’ll ask if they can find something on their way back.

“It’s not bad enough to make your jokes good,” you ‘snap’ as fast as you can, but the world seems to be slowing down around you.

Jake starts inventory of nerve damage in your body. He taps your ankle above the boots you still wear. “Can you feel that?”

“Ow!”

“And this?” He tries the other knee because that’s all he can reach while holding you up.

“Take a wild guess, man! It hurts.”

He carefully lays you down, but it’s excruciating.

“And for the record, you’re hurting my arms, and my chest, and my back.”

“Well then where the fuck do you not hurt?” he yells.

You suck in as much air as you can. “I’d say my mouth because I’m still using it!”

“Ok, smartass.” Jake slams his lips to yours so hard your skull makes a thud on the sheet metal.

Oh, shit. Oh, no. No, NO. This is not how this bastard finds out how you feel about him. Absolutely not.

You rip your face to the side, and luckily, Jake has straighten enough when Roque walks in that there’s no suspicion.

“Still stable?”

“Psychologically?” Jake observes with a wobbling hand in the air.

You wish you had the strength to punch his stupid glasses right off his lovely face—stupid face. He has a stupid face! “Don’t start with me, Jensen.”

Roque comes over to set a calming hand on your shoulder. “Hey, compared to the time Jakey-boy here got shot in the arm, and the place we had to patch him up, this is the star treatment.”

Your crankiness knows no bounds as the adrenaline wear off.

“Under-dressed male nurse never offered me water,” you sigh. “One star service.”

Jake looks up at Roque. “Was I this sassy?”

“No,” Roque answers simply, “'cause you’re not funny.”

You pinch your eyes shut as Roque walks away, unwilling to look at Jake yet, but your eyelids turn to lead and the sound of Cougar’s voice on the radio fades.

“Pin cushion,” you hear like a whispering wind.

“Pin cushion, stay with us…”

Steve Rogers and a kiss as an apology ⬅️ ➡️ TBD

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#cw: language #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x you #jake jensen x y/n #valentine's day fanfic #ro answers #gn!reader #gn reader #the losers fanfiction #jake jensen fluff #jake jensen angst #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

On A Scar

Steve Rogers x reader (no specific universe but this is inspired by--and for--@anika-ann 😘)

a surprise addition to my Valentine's Fics of 2024!

No warnings but I literally hurt myself it's so cute. WC 234

Steve truly is a gentle giant.

Broad-shouldered and big-handed, he could lumber around—hulk about, if you will—but instead he’s spending a lazy morning tickling you. He uses light, fluttering fingers to trace patterns on your skin while you two hide out beneath the bed sheets, a glow of daylight diffused by your makeshift hideaway.

The golden boy looks so beautiful in the morning. He’s soft and sleepy. He leans his head to your chest as if not strong enough to lift it, as if he’s wiped out by touching you in his dreams.

He tells you about those.

He whispers how you excite him, how you tease him, how you comfort him, and then he remembers that most of those are real. You really exist. You’ve really been here. You’ve really stayed. You truly love him.

His fingertips smooths over the long scar below your bellybutton, one after the other.

Index.

Middle.

Ring, adorned with his golden band.

Pinky.

Outside your cotton oasis, there’s a cry for attention, a young alarm set to a biological clock you bore from that very scar.

You and Steve sigh with matching amusement. You’ll return to this lovely interlude after a brief, bottle recess.

As he gets up, Steve plants a sweet, lingering kiss to the nerve-sensitive line.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, and the gentle giant sneaks off to feed his super cute baby.

Jake Jensen and a kiss to shut them up ⬅️ ➡️ Ransom Drysdale and a kiss on a falling tear

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[ronearoundlightly]

Heat Tank

Johnny Storm x ghost!reader from the Phantom Pleasure series

One of my Valentine's Fics for 2024. Prompt: A kiss in relief. WC 782

Summary: Though you've grown closer, Johnny has spent months unable to touch you. As a spirit, you are attracted to heat, so there's a chance his energy can actually offer you a form--if only temporarily--for him to see and feel. This is Johnny's first chance to test the Heat Tank.

The science of the structure makes no sense to Johnny, but he knows he has permission to go supernova while inside. The venting and dispersion will work for a prolonged period, and as an unexpected bonus, Richards was able to channel the energy to heat the entire block.

Johnny doesn’t care about that.

Why he needs the Tank is vague, but the Four know Johnny rarely asks for technology unless absolutely necessary. If it can help prevent any direct damage to the brownstone or the neighborhood, Reed and Sue are on board.

The apparatus is simply a more powerful version of the original assessment chamber in the Baxter Building, less the flaw where his maximum temp can melt the walls.

Johnny does the song and dance, listens to the explanation of controls—door stays locked until a specific sensor reads below 110* F—and then dismisses Reed and his sister to go out to dinner or whatever it is they do. He doesn’t pay attention after the necessities. 

He contemplates inviting you in verbally, but instead lights his hand. That’s your ghost-equivalent of an attractive offer: concentrated heat. If this works at all…

As soon as the thick door shuts, its pitch black save for his hand, and Johnny stokes the fire. He gets more and more nervous, letting the smooth, gradual increase boil atmosphere like a frog in the pot, until the first shapes of you lick through the distortion.

You’re here.

You’re really here—right there within reach—and he pushes for more, more heat, more pressure, more you.

There’s not one whole part of you that becomes clear first; it’s wisps of a hip, a curve of a jaw, leg. He simply watches intently, unable to hear over the roar of flame around him—around you both.

But he can hear your voice in his head so clearly, joking, poking fun at his needless intensity, his perpetual impatience.

Johnny…

I’m always here.

I’m not going anywhere.

You aren’t though. He wants more. For once in his constantly un-alone life, he wants just one thing: to see you, to be with you physically.

Then you’re there.

Suddenly, the nuance of oranges curve over every inch of you, and Johnny’s body feels hotter than it’s ever been, in pain or pleasure, in fear or safety. He’s on fire inside and out.

He hardly imagines what your skin will be like in his palm because the burnt clay undertone of it seems hard. If Johnny’s learned anything about you, “hard” would describe none of it. You’re malleable like amber and fragile as rust.

The shared presence of blood-red is the most you and Johnny have ever had in common to date, and yet he feels a connection in the destruction, the dispersion of his life-force. If only he could truly give himself to you…

His bare foot steps forward in a cloud of plasma and smoke, sliding through the blaze.

He is the only source of oxygen now. There is nothing but Johnny to galvanize life within the Tank, and he has a goal.

Touch her.

That’s all he has to do: suffer and incite thousands of degrees for a corporeal taste.

Just one. Just one touch. Just touch her.

But Johnny Storm has never settled for the bare minimum. He steals the whole show. He shoots all the way to the stars. He can’t be held back, and there’s no one who cares to hold him back.

Before he can close the distance between you, your arm raises, a palpable hand resting on his chest which he greedily covers with his own and continues. Onward to you. Nearer. Hotter. Sooner. Until he arrives, lips kissing the beautiful, pouting plume of your lips.

To his utter delight, you feel…cool like fog rolling over his molten skin, and his lungs fill with the contradiction, veins opened wide to the shock of dopamine injected by new.

Johnny’s power makes him impose on others—on the world—because he controls the climate around him. Climate never fights back.

You do. You can affect him, and he’s instantly addicted.

He’ll fuse straight to your soul if you let him. He’s that far gone in seconds. The chain reaction simply floods through him, and he pumps more and more heat out keep you tangible.

He’ll die without friction. He can’t imagine living without.

He presses, smelting you essence into his memory and hoping.

Stay, he thinks. Stay even when I burn out.

The hand on his heart squeezes, a cool rock to rest his sweating skin upon.

You’re a balance. You can keep him grounded even after all the hot air of this life floats away.

A/N: well, I'm really praying that read as interesting rather than confusing because I've had to come up with odd ways to describe how Johnny and a ghost can interact. Had this idea for Reader to be attracted to heat (i.e. her consciousness gathers around that energy which is the only time she can kinda really *think*) for a while, and it struck me that it would be novel to have a cold kiss be more tantalizing for the Human Torch. Anyway, I overthink everything, so yep, all is fine here!

[Jake Jensen and a kiss to distract <;- Previous Valentine's Fic; Next Valentine's Fic -> Ransom Drysdale and a kiss as a yes]

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#valentine's day fanfic #valentine's day prompts #johnny storm fanfiction #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x you #johnny storm imagine #phantom pleasure #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

17 with Jake

or

25 with ransom

-👜

Jake Jensen x ops!reader: a kiss to distract. (Ransom will be posted separately.)

No warnings except Jake is a dumbass... Cute divider by @cafekitsune and I hope you enjoy! This is one of my Valentine's Fics for 2024. (Ransom will be in a separate post, btw.) WC 738

"Under no circumstances are you to zipline that damn thing, Jensen. You hear me?” Clay bellows over your comms. The whole squad can hear their friend’s stupid thoughts from hundreds of yards away.

Jake simply bounces his shoulders next to you on the skyscraper roof, an awkward grimace stretched across his face instead of a smile.

The cool, intense winds this high up swirl around while you watch your targets become smaller and smaller, taking the only hardware down the wire with them.

You and Jake burst through the access door, raced over to grasp at the jumpers, and missed by mere inches.

So your partner thinks on his feet. It’s very dangerous.

"Yeah, well, I don't see you guys having a better idea."

Your disbelief is palpable, as you loudly mutter, "permission to shoot him, boss?"

Then there's an explosion of noise in your ear.

"GODDAMNIT, JUST DON’T—“ "You idiot!" "Ten bucks says he goes splat.”

"No one bets on Pancake Jensen, okay?" You flash the bird toward the other rooftop where Cougar watches through binoculars.

Pooch scoffs. "Noob's no fun."

Jake is already ripping his belt from his jeans to use as a trolley.

Roque sighs. It’s so characteristic, he doesn’t even have to speak.

“Maybe no bets," Cougar chuckles, "but he's already playing strip poker."

"Jake, stop." You have to grip his hands to get his attention.

He's squinting at you in disbelief. "But they're getting away..."

"Yeah, and once they reach the bottom, that line'll get cut while you're still on it." He shifts so you have to step in front of him again and push at his t-shirt clad chest. "You cannot stick that landing."

"No hero landing?" Jake frowns.

You shake your head.

The group starts to throw out other options over the channel, and while you pay attention to that, your gaze wanders back to Cougar’s perch.

Jake sneaks past your grasp.

It’s only when the lookout starts shouting “woah, woah, woah,” that you realize Jensen’s about to toss the doubled-up leather of his belt over the wire, and you just…run.

You use your whole bodyweight to spin him. You push off the balls of your feet to reach level. Remarkably, you make it, your lips landing dead-center on his mouth parted in shock.

You did not, however, have time to calculate the ledge right behind Jake’s thighs.

He panics when he hits concrete and lurches forward, arms wrapping around you with an instinct to not die. Where was that consideration thirty seconds ago?

He holds on while stumbling, though, and by a few seconds in, you know he absolutely could have pulled away, if he wanted to, by now.

“Uh…”

Jake slides his big hands up to cup your face, lean further in, moving his head to the other side and licking the seam of your lips.

You weren’t expecting that.

Jensen always gripes about his awkwardness and lack of experience, but this is not amateur tongue action and definitely not detached. You can sense some real emotion in the dig of his fingers behind your ears, muffling your comms for who knows how long until one shift has your forehead smearing across his glasses.

“Sorry,” you blurt, breaking the kiss.

He lets go of your face just in time for you to see the thick wire snapping back toward the rooftop.

You grab Jake’s t-shirt in both fists and fling the pair of you to the ground.

“If you doofuses are alive,” Clay grumbles. “you better be halfway to the lobby.”

There’s a long, anguished sigh before Cougar adds, “and I just lost fifty bucks.”

Pooch whoops joyously.

“Hell yeah, I won the pot, didn’t I? Get it, Jensen. You’re my boy. I knew you could do it.”

Jake waits for the snaking wire to stop moving and nervously licks his bottom lip. “Right. No hero landing.” He squints at you again before popping up from the gravel, cleaning his lenses and inching toward the stairwell with wildly incoherent, stunted hand gestures. “We should…if you’re good…render-vous.”

On your elbows, you realize a talk with Jensen about this is not going to be pleasant. He’ll probably make you do all the talking and deny there was anything there between you. Maybe he is too awkward for his own good?

You reach past your feet toward the ledge, waving your find in the air.

“Don’t forget your belt.”

[Bucky Barnes and a kiss, casually <- Previous Valentine's Fic; Next Valentine's Fic -> Johnny Storm and a kiss in relief]

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[ronearoundlightly]

A Casual Kiss

Bucky Barnes x reader, one of my Valentine's Fics of 2024

It's just adorable fluff, really. No warnings. Divider by @cafekitsune WC 547

A lot has happened to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes over his long life. He used to be a ladies’ man and a traditional sort of soldier. He used to have all his natural limbs. He used to take maybe a touch too much pride in his appearance. A lot has also changed.

Wars change people. Injuries change people. People simply change over time.

And Bucky Barnes has been around a long, long time.

You knew all this from the beginning, of course, because his whole tragic history had already been slashed across newspapers and television by the time you started work in the same building.

He started out cold, then he became reserved, and then he was cautious. You didn’t even know he knew your name until the day he—very formally and awkwardly—asked you out, and the relationship developed…predictably.

That’s the best word for it. Predictable.

There were a few dates before he hugged you goodnight. The next time, he kissed your cheek. The next, you got a chaste peck on the lips. So on and so forth.

Measured increments of intimacy.

It was predictable and still wonderful.

Bucky isn’t good with ‘easy-breezy’ anything, you see. He’s intense and considerate. He plans ahead and for all contingencies, and so you’re taken aback by this random passing in of your department leaving the conference room and Buck’s team coming in.

There’s plenty of people around. Normally, that means a kind smile, perhaps being asked to step aside for a moment so he can say hello and check on your day, maybe check on your plans for dinner, but today? Today is different.

He’s smiling alright, smiling wider and brighter than you’ve ever seen him on the job. His shoulders are relaxed and loose. He’s strutting right for you, and suddenly, like a choreographed dance move, he twists, kissed your forehead, and twists again, still walking but backwards now.

Bucky winks at you as his metal hand finishes a soft graze down your arm.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“Love you, doll,” he whispers though at least half the room can probably hear.

It’s not as if no one knows at work. You’ve dated for months, and for that whole stretch, Bucky’s been a perfect gentleman, just very…not casual. This is new.

So why not make it even stranger?

Your boyfriend snaps his flesh fingers like he just remembered something, nearly skipping the couple of feet to your side.

“Hey, so, I know we were doing movie night, but Sam’s taking some folks out to the corner bar. His treat.”

You can’t help but snort.

“Oh? And let me guess. You—who is unable to get drunk—would like to make him pay for the multiple bottles of top-shelf liquor you can consume.”

Bucky waggles an eyebrow, and you’re stunned.

“Know me so well,” he coos, leaning in to plant one more solid smooch on your lips.

Your lipstick stains his mouth until Bucky’s tongue wipes it away.

“I’ll pick you up at your office.”

You’ve hardly controlled the flutter in your gut but now have a grin fighting to break free. All you can do is nod, heading for the exit, thinking:

People always change over time…and sometimes, change is for the better.

A/N: Yeah, so, absolutely no one requested this and I don't care because HE DESERVES THE KISSES.

[James Mace and a kiss without motive <- Previous Valentine's Fic Next Valentine's Fic -> Johnny Storm and a kiss to distract]

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#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #valentine's day fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x y/n #valentine's day prompts #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

Valentine's Ask Game: ...without a motive It's allowed to be abrupt, languid, bizarre, out of context, IN context but only you know what context it is-- it can too soon, start too late, anything!

I choose this work-weary space man from @larissa-ann's gif! Divider by @cafekitsune

James Mace x reader, one of my 2024 Valentine's Fics!

Warnings for not being a happy/roses-and-unicorns type of kiss fic, but I think it's still really cute and addresses that kind of numbness we can all feel from time to time. WC 418

Saying space is lonely is akin to calling water wet; it's accurate, sure, but it's also wildly understating the conditions as a whole.

There's fear and pressure, sleeplessness and fatigue, a never-ending schedule and infinite time to zone-out into the void.

You knew that going in. You've pulled your weight, stayed focused, remained practical, and been cordial.

No one on the crew hates you, but no one loves you either.

Space is truly lonely.

You've reached the point of acceptance. You can still bark orders during drills and smile over dinner. It's all...empty, though, meaning you never see it coming.

Mace just bumps right into you coming out of his quarters.

There are moves back and hands up, mumbled apologies, stated destinations, offered excuses. Then neither of you get out of the way because suddenly he is your way and you are his way.

Space doesn't contain slowed inertia. Space doesn't produce heat. No sound. No air. No gravity.

His head tilts and his lips meet yours, gentle but firm, the perfect middle ground, the most inoffensive action.

He exists with you. You exist with him. How can you mistake that for romance? How can you interpret that as passion?

If this were desperation, he'd grope and tug at clothing between you. If this were lust, he'd shove his tongue down your throat and moan. If this were love, he'd hold you in his arms.

There's no motive here. Space has nothing for either of you.

Soft and consistent, he doesn't break away. Your eyes never fully shut. Neither do his. It's a sort of experiment. You're evaluating reasons why you shouldn't, why you're wrong, why you can't, but he doesn't break away.

Like the ghost of a embrace, a whisper of a past life, James lowers his fingers to barely brush your arms. It's the first non-essential contact you've had in months, and a shiver races up your spine, pulling your neck taut.

The kiss is over, your head bowed and tucked to his rough chin, a rush of confusion and guilt lights through your nerves to make your breath catch.

His own breath shakes when it blows across your forehead and ear.

Mace takes a stable grip of your shoulders and shifts you to one side.

"See you later," he says as he walks by, turning to step into the mess compartment.

You finally close your eyes.

Space is lonely like water is wet, but even the depths of Earth's oceans hold other, unexpected discoveries.

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[ronearoundlightly]

Midnight Kiss

Steve Rogers x reader

Just a little ditty in honor of the upcoming holiday. Warnings for suggestive language and bad puns. It's just cute, awkward, and chivalrous...until it isn't. If you couldn't deduce it from the title: they kiss lol. WC 1.5k+

He's happy to see the team having fun, but this isn't exactly Steve's 'scene.' Granted, his 'scene' flew the coop long ago, when his generation aged out of large, raucous celebrations, or rather, Steve never had any true social scene because he never really lived .

He's still trying, he swears; it's just...

really. damn. loud.

The lights are somehow too dim and too bright all at once. Everyone is happy and blitzed and dressed to the nines and leaning on the closest stable object. Any minute now, he'll bow out and call it a--

There's an ear-piercing cackle from a woman in a '2024' gold-streamered headband not two yards to his right, and she tips backwards, shoving an innocent passerby straight into his solid side.

"Sorry," you squeak, rolling your eyes because the word wasn't loud enough to shame the drunk woman beside you, but you're facing him, too, unable to see she's about to make it worse.

The woman snorts and laughs harder, toppling over because her party of friends have the reaction time of sloths, their hands full of dainty champagne flutes and mini-snacks.

Steve instinctively pulls you out of the way, his broad, strong arm wrapping your waist and pinning you to him.

"Oof," you grunt in alarm, the woman's drink spilling over your shoulder.

Hors d'oeuvres, Steve thinks sullenly, that's what people call them these days.

The woman doesn't apologize, and neither do her friends.

He counts a full five seconds before anyone in the small group even raises a hand to help the woman still giggling on the floor. Mostly, Steve is now concerned with the glass shards near your feet.

He's all for having fun, he's all for letting off a little steam, but he is not a fan of sloppiness. That's not a generational trait; that's simple courtesy.

"Ok, 'nough of this," he mutters, an itchy irritation scurrying up his body while he tries not to take over care of the woman. Instead, he checks your legs with a glance, sees the open toes of your strappy sandals, and hoists you into his arms.

He walks away from the bar, sound of crunching fading with each step, and finds a tiny bench--the only spot not occupied--where he can set you down.

Steve can't hear your shock or protest because his blood races past his ears. That was the last straw. He's annoyed now.

"Stay there," he commands, putting up a finger that gets shockingly close to touching your lips since you leaned in to speak. "I'm getting some napkins."

The bartender is oblivious, and why should he not be? The man is one of two serving over a hundred guests, give or take, for hours and hours. Steve doesn't bother getting his attention. He stretches a long arm over the bar top and grabs a stack of cocktail napkins.

It might as well be toilet paper.

He dabs and dabs at the sleeve of your dress, but the napkins dissolve and turn to damp pills. In his day, those results would make excellent spitballs to pass the time in class. They aren't so trendy on your black velvet.

"I thought this would work." He doesn't know what else to do but keep dabbing, so he anxiously continues, not noticing the precarious proximity to your chest until you put a hand on his.

You have kind eyes, he thinks, even though he can't fully make out their color in the mood lighting.

"Please, don't--" finally one of the woman's group yells over a quick sorry "--don't bother with that," you finish. "It's just a dress. You can go back to your people, Captain."

He scrunches his brow. He sometimes wants to introduce himself; he wouldn't always use his rank, but he rarely gets that luxury. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Was heading out anyway. I'll just sit a sec and then leave."

Sounds like the highlight of my night--leaving.

Instead, Steve stands to his full height and scans the busy room for any of his team. He shrugs to himself since, who's he kidding, no one will miss him if he disappears early. He's put in the appearance. He's made enough small drunk talk. Yikes, does he wish alcohol still affected him...

"I'll walk you out," he offers, careful to modulating his volume when one song abruptly ends and another starts lower.

At first, you don't take his hand, and your first two steps seem sturdy.

Then your weight crumples after a deep hiss.

Steve has you back up and carried to the bathroom in a flash. It's lit so he can actually see and muffled so he can actually hear, thank goodness.

Glass did sneak into your shoe, and it easily poked through the ball of your foot. He's so quick to find it that not one whole drop of blood has even eased out of the wound by the time he's pulling the shard out. His bare hands pinch the sizable chunk.

He's careful, slow, and gentle. He's also a touch proud that you make very little fuss, only squirming in discomfort while he works.

"All better," he says, dropping the glass into the trash bin. "We'll just wash it and...you alright?"

You're already pushing yourself off the counter top.

"You shouldn't put weight on it yet." Steve gingerly lifts your leg at the knee to keep the foot from touching the bare tile floor.

"Yeah, but--" you make a face "--you set me down in water."

Steve's eyes bug out. "I--oh gosh--so sorry, I--let me--" there are no paper towels, only an air dryer "--shit."

Defeated by modernity again, he sighs. "I just...I can get more napkins and maybe a first aid kit from--"

The crowd outside is starting to yell. They're counting, backwards, and there's no way anyone will understand what he's asking for in that chaos.

"Ten!"

Steve meets your eyes.

"Nine!"

He can see their full color now and that your dress isn't black. It's a very, very dark maroon velvet. Wetness is easily visible though, since your sleeve seems fully black at the shoulder.

"Eight!"

He points to the door. "Somebody I can get for you?"

You shake your head.

Not that he was fishing for your relationships status, but he's encouraged nonetheless.

"Seven!"

"Only me," you shrug, "braving the party for a thrill..."

"Same."

"Six!"

"How was the year?" he cracks with a smile.

You tilt your head. He's distracted by the cute gesture.

"Five!"

He stares.

"Four!"

"Not great," you admit.

Steve thinks while he stares.

"Three!"

Actually, no, that's a lie. He doesn't think; he just acts.

"Tw--"

He swoops in, big palms cradling each side of your face, soft lips pressed to yours for just an instant, but only because he wants more.

Unless tortured, Steve Rogers will never admit that he didn't plan for one instant where his tongue was not involved. He absolutely wants to taste you. He absolutely wants to own you, just for these few seconds. He absolutely wants to hear you moan in encouragement, the sound crystal clear in isolation from the party.

The roar of the crowd is soft static compared to that racing blood of his.

He pushes himself closer, his bent arms getting in his way, so Steve props up with a palm on the--oh wow, that is wet--counter. His thumb touches the soggy velvet covering your hip and thigh.

He'll buy you a whole new dress if only you lace your fingers in his hair, if only you take his bottom lip between your teeth, if only you whine just like that again.

By 'again,' he means in a few seconds, and maybe tomorrow, and, for good measure, whenever after that.

A loud thud on the door knocks him out of his lip-lock trance. It's not a single restroom, so he suspects another overly inebriated patron since no one comes through the door.

But now some sense is knocked into him, too.

He chews on his swollen lips for a moment, nervous to look up. He hopes you don't regret it, and he hopes you know that he does not, can not, and will never regret that kiss.

Your sated sigh breaks the tension after a beat. "Starting this year off right," you mutter, "at least for me..."

"Yeah," Steve chuckles, glancing at the door before finally taking in your lounging form, "the gang is gonna love how I ended up in a ladies' bathroom at the stroke of midnight, necking a stranger."

You snort.

"Don't leave out the part where I was wet for you, head to toe, huh?"

Too bad the florescent lights are bright enough to show his raging red blush, but he clears his throat with a deep growl.

"They'll never believe me..."

Steve sweeps you up into his arms again.

"...unless I take you as proof...and to get a bandage, of course."

You snatch up your shoe and purse, but he won't let this Cinderella run off. You'll be right here against him all night.

"Well, go ahead and splash my other shoulder," you tease. "I can't be lop-sided."

Steve grins, already adding more and more things to list of what he'll do for you, to you, and with you. The list can include parties, too, if this is how wonderfully sweet and silly they can all be.

Happy New Year, indeed...

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp (My taglists are all jacked up again, so if you are missing from the list and/or want to be tagged, please let me know!)

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[ronearoundlightly]

Autumn in a blanket burrito on the sofa late night waiting for steve to come back from a mission he sees autumn wrapped like a burrito slight shuffling missing him 🥹

Yeah, so I'm having some real ups and downs lately. Scrolled through a bunch of old asks to spark some joy and creativity, and this one caught my eye. No one's asked about Autumn in almost a year actually. Makes sense, of course, I'd choose a tale from a series buried in the dark of tumblr...but alas, I need this. I need coziness like life didn't fall apart, like life wasn't a huge lie, like any of it mattered. Steve helping a fellow traumatized does that for me 💜. RIGHT--comfort! Here we go. WC 1.8k

Steve Rogers x super soldier!reader

Full-Sized Throw, an Autumn Is Healing short story

Some days, well, some days are bad.

They’re full of memories. They’re full of pain. Most…most are real memories of real pain. Some are unclear.

The compound is quiet while the Team is away. Everyone busies themselves, too flustered to babysit you. It rained all day. You couldn’t go outside, so there’s nothing to do but think.

Was that you or the Soldier? Did the Soldier feel that or did she inflict it? Is this feeling the worst or are more buried?

Real or not, you still feel it.

The pain lingers. It crawls across your skin, and it melts down your spine. It drips like a leaky tap in your brain. Never ending. It just moves. It just hides. But it never leaves.

Loud music in your headphones drowns out the drip-drip, laying down cuts off that sickening flow along your back, and blankets—usually four of them, wound over every inch of your body—stop the vicious and incessant flutter of fear.

Hydra won’t stop. Agents will come for you.

But…what if…

What if Hydra isn’t coming? What if they wrote you off as a lost cause? What if you mean nothing to them now? Is that…worse than being hunted?

The only support—the only family, in a sick way—that you’ve known for decades—however many hours, days, or years of them you were awake—is gone. All gone. Maybe they don’t even want you anymore.

Some memories aren’t as bad. Not every moment was hell.

Not all of the guards scowled at you, not all of them leered, and in the absence of overt hatred, you told yourself they as good as smiled. If the look didn’t instill more fear in you, it was a smile. Had to be. You hardly remembered what those looked like anyway. The absence of bad is good, right?

To you, absence is as-good-as.

You pull your top blanket tighter, wriggling your feet in the direction of your swirled, lowest layer.

Absence was as good as kindness, you think. Absence was as good as freedom.

Hydra is absent. You are free. That’s a kindness. It’s their only kindness—to go away, to be gone.

Their absence makes you feel as good as happy. It’s still raining. You’re still in a room. You still need a ‘minder’ to go anywhere, but that’s not as bad as before because sometimes your ‘minder’ is Steve.

Steve is kind. He’s full of kindness and real comfort. You remember those things. He makes memories of them. He helps on bad days, even in his absence. That’s clear.

Steve’s been gone on a mission for however many hours, days, or years though, so Blankets 2 and 3 anchor your torso and hips to the couch for the long haul, just in case.

Rumor has it the Team comes home today, but that’s what the rumor was yesterday, too. Not that anyone really tells you anything since you aren’t on their team and you aren’t their fighter. You aren’t one of them because only Steve looks at you like you’re bathed in sunshine, always. The rest see shadow and darkness, an absence of light, an absence of trust.

Absence still feels kinder than the alternative: the leering, the scowls, the…memories.

The blankets hold you firm while it’s dark outside the window behind the back cushions. The foot throw is a standard, almost scratchy thing that came with your cell (for safety), the hip throw was an upgrade once you moved to this room, this bed’s comforter wraps your torso, and covering your head, shoulders, and arms is a gift from Steve.

He said it was a trade for all the lovely sachets of lavender you put together for him, for all the herbs you grew to spice foods you’re cooking for the first time, for “all the things we don’t know about.”

It’s the fluffiest and softest of the blankets, and it smells like Steve. You snuggle your whole face into—

The elevator dings out in the hall.

Maybe they’re home. Maybe he’s back.

You hear talking, not whispers but not loud enough to understand. Footsteps come all the way up to your closed door…and then jog away.

Was that Steve? Why’d he go? He always visits.

Fabric thickened legs swing off the couch. You don’t even register the release of pressure from your back or the loss of complete encapsulation as the foot throw unfurls onto the floor. It’s a mad shuffle to the door, a peek at the clock.

2:29 AM

Did he think he’d wake you? Doesn’t he know you don’t sleep well when he’s not at the compound? Wouldn’t he—

Knock knock.

His footsteps were muted by your racing thoughts.

“Rosie?” he whispers. “Rosie, you up?”

You weakly respond, a single syllable that’s enough to have Steve opening the door without waiting.

“Hey, I brought you this—“ he looks up your body, which is not at all visible save for your eyes and forehead “—candy…”

Big blue eyes soften, illuminated by a solitary, warm lamp by the door and harsh slices blazing through the hall.

“…to try,” he finishes. “What are you doing? Are you cold? Rose, you gotta tell someone if it’s uncomfortable.” Steve tosses the candy onto the lamp’s table and crosses straight to you, his arms wrapping you a little tighter. “You don’t have to—“

“Always,” you mumble.

He only calls you ‘Rose’ when he’s disappointed, but you never want to disappoint Steve.

After a gentle rub up and down your back, he pulls away, but only enough to see your face, turning you a little until the light hits, his gaze like the sun. The sun does shine on you whenever he’s there.

“What was that?”

“It’s always uncomfortable,” you elaborate, poking your chin over the fleecy muzzle. “I wouldn’t know what to ask for. I—I don’t know what will fix it.”

He smiles; Steve simply smiles at you sweetly. It looks easy and real, not as if he fights it, not as if it’s painful.

“Well,” he starts carefully, “if it can be fixed, we’ll figure it out. But you don’t have to be in here alone and uncomfortable.”

“I was waiting. I missed you.” Your words are quiet enough to test even super soldier hearing. “I…I like the…”

You glance down as a gesture to your burrito form and shrug.

“Yeah? So this helps? Being hugged in blankets?” Steve immediately pulls you back into his chest, musk-saturated t-shirt covering everything your throws don’t, and it’s like a balm to your wounded psyche.

Your mind calms, and your body releases.

You know he’s real. You know he’s present.

Steve makes the absence of pain shock your insides like a drug.

He stays there, pressing against you lightly, hands splayed over your head and hip, and he just breathes for a long time. In and out.

This could go on for however many hours, days, or years he’s willing to stay, and you’d relish every instant.

Since you know he can understand the garbled words, you say into his chest, “how was the mission?”

A big in, a quick out, Steve sighs, and when you look up, there is no smile. The absence means something different, but with this, you can help.

“I know what you need.”

You toss the fluffy throw around him and squeeze the soft, stretchy fabric tight.

Steve’s hands land on yours, keeping you connected skin-to-skin. His shoulders sag a little.

“But I liked that, too. I liked—“ He chuckles before a different kind of shadow falls over his face. His eyes flatten and shy away from you. “I want the hug. I need it, Rosie.”

He almost seems ashamed, and that just won’t do. Not at all. You can’t have your sunshine dim for lack of—you jump right into his arms and cling.

One tiny snort of amusement is all Steve lets out. He buries his head in the soft fabric between you, sighing deeper the harder you hold him, lacing his arms around your waist, unyielding. He won’t let go. He walks you both slowly over to the couch and sits.

“That bad, huh?” you prompt. “You need some lavender?”

His fingers dig in. He doesn’t say anything. He stays quiet while you maneuver your loosened covers to tuck him further.

Maybe he’d like to talk but not talk?

“Lot of rain today,” you whisper, settling against the shared body heat of two enhanced humans. “I bet the lawn flooded.”

There’s something lovely about your body equaling his. Sure, the average person feels warm and alive, but to you—and you hope to Steve—this is a novelty. You two account for a not-insignificant portion of the supers on Earth who run this warm. It feels like matching puzzle pieces to unlock a prize. You feel comforted by being comforting.

Some days are just like that

Steve finally lifts his weary head. “Made the whole ground smell like a creekside. Wet dirt—“ he spins you both to lay flat “—fresh grass—“ he shimmies to make you relax your weight onto him, your full weight “—open air.”

A long, long out. When you peek above your head, his eyes are closed. Steve looks peaceful as he mutters.

“Took my boots off in my room, they were so muddy. I’ll take you out to check the garden,” he trails off, “tomorrow…”

His hold on you is still tight but not restrictive, so you shift, your arms crossed beneath your chin, watching him as the absence of worry spreads through the room.

You tap his sternum playfully. “You don’t have to be out there alone and uncomfortable either. I’m right here.”

Steve smirks lazily, barely moving. “I know, Rosie.”

He probably doesn’t know; you doubt he can fathom what you would give to make him never feel how you did today. He deserves all the comfort, all the kindness, and all the happiness. You don’t ever want to dim his sunlight with your darkness, but that’s a hard thing to predict.

“We’ll get you some blankets of your own,” you offer softly and begin to lean back down.

“Uh huh,” Steve hums, rolling to the side, pinning you between the couch cushions and his body. “Just have to stay close…to fit two…for now.” He nuzzles in, curling and contouring till it’s perfect. You’re cocooned again by four blankets.

That's clear. That's real. This will be a good memory.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling into his chest. “Of course. We can do that.”

The steady, slowing, in and out of his breathing lulls you to sleep, a nice deep sleep, for the first time since however long ago he left.

Some days, well, some days are bad, but they don’t have to end that way.

Stick me in a blanket burrito I'm done 💚 💜 Thank you, anon! Sorry you waited or didn't wait a year for this.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp

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[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (29)

Tony Stark's daughter x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Logic, Part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: Samantha finally admits she used a version of Extremis to save Sam Wilson's life. Tony's attempts to punish his daughter don't exactly work.

Warnings for rough parenting, verbal fighting (out of love but they don't know how), and flirty/fun bonding. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 4k

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—July 2039

Shirtless and a little cold, Bucky sat in a lab with someone poking and prodding at his arm…again. Tony and Samantha stood arguing over him, radiating the same stubborn righteousness. 

Tony mumbled critiques of Bucky’s impeccably detailed arm, each proving moot upon inspection or a single-phrase reason from its designer. Bucky watched Sam’s shoulders raise, her back shrinking with each backhanded compliment. She was defensive, but for his part, Bucky thought she should be proud. He had no complaints, save for the one time Tony continued to harp on.

“But the neural overload of being hit by Thor’s lightning…?” Tony jabbed again.

“Corrected by a tissue-specific Extremis, locally injected, as you witnessed,” Sam answered.

Tony hovered over the shoulder, wearing magnifiers. “You got lucky,” he scoffed finally.

“No, I didn’t.” Sam backed towards the far chairs, tired and avoiding eye-contact. “It was engineered to die after one proliferation. Captain Barnes was never in danger of infection.”

 “So you admit it’s an infection?” Her father straightened, bouncing a reflex tool off of Bucky’s elbow to measure the flinch. There was no point to it, but Tony always enjoyed making Bucky furrow his brow in annoyance. “Do you know how many things could have gone wrong with an adaptive virus like that?”

Sam’s nostril’s flared. “It worked on Wilson, didn’t it?” 

The room filled with lead. Tony dropped the tool, eyes wide. “Excuse me,” he breathed. 

A light clicked on so ferociously in his mind it made Bucky’s eye twitched. Her concern on our flight to Wakanda, testing Wilson with cards during training…A surge of irritation for not connecting it sooner swept through him.

Sam broke the heavy silence. “I knew the neural-isolated virus would work on Big Sam because I’d already used a dermal version on myself. He wasn’t getting better. Steve told me you all had as good as given up.”

So Steve had to have pieced together what she’d done… This meant she had already used Extremis on herself before that day in the woods. Sam knew exactly what she carried around with her. She had pointed for him to use it. She was exactly as brilliant as Tony and just as self-destructive. He watched her closely in the quiet.

“And Buc—Barnes’s enhanced nerve cells just hadn’t adjusted to the magnification effects of vibranium—” stares followed every move of her anxious hands “—so I…aided their rapid adaptation.”

Bucky tried to help. “And now I’m fine, so we are all good.”

“You experimented on a member of this team?” Tony’s face went purple, several veins dangerously pulsing with every word. “Without his permission? In this building?”

Bucky distinctly remembered Tony saying they had run out of viable therapies. 

Sam rang her hands. “You lied to me,” she spat, “at the wedding you told me he would be fine. Of course I tried everything—I tried more than you did.”

“So you graduated to organ and limb replacement—”

“—treatment—”

“—after one success? That’s ridiculous. That’s reckless.” Tony almost charged at Samantha. She leaned towards him, unafraid. Bucky couldn’t get between them this time.

“How was I supposed to know Buck would get hit by 30,000 amps in a newly connected neuron path?” Sam threw up her arms in Tony’s face. “Even if he had his metal arm, you can’t just dial people up to eleven.”

Tony buckled. “That—” he shouted, waving a finger in his daughter’s face “—that movie is a classic.” He took a long moment to swallow a boulder of pride. 

Sam teetered, eyes darting around from place to place. She had no more reference ammunition.

Bucky sat still as stone, waiting for the accusations of personal endangerment and downright stupidity certain to come, but Tony shifted. His muscles slacked. The crinkling around his eyes smoothed, and Stark turned to Bucky, dismissing him with a pat on the back. 

“You’re done. You’ll survive.” Tony shoved his sleeves up his arms. ”You can go, too, Sass.”

Her neck tensed, lip twitching again, jaw tight as a wire about to snap, but Sam made it out the doors before Tony could even turn around. Standing, Bucky grabbed his shirt, surprised she let Tony have the last word. 

Before Bucky pulled the fabric over his head, however, Tony made his way over to whisper, “other than her ass on that chair behind that screen, nobody discusses Avengers’ business with her. Got it?” Tony pointed to Banner, who stood frozen with a look of utter bewilderment. “Good talk.”

Life at Headquarters attempted normalsy after weeks of changes following Tony’s return. Sam Wilson retired to permanently train new recruits. Steve Rogers returned to the quiet life in the hills, regularly asking Tony if he wished to join him and Sharon for a day. Tony declined and joked about needing to be the center of attention. Not enough cameras. No reason to wear a suit, iron or three-piece.

The dynamics at HQ were shifting, but they needed to, fast. 

Standing inches from a glass wall overlooking busy workers, Stark hoped his outer appearance betrayed nothing of the deep fatigue weighing his insides. He recovered from space-sickness months ago; something more sinister plagued him now.

Bruce Banner sat with Samantha at a far station, several projected screens in front of the doctor while Sam sat quietly ‘being instructed.’ She remained safe at what amounted to an incredibly expensive cubicle with the world’s most over-qualified tutor. Tony convinced himself that Sam felt included doing busy work at the computer.

“I don’t like people handing me things,” Tony grunted, spurning an offering from Maria Hill.

The agent rolled her eyes. “You have taken files from me before, Stark.”

“Well—” he shrugged “—I’m an enigma. Humor me. What’s the lay of the land?”

Maria dropped the files on the shining steel table with a thud, glancing across the room. 

“Shield teams are on every continent dealing with outlying threats or suspected D-Lite transformations. We’ve got alerts out to all morgues to check all overdose victims for traces of the drug to see the scope of its distribution, but not everyone has the resources to test.” Maria sighed. The Director of Operations withheld the current estimated death toll from her briefing. Bruce mentioned to Tony it had reached over one thousand since Cloak and Dagger survived the drug. “Three aquatic inhumans have been assigned to Atlantis to help Namor. Still no sign of Victor Von Doom, but we’ve been unable to search Latveria—”

“Why not?” Tony cocked an eyebrow.

“Diplomatically, it’s a non-starter seeing as we are basically accusing the country of being complicit in harboring an enemy of state—our state, that is.”

Which they are, he thought. He missed the old days of smash-and-grab, asking for forgiveness after he got what he wanted. Iron Man had no nation as Earth’s savior; he landed wherever, whenever…before the Accords.

“Their rep’s language is vague, but it sounds as if our targets are some sort of national treasure. The country’s GDP and living standard have increased remarkably over the last decade. Our enemies are Latveria’s heroes. The people seem to revere Doom.”

“Heroes plural?”

“Again, it’s vague, but they emphasize that no citizens will be considered for extradition whether we have proof of crimes or not. The UN Inhuman Oversight Committee has no jurisdiction. Latveria never signed the Accords and holds no official participation.”

“Where are they getting all this cash, all that industry?” Bruce face sank, his eyes darkened with concern.

Director Hill shrugged, adding only “unknown.”

Sam chirped to attention across the room. “Did we consider the doctor was trying to access vibranium for the benefit of his people?”

Tony shot her down. “We don’t need to give this guy the benefit of the doubt—”

“So motivation isn’t important?”

“We don’t rationalize crazy.”

“Sorry, Tony,” Bruce interrupted, “but we do if it helps figure out motive. We can use it to figure out where he went.”

“So, what’s a substance like vibranium most helpful in use for?” Sam continued. “Weapons? Infrastructure? Medicine? Do we know how much he wanted? Is there an alternative material he may go after?”

“He wasn’t prepared to physically carry much alone over a sea,” Tony thought aloud.

“Adamantium,” Bruce added, “but it’s a poor substitute in certain applications.”

“Has any source of that been attacked?”

Maria flipped open one file. “Nothing. Wanda is with the X-Men, has been for a while, and there’s been no action against their facility, even with teams away on missions consistently.”

Sam sat back in her chair, twiddling her finger clipped inside a monitor attached to an electrified wire. Today’s experiment. “So what did Doctor Doom get that replaced his need for vibranium? Could he have gotten it from somewhere else?”

Tony fitfully paced along the windows. “You are not an agent. Eyes on your screen, Killian-two.”

Sam’s lips tightened in frustration. Her physical training had come to an abrupt halt after Tony woke from his first decent night’s sleep on Earth. She was relegated to sit silently beside Bruce and answer only when asked a question. In her newly free time, Tony allowed Hill to use Sam to check positioning orders. It may have been equivalent to assigning a supercomputer basic algebra, but her mother had been good at it. Why shouldn’t Sam? Sam stayed during a brief only because he was currently testing electromagnetic resonance to disrupt her energy production.

“She has a point,” Maria jumped in. “We originally thought he was trying to update his own shielding with vibranium but if he wanted to do something else…”

“And why did he approach so obviously? Like he wanted to fight you guys,” Sam added.

“Don’t you have a caffeine addiction to feed?” Tony snapped.

 Sam stood and fired a small ball of plasma from her left hand into the steel waste bin inches away from Tony’s leg. It smoked as he turned away, defeated. Current running across her skin caused no disruption. Test failed. Next theory.

“Yeah, I can do that too,” Tony mumbled.

Smug atop her high horse, Sam shifted on her feet. “Without a suit?”

Maria rolled her eyes before they landed on Bruce. “I don’t need to be here for this. Call me if you think of anything else,” she grumbled while walking out.

“You know, I pioneered the functional use of clean energy.” Tony’s chest puffed farther out.

Unamused, Sam’s eyes went wide and her mouth gaped. “No shit? That’s so cool. What’d you say your name was again?”

He clucked his tongue. “Makes me feel a tad disrespected when you speak to me like that.”

“Said everyone who’s ever spoken to you.”

A snort sounded beside her. “Damn it, now there’s two of you,” Bruce murmured, stifling a cough before dismissing himself for a break. 

“And that’s lunch,” Sam said, skirting the table towards the door. “Your bull makes me hungry.”

“Burns calories. Keeps me trim.” Tony slapped his stomach and followed her out. “A burger does sound good.”

She shrugged. “Ty’s got me hooked on cereal now. I mean, I crave it—”

“Also your Hogwarts letter came today,” Tony added, pulling the opened card from his pocket. “Trash can comes out of your allowance.”

Tony walked beside Sam to the kitchen, reciting the fancy cursive words on the oversized page by memory.

Samantha Stark

7am October 5th, 177A Bleeker Street. 

Sorcerer Supreme, Dr. Steven Strange

“Notice how he took twice as much space for his own name. Classic Strange. If you learn any party tricks, be sure to teach me.”

Sam stood firm in a familiar hallway, torn between working her station by Bruce or being alone in her room. Both options made Sam want to cry in boredom.

The gorgeous, strawberry-blond looked back at her from the frame on the wall. Virginia Potts’ dazzling smile, the delicate height of rosy cheeks, and beautiful blue eyes taunted Sam. Her mother looked effortless, radiant, calm. Hung among all sixty-eight portraits, Pepper still stood out in a crowd.

Sam could see that maybe their eye shape was similar, perhaps the fullness of their lips, possibly their jawline. She could remember her mother’s bubbly nature, a story time or two, the gentle sweep of hair across her face when Pepper leaned to kiss her goodnight. It tickled. It tickled her still, the thought of that kind of proximity. Sam sometimes imagined it was Pepper when the room was dark and Laura Barton called ‘sleep tight’ to her.

Pep put out fires for Tony. She said no to him. She put up with years of one-night stands. He paid closer attention to those women than her, even if momentarily…

Sam imagined what advice Pepper would give her now. Consistency, sweetheart, perhaps, and then he’ll see you. But Pepper herself was all Tony ever truly wanted. Nothing Sam could ever do would matter as much.

Her fingers went limp in her daydream, releasing Strange’s invitation to flutter to the grey floor. As she picked the paper back up, Sam had the urge to rip it apart. This wasn’t what she wanted; this wasn’t worth any of the hell she’d gone through. Sam couldn’t sit behind a screen behind Dr. Banner behind the enormous umbrella corporation behind her father. That wasn’t her place.

She was no fighter, and there was never anything mystical about her. Sam would disappoint Strange just as she disappointed Tony.

“Hey.”

Sam startled, spinning around.

“Sorry,” Bucky added, reaching out to help her balance, “I’ve got you. Almost didn’t find you. You weren’t in the lab.”

Sam tried to focus after lost so deep in thought. “Nope.”

Bucky smiled. “Okay, Sass, I had an idea. You game?”

Sneaking a glance back at Pepper’s portrait, Sam haplessly nodded, shrugged, and shook her head all at once. She never knew what she should do at any given time these days. Missy would know, but Sam didn’t.

The pure joy on her face distracted him from the scalding splatter of beef fat on his arm.

“Look! The grill marks are in the shape of my palm,” Sam exclaimed.

“Be careful with that,” Bucky cautioned to her outstretched hand. Cooking seemed a safe activity for Sam to participate in, one of which he assumed Tony would approve, and it proved equally entertaining to Bucky. Everyone eats, and as Sam pointed out, learning to make her father’s favorite from scratch could only help her.

The novelty of Sam’s skin reaching a high enough surface temperature to cook the meat wore off on Bucky much faster than Sam. Seeing her so excited held its luster though. As always when he’d found her, she hadn’t eaten.

Sam slapped down her first charred patty with glowing pride. I could make a habit of this, Bucky thought, I might have to. Ever since Tony and Bruce panicked at Samantha’s confession of injecting Wilson with Extremis, whatever version of it, Wilson was unceremoniously ‘retired,’ moved to D.C. to work with engineers of projects following his upgraded EXO-7. This left Bucky without a partner and benched to do his own worst nightmare—PR.

Public relations made Bucky long for the days of hiding in Romania, speaking to no one, and sitting alone in an apartment in the dark. That was preferable to the flashing cameras, every so often being shrieked at by an over-excited ‘fan.’ Uncomfortable didn’t cover the feeling, a fact Samantha noticed.

“Saw you on TV,” she offered, grabbing another patty. Her glance skittered away when Bucky looked up in question. “I’m sorry you have to do that. You look so miserable.” 

“I thought I pulled it off rather nicely.” Without the infiltration expertise of Natasha, Bucky was far more transparent than he hoped.

Sam snorted. “Sure. Oscar-worthy even.” She defiantly grabbed a potato chip with her free hand and popped it in her mouth, smirking just like her father when he coined a new nickname.  From what Bucky witnessed, the Stark duo were evenly matched in everything except pop-culture references and anecdotes about team members. 

Sam gnashed her teeth as if she’d been raised by monkeys. She flipped the burger like a pancake in her hand.

Her smugness reminded him how irritating Tony could be, and the surge of indignation caused Bucky to strike back, less playfully than intended. “You eat like a heathen.” 

Sam’s smile fell. She rummaged for small chips, eating piece by piece, becoming a model of dainty and quiet chewing. She changed into the type of delicate bird Bucky recently met on dates. That was not his intention, his valid observation surpassed by a twinge of pain seeing her deflating spirit.

“It’s a shame everyone now is so formal,” he said through a frown, hoping to be more convincing than promotional outings.

Sam furrowed her brow in question but remained focused on eating politely.

“I mean, these dates Sharon sets up, coffee and drinks. We just sit there. What happened to dancing or a hike or exploring a city? It’s stifling to not move around.”

“Doesn’t sound all that bad to sit still,” Sam offered before fully swallowing another chip, shoulders relaxing. “Picnics are outside but you’re sitting.” Slapping down the cooked burger, she tightened again when she noticed her manners. “How many you up to now?”

“Six.” In half as many months but also in twice as many years. “I’m a regular Casanova of the Coffee Shop.”

Sam snorted. “Librarians not doing it for you?”

“Four were—are agents,” Bucky said, mumbling, “but I’m here all the time when not on mission, so talk always circles back to work and clearance level and what she’s allowed to know. Then I have nothing else to talk about because this building—the job—is, unfortunately, my whole life.”

“There’s the door.” Sam pointed with her free hand. “You just said you wanted to get out there.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, “Sharon said that.”

“So nothing sparked? Did you even try?” Sam fluffed the heap of lettuce beneath the cooked burgers. “Buck, you aren’t Quasimodo. This shouldn’t be that difficult for you.”

“She said that, too.”

Sam raised her shoulders and hands, one still glistening with grease, waiting for an explanation. 

Bucky mimicked her gesture. He had no reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched when he heard her call him ‘Buck.’ She’d done it before, but he couldn’t pinpoint when it started. It was nice, friendly and familiar as when Steve said it, comforting.

Sam sighed a few more times while washing her hands and holding up the plate for Bucky to remove the other patties from the heat.

“Odd question,” she said finally, “are you unhappy?”

“What? No. We both…were alone for so long, Steve just wants the same companionship for me that he’s found.”

The eyebrows raised again as Sam waited for more of an answer that never came. Then she set down the plate to say, “I may not have much experience with…people, but I never saw the appeal. I may have been unhappy with myself at times, but no person brought me out of that. If they had, that would be unfair to hang my happiness on them. Personally, I don’t believe that’s what love is for.”

At 18 years old Sam instantly became the wisest person in the building.

“But,” she added, “you also don’t want to end up like my father because that is just sad.” Sam looked Bucky dead in the eyes, saying “even Frankenstein’s monster had a bride.”

“Sam!” Tandy burst around the corner. “Found you. Oh gosh, smells great. You coming down for bowling? Ty’s setting up.” The blond huffed, out of breath from her excitement and race through the halls. Her gaze landed on Bucky. “You can come too if you bring the food.”

“Jeez, Dee, tell him your priorities,” Sam retorted but snapped up the plate all the same. She made no attempt to ask Bucky if he would join. “We’re in. Grab whatever fixings you want from the fridge.”

Bucky couldn’t argue; after making a big deal about not having activities, bowling qualified as another safe and normal pastime. He followed with the chips.

He did not prepare himself for the contrast between the sage wisdom Samantha had laid forth in the kitchen and the crouching form centered in the lane, heaving a ball from between her legs. It was truly painful to watch and yet utterly hysterical.

He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Sam grumbled, planting hands on her hips as she stood up. “You don’t like my granny-roll?”

Bucky could barely get out the words through choked breaths. “Why…why can’t… you just…throw it normally?”

Sam opened her mouth to make some indignant reply but was cut short by a third, neutral party.

“We found out the hard way—” Tyrone indicated a sloppily patched hole in the wall above the pins “—that Sam cannot roll gently into that good lane.” Smiling, his air was tailor-made bombast aimed directly at his friend.

Sam rolled her eyes well enough. “Thank you, Winston.” She returned to her seat beside Bucky while Tandy bowled her frame. “It’s all or nothing with exerted force, it seems, but not the generated energy blasts. Those I can control pretty well now. It’s fascinating, but apparently not interesting enough to research since Tony’s return. I suspect it has something to do with extended direct contact with the vibranium in my skin since this is my dominant hand.” Sam’s rambling ended with a wiggle of the fingers on her right hand before she looked up.

Bucky zoned out somewhere in the middle, but he did manage to keep his expression focused enough that Sam was fooled. See, I’m ok at acting. I’m convincing.

Tandy dance-bowled across the lane, gracefully landing a seven-ten split. Tyrone gave a golf clap and picked up his ball of choice. They’d heard Sam’s theories before. Neither having a scientific bone in their bodies, no one responded.

Sam pushed her empty plate away and tucked her hands into her hoodie pocket.

“Have you ever tried,” Bucky delicately started, “talking like everyone else?”

Sam scoffed, adjusting her shoulders against the hard chair.

“What’s wrong with intelligence?”

Bucky felt the hair on his arm bristle in discomfort. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s sure as shit what it sounded like. I’m not ladylike enough for you? Get in line. I’m not the one who wants ‘movement dates’ and a woman with a lizard pin. Be unique but not too unique. Jeez, with my loud eating, my granny-roll, even my scientifically curious thoughts—” Sam flatlined her hands in a sweeping motion “—then I’m…what? Indelicate? Uncouth? Unfriendly? So it’s my fault my father can’t stand me?”

Unable to stop himself, Bucky pressed his hands up to calm her, replying, “that was perhaps the most unladylike thing I’ve witnessed in fifty years. Please, I meant nothing else. I meant—” What the hell do I mean? “—communication is important to…listening can help friends relate to…common interests.” He couldn’t grasp his point. The smirk across his lips threatened to release his own indelicate snort as he imagined the slow, ridiculous move which he was sure to witness repeatedly.

Sam pursed her lips. “That was the most unintelligible thing I’ve ever heard…” she said under her breath, “but I listened to it.”

Tandy dressed another burger. “Hate to burst your bubble, Cap, but you can’t go back. She’ll tear you apart with logic. Better move on.” She cut it in half, Tyrone claiming the second half on his return to the table. Bucky noticed them move like yin and yang, perfectly in sync.

“Right,” Bucky mumbled. I suppose I can’t, for better or worse.

“You’re up.” Ty wiped the corner of his mouth. “Wasn’t there a dance where the men did just that b-between their legs to the woman?”

There was a dance like that, and Bucky remembered fondly that Miss Dot with her red eyed pin was the last partner he’d had for it.

“You know what that means,” Tandy giggled. “Go show us your granny-roll.”

[Chapter Thirty: Furnace]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (26)

Tony Stark's daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Capacity, part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: Tony works with Namor to pay Lil'Sam's debt.

Warnings for canon-level violence (hunt for an enemy). Also, this was originally written way before MCU's version of Namor came to screen, and the character is more like the comics' version. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 2.5k

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—April 2039

I do not want to die here. I will not die out here, Tony repeated again, watching Namor emerge onto the tiny island beach with a fresh catch of kelp in hand, and for once, a surprise of actual fish. As a superhuman, Namor understood very little about nutritional requirements for ‘surface-dwellers.’ Protein from fish was a treat that night.

Tony had never gone that long in space. Now on Earth, he felt pummeled towards the ground at all times. His muscles struggled; his lungs grew tired. ‘One step at a time’ became a mantra he repeated over and over. Namor, surprisingly, allowed Tony his time to physically recuperate as long as his mind remained in spitfire condition, which was no easy task while cut off from radio contact on a remote island.

The buoyancy in the water helped. His muscles needed the rest. Tony abhorred eating in front of Namor, the challenge being to lift the weight of the food and repetition of minute motion without any aid from his suit, but the King of Atlantis seemed unimpressed by Iron Man’s shaking hands or slow rehabilitation in normal gravity.

Friday used low-power mode to ignite the pile of wood he’d assembled then minimized his suit for his daily physical therapy, using his own muscles instead of his iron-aid. His initial fear of dying due to dehydration evaporated when Namor summoned clean, fresh water out of nowhere into a stone jug solely for Tony, but the island fruit, kelp, and odd fish diet left much to be craved. However, he was alive. Score one for Tony.

“This mother fish had a good life, and I feel you will appreciate her death so you may live.”

Yes, old lady fish sounds scrumptious. “I do appreciate it—her sacrifice,” he replied instead, “thank you.”

Unlike many other nights, Namor joined Tony by the fire, staring into the flames, the stars obscured by thick clouds. Tony would never get even the simplest signal through that mess. 

Every so often, Friday caught a transmission from Banner at HQ, but this pathetically remote, square-mile island couldn’t consistently ping any satellite. If Tony got Friday to boost the signal, he risked lowering his power supply. Namor had made it clear that he should be prepared to leave at any moment if the King received word of Tigershark, and Tony did not want to be stuck deep in the ocean, fighting water-breathers, when his O2 level went critical with little power. Within the last two weeks, there had been three sightings, but the pair had arrived too late.

Tony flipped the fish on the hot stone inside the flame, nibbling on yesterday’s dried kelp.

This was the first time in recent memory that Namor stayed top-side long enough for his hair to dry, curling gently around his ears. Despite the appearance of black locks and black eyes, when dressed with sufficient light on dry land, both were more chestnut, not so different from Tony’s before his hair had gone gray, before he started dying it back darker to stop references to ‘salt and pepper.’ Tony felt close to a panic attack every time someone uttered that phrase.

“I recognize him now,” Namor tossed into the fire. “I know why Tigershark came to Atlantis.”

Tony’s interest peaked though the king decided to extend the drama of reminiscing over a dance of gold and ember. He coaxed the seaman on, “and…”

“Todd Arliss, the sniveling, arrogant, swimmer from your country, regularly swam feats of endurance across unsafe waters. He caused dozens of other, weaker swimmers to attempt the same and fail. For months, areas of the seas were littered with bodies of men, women, and some children who died trying to emulate Arliss, yet he continued. One particular day, during some sort of human warrior show, a boy fell off a ship. That idiot Arliss stopped a professional team from rescuing the boy. He believed his show of strength was worth more than a minute of breath for the boy dying in the water,” Namor scowled while reciting his tale. “I sent a current to stop him. I snapped his spine against the ship and kept the boy afloat until a real rescue team came for them both. I should have drowned that fool.”

Tony remembered that feeling of regret so vividly. “So you made a demon and he haunts you. Been there.”

“You did. You made him, and now you know what—”

He forgot his cover. “Okay, first of all,” Tony blurted, too hungry and tired to hold his tongue, “I didn’t do anything to or for Arliss. That pompous—” He caught himself. “I’ve never met him, but I am partly, indirectly responsible for the technology that was stolen to change him, maybe. And second, he could not have become a water-breathing mutant on his own. We need who he’s working with. That’s the real evil.”

Namor considered Tony’s words without moving.

“Third,” Tony started again more calmly this time, “let’s review what we know.” Which would be a lot easier if I could talk to Banner. This is one of those times where listening would come in handy. If he hadn’t been off-world for so long, he would know the lay of the land better.“Actually, what do we know?”

“Tigershark—Arliss is not intelligent enough to do this alone. If you did not transform him, who did? No being in the ocean would dare give him that power.”

“If I could be on land, civilization land to speak to—” but Tony was stopped by the blazing eyes that met his.

“You will pay your debt, Stark.”

“Yes, but we need info. So bad guy on land needs to be tracked as we do on land. The fish haven’t produced any bubbles of wisdom have they?” Namor bristled, but Tony kept going. “Let me do this my way, and we can both get what we want—” he slapped the cooked fish onto a different rock to cool “—and some fries would be great.”

Honestly, Tony was relieved that things progressed so quickly once he and Friday had access to what Banner and the team knew. He may not have had much time to chit-chat about, say, Sam, but that would have proved a distraction and possibly ruined the advantage of their freshest intel. Banner always had a way with tracking energy signatures; Tony called it ‘romancing the wave.’

Knowing the previous places Tigershark had been in the last weeks, Banner tracked anomalous weather buoy movement around coasts to narrow the mutant’s landfall location. From there, lacking social media or conspiracy theory postings about a shark out of water, he found city sewer plans for runoff pipes, dismissed pipes too small for a man-sized shark to wiggle through, and produced a short-list of convenient spots, such as abandoned warehouses or sparsely populated neighborhoods. Tony had never been so grateful for the well-oiled, well-funded machine that was his team.

Namor loathed hunting on land or spending any significant stretch out of the water. Tony loathed following a scantily-clad water-dude around. The man needed a super swimsuit with a lot more coverage, even climbing out of the tropical waters in between Belem and Sao Luis, Brazil. They didn’t have far inland to go and only four suspicious locations. 

Incidentally, the first location was correct, which left the two shocked and off-balance, scrambling when the door to the condemned building flew off its crooked hinges. The rusted metal smacked Tony’s suit in the jaw, making a toe-curling scraping noise all the way up the helmet.

Tony’s visual feed flickered. “Wild guess, we found ‘em.”

The once golden-haired Olympian emerged tall, now crowned by a sharp protruding fin atop his skull, ribbed faintly up the length of his back. The taut, thick grey skin covering his streamlined swimmer physique peeled away at the mouth to reveal three rows of tiny razor teeth. Arliss was disgusting, but while Tony picked apart Tigershark’s mutant puzzle, the man-creature rushed him with two outstretched arms tipped with heavily webbed fingers and thick nails.

A high-pitched scream rang out from the open doorway. Namor bolted inside, leaving Tony with a ravenous monster from the deep lunging toward him.

Arliss’s flat jaw, squared full of extra teeth and a shrunken, useless tongue, chomped at Tony’s face. Tony clamped his Iron hands against each end of his mouth while Slippery Todd latched around his waist. 

Tony wondered whether Sam had seen Todd like this and if she’d been scared. Had they threatened her to help them? Hurt her? Perhaps they lied, and Sam had no intention of turning a man into this…thing. 

His boot thrusters forced them off the ground a few feet, and without traction from his smooth skin and partial wet suit, Tigershark began to slide. Tony forced his legs into a slingshot arch that slammed the dangling, foreign weight to the ground.

The transformation must have added flexibility to Arliss’s bones. He slithered upright with teeth bared again.

“Namor,” Tony called. “You want a crack at this guy or what?” Tigershark was gone by the time he turned back around. “Shit,” he mumbled. While he tracked the low body temperature of the retreating mutant, his display warned of more than just Namor and his betrothed inside. “Friday, send a heat-seeker and a track-dart for good measure.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Inside, Namor battered his trident against a cage. Two doors in lay the blue-skinned body of a similarly slippery-suited woman. Tony blew the locks between Namor and Dorma until something far stronger blasted him against the opposite wall. Right, Beach Boy doesn’t know how to secure a damn building. Good news though: Friday confirmed nothing was broken.

A lanky, middle-aged man with a fierce widow’s peak in a white lab coat flaunted a comically giant gun, one heavy enough to require both hands and balancing on his hip. The white coat bore a slice across the chest, red at the frayed edges; Namor had gotten a strike in. Rambo waltzed right past the Atlantean king. Sparks zapped across the gun’s wide muzzle. Energy weapon, origin unknown. Friday searched for analysis. 

“Welcome, Mr. Stark, “the creepy doctor, assuming from the clothing, drawled in a thick accent. “I’ve been dying to know. How is our Harvard girl?”

Tony cocked an eyebrow, but Iron Man’s face gave nothing away.

“I was pleased to hear that moron of a king not only failed to kill her, but that my gift has borne the fruit of—”

“Your what now?” Tony half-listened, aiming a bullet at a tiny spot clear of the power source and the magazine within. He didn’t want to blow the whole place with a bad shot. “Look if ‘gift’ is a euphemism for,” an Iron arm swung past his crotch, “then you’ll have to book with a different therapist. Freud is available in hell on Tuesday. Please see the assistant.” Tony pointed, firing a small-caliber to disable the triggering system. 

The doctor’s gun died, sputtering an electric swan-song before dropping. His target remained unfazed by the loss of his weapon, and less fazed still by Namor bolting out to the sea with Dorma in his arms. 

The doctor grabbed his chest wound. “Oh please, Stark. Do you really not know? Are you that out of touch?” The bright white of his smile stood out against dark features. 

Tony ignored him, dispatching two magnetic cuffs at Dorcas’s wrists. He recognized the face now, vaguely, from when Agent Hill handed him a file in a room above the Earth. Doctor Lemuel Dorcas, known associate of Harvard professor Simon Marshall. Sam? She really met Tigershark? She really is mixed up in all this. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” the doctor continued, “What burns at 3000 degrees Celsius? What could stop a tsunami?” 

This guy was the link, the connecting puzzle piece. The glow in Bucky’s arm. Sam has Extremis. Sam is infected with Extremis? No broken bones, no healed fractures. 

The toothy grin shifted in thought. “You know, in a way, I have supported young Samantha’s development more than you yourself have. Does that make me a better father?”

Tony grasped Dorcas by the throat, but the doctor wouldn’t stop talking, spitting a few drops of blood with every few words.

“You fathered her, yes, but I gave her a way to leave you behind. I made her what she is now.”

Tony’s helmet popped open. “The hell you are—”

Spit flew red. “I gave her what she needed.”

“You gave her a virus. You made her sick.” Tony shook Dorcas, pulling against the magnetic restraints.

“I saw her potential, and I encouraged it,” Dorcas gurgled a laugh. “We helped her. Sam has friends now.” 

“You sick son of a bitch, you put her in danger,” Tony screamed so close to Dorcas’s face he could rupture an eardrum. “Now I’m gonna put you in the ground.” Iron Man’s palm pressed into the doctor’s gut with bruising force. “Slowly. Painfully.” He fired, the ringing of the steel bars behind his target echoing off the walls. Tony released his grip on the man’s throat and let the body drop to the floor like a wet sack of potatoes.

Dorcas slumped, hands high and pulled at unnatural angles by the cuffs. His gurgling stopped, and Iron Man left him there to die.

Tony’s ears rang. A sharp pain stabbed him behind the eyes. His head throbbed. There was no sign of Tigershark aside from a tracker inside a chunk of flesh that appeared to be bitten off. Tony dutifully returned to the beach, but he did not go back into the water. 

No one was around. 

His mind turned over and over, his idea of his daughter being rewritten by the second. Child? No. Harvard? Not that type of student. His? He wouldn’t have done this. Would he?

The truth stung him deep inside. Tony absolutely had done it. He put toxic metal into his body, told no one he was dying, injected untested trackers under his skin, instigated a genocidal robot that almost wiped out the planet. He had done all of it in the hopes no one else would have to hurt—that was the lie he told himself. The motivations muddled and shifted: because it helps others, because you can, because it’s cool, sounds fun, challenges you, doesn’t challenge you, makes you impressive, saves lives, puts someone out of business, embarrasses someone. Vanity tied with charity in a bow. Philanthropy, indeed.

Tony watched the water with unseeing eyes.

“If I were an observant man, I would think you had an investment in this beyond my threat.” Namor returned from the sea to stand beside him. When Tony didn’t reply, the king relinquished, “go home, Stark. You have paid your debt.” Namor walked back to the surf, diving smoothly beneath the foaming crests.

“No, I haven’t,” Tony whispered to himself. His helmet shot back up over his face. “Friday, we’re going to headquarters.”

“Flight plan established.” The suit and Tony left the beach.

“Show me all files on Samantha Stark.”

“Yes, Boss. What year would you like to start with?”

[Chapter 27: Pigeons]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#all ages fanfiction #the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #comics namor #tony stark angst

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (25)

Tony Stark's daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Compound, part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: Samantha wakes to find new friends at Avengers HQ, but her uncontrolled abilities make things...awkward.

Warnings for illusions to nudity/suggestive language and some cursing. A/N: Tandy and Tyrone are around Samantha's age in this, so that's way younger than canon-MCU, but their backstory is closer to the original comics. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 3.7k

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—April 2039

 “They called it Regulating,” Bruce announced, rewinding the faint footage from the second floor of the Wakandan Annex Lab, “according to the recovered video research from Aldrich Killian—well, the military, really.” He smirked, looking quickly back at Bucky, adding, “Tony thinks I wasn’t listening, which I wasn’t for part—you get it, he’s very long-winded.”

“He’s not the only one,” Bucky grumbled, eyes fixed on the screen. Bruce played it again.

Two grainy figures in the corner of the frame, Bucky and Samantha, scuffled as she tried to avoid riding the motorcycle. The light Sam emitted grew brighter until his own figure was blotted out and smack—the video fell gray. The moment passed, and the absolute white that replaced it lasted much longer. Eventually, the white faded to reveal Sam standing with her arm out, legs apart and planted. She remained standing only a few seconds longer before collapsing. Her body tumbled in the receding water, covering her in mud, Bucky’s legs slid into the top of frame before catching against the earth. The picture went blurry as the fog of the freshly evaporated sea descended. There was, however, a clearly visible, irregular line where the thick glass of the building’s window had melted in the bottom corner near Sam.

Bruce stopped the footage. “Except when Extremis soldiers couldn’t Regulate, their bodies incinerated themselves and anything around them. This—” he waved his arm through the projection, “—she’s controlling—well, aiming it, I think. And she survived obviously, which means this is something new.” The doctor, jumpy with unanswered questions, uneasy since Bucky first told him they were coming back with ‘complications,’ shuffled over to another desk to pull up a different file. “I keep trying to get a signal to Tony’s suit, but it’s always garbled so far. Shuri didn’t seem to know much about Sam’s physiological alterations.” Banner rubbed his temple. “We are gonna need more than a little—I mean, the bullshit this girl did to herself…”

Bucky turned towards Banner’s ominously lowering voice. He had not heard Hulk’s deeper octave come out of Bruce in years. Bucky watched his friend hold his breath as he willed the sickly green hue to bury itself deep inside again. Bucky could relate to the bloom of anger and the sting of helplessness when faced with the problem of Samantha Stark.

Banner slammed a flesh-colored fist down, rattling some equipment. “I shouldn’t have sent her to Wakanda.”

“Doc, I think she did part of this before we left.” And the rest is probably my fault, he added internally. “It’s not something you could control.”

Bruce peered up at Bucky over the thin rims of his glasses. “In which case, biologically speaking, Sam Stark has been gone for a while.”

Bucky swallowed hard.

He knew that to be true, deep down, but he couldn’t shake Tony’s face, resigned to walk into an ocean with a king out for blood, all for hope that his daughter would remain safe. Bucky had already failed him because there was no Sam to protect, not the Sam Tony knew. Someone, something else lay in the infirmary, and it was his fault. It was Bucky’s choice to take her out before Shuri could come up with a plan. He took advantage of Sam’s interest in replacing his arm instead of her own health. He paid so little attention to her when she needed to be pulled back from the edge; Sam thought it more important to fix her scars then to live, thought fixing Bucky’s scars and self-confidence was worth what was left of her life. How could he have missed it? Bucky Barnes, the King of Self-Sacrifice, the epitome of a life forfeit, overlooked the signs of giving up. 

His gut coiled uncomfortably remembering his life after Hydra before Steve found him in Romania. Bucky spoke to no one unless absolutely necessary. He bartered to live in a shitty apartment by doing maintenance for the landlord. He helped tenants move their furniture and heavy boxes in and out for a little cash in order to buy food. He rotated between food stalls at different markets so that no one saw him enough to recognize him. Most of his downtime was consumed by writing in notebooks, writing everything he could remember about who he was and what he had done since. At night, he planned his escape if Hydra should find him. He even had three plans for his own termination, if the choice was be captured again or die. That life was what he had ‘woken’ up to, and it was barely a life at all.

Bucky tasted acid at the memory. Bruce remained hunched over the metallic table, steadying his breath.

“So,” Bucky tossed into the silence, “we wait until she wakes up?”

“Yeah,” Bruce threw up his hands, “then what?”

Bucky had no answer for the doctor this time.

Sam heard music in the darkness. Her mouth was unbearably dry, the fibers of her skin and muscle braided tight down the length of her throat. It wasn’t just her head that throbbed, but her whole body felt shrunken, clenched against her skeleton. Her brain was filled with fog and fire. 

Sam opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. This was not the Palace.

“Hey,” Sam heard off to her right, turning to see a young blond woman rise from a chair against the other wall. “You’re ok.” The infirmary of New York Headquarters was quiet, as it was when she came to wake Sam Wilson, as it was when she recovered from glass cuts and electric burns when she was four. The music was much faster than those times, heavier, full of angst and screaming but at a low volume.

The air in the room: she could feel it flow across her forearms. The sheets beneath her calves: she could feel each fiber of thread. The input of feeling overwhelmed her, and Sam didn’t realize she was squirming until the voice put a firm hand against her stomach.

“Calm down,” the blond girl leaned over her to say, trying to catch her gaze as Sam’s focus shot to place after place in the room. “Samantha, I’m Tandy, and you’re safe here.” Her other hand touched Sam’s forehead.  

“Why—” was all Sam could push through her desert mouth. She gently tensed her abs to hint that she wanted to sit up. She kept looking around until staring only at each tiny feature of the new face. He used it, didn’t he? The words wouldn’t come out. Missy knew I would need it. Sam mimicked sticking a needle in her arm and pressing the plunger, hoping the question in her eyes made it clearer.

“Sam, slow,” Tandy tried, corralling her with skinny little arms. “Do you want me to get the nurse?” The girl stopped Sam before she could hop off the bed, trying to swat the restraining arms away before two lights stopped her.

Her own arm was red-orange and glowing. So he did use it, and I don’t feel sick anymore. Why do I feel so heavy? Why are her hands shining white? A gentle peace flowed from Tandy’s arms into Sam. The razor cuts of air and the scratch of her throat dulled.

“Are you Extremis, too?”

“No,” Tandy smiled, “something else did this to us.”

Sam’s mind went blank of her questions, filled with the warmth. How long has it been? A few days? How long did the proliferation take? Where’s my tablet? Phone? Where’s Missy?

“What do you remember?” Tandy asked calmly, her white hands growing brighter while Sam’s returned to beige.

“I—I fell in the forest.” The soothing touch smothered the fire in Sam’s mind and body, but the fog persisted. “I think…”

“You fought a ts-tsunami and won. That’s the coolest shit I’ve ever seen.” This was a different voice, deep and forceful, from a young man Sam hadn’t realized was in the corner by the door. He had dark skin that appeared to suck light from the air, out of focus; he smiled, eyeing Tandy and Sam in amusement. He reminded Sam of Lucas for a moment, but then, when the light faded from Tandy, he approached, and Sam saw genuine kindness.

“That’s Cloak,” Tandy said smiling.

“Tyrone,” the boy corrected, and his face came into focus without the odd bending of light. “She’s-s Dagger.”

Tandy stepped back towards the door, pausing her music. “Would you like to move to your room now? Or you wanna get some food with us?” 

Without Tandy’s soothing touch, Samantha felt her throat squeezing, parched. “Water,” she croaked out, “would be good.”

At a table in the large atrium outside the small, residence kitchen, Tandy regaled Sam with a slew of stories the rigorous training from Parker, Rogers, and Maximoff. They were nervous about training with Romanoff now that Nat had returned from China. Sam, for her part, noticed that the tables were no longer as shiny white as when she was very young, when the plastic was new, and there were some chips in the paint around the tall windows. The light seemed harsher, piercing. She sipped, gulped, then chugged four glasses of water before uttering a word. 

Tandy could control emotions with direct physical contact, which is what she did to Sam in the infirmary, and was working on throwing, aiming, what she described as Light Daggers. Sam could practically hear Uncle Peter’s exclamations of awe; he still called things ‘lit’ from time to time, so he was likely having a field day commenting on his young protege’s power. ‘Cloak’ referenced Tyrone’s ability to teleport inside a cloud of darkness, absorbing light and energy from around him. This was why he appeared darker and out of focus in a well-lit room; he could legitimately hide in the smallest shadow. Tandy described him as ‘the ultimate stealth operative.’ Tyrone said nothing of this himself and watched Sam for a long while before turning to listen to Tandy, a girl alive with excitement.

When they started discussing ‘the wave’ and what that meant Sam could do, however, his interest became apparent with his sudden focus on Sam’s response.

“I don’t remember,” Sam shrugged, aware of Tyrone deflating in disappointment. “I’m not kidding. The last thing I remember is falling over in the woods. Pretty sure that was…March first?” She didn’t say why she was in the woods, or what she did to Bucky’s arm on February 28th to sear the date in her mind. She thought she could see a sunset, or a sunrise, when she closed her eyes to think about it, but beyond a flash of sky behind leaves was a horrible ringing in her ears. Sam wanted Missy, who would have wiped her drives by now and scattered. She had to find her.

“Well, today is the sixteenth,” Tandy bubbled.

“Jeez, was I in a coma? Did my body try to reject Extremis?” There was a general clearing of throats in response, as if Sam’s dry mouth had spread.

“Of April.”

Tyrone assessed Sam again. It made her feel as if she were expected to break apart in front of him. Sam defied Tyrone’s expectations by remaining calm on the outside. She blinked but didn’t speak right away.

After her pause, Sam took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, I’m in wild need of a coffee then.” And a couple of shots of whisky couldn’t hurt…

Tandy laughed, jumping up to get Sam whatever she wanted.

These new friends were like nothing Samantha had ever known. They were close to her age, closer than any of the Bartons; they were being trained as Avengers, so they didn’t need Sam’s name to gain anything; and they never judged her for what she didn’t know. Because this whole ‘world of the professional Avengers’ was new to all three, everything was a bonding experience. Sam didn’t recognize most of the music they played or movies and shows they loved, but she was open to whatever they wanted to do. She knew zero celebrities, except for her obvious uncles and aunts.

After that first day, they never mentioned Tony Stark unless Sam did first, which was rare. Sam usually went very quiet when she was about to recount a story involving her dad, a mixed look rolling over her features then vanishing. She wanted to talk about him, but when she tried, Sam suddenly became a twelve-year-old girl again, the great Iron Man awkwardly standing over her, uninterested in anything she said. Sam wanted to feel good when she spoke of her father which meant she didn’t speak of him.

Luckily, Tandy and Tyrone favored making new memories, too, so her jealous, aging beauty queen mother, and his best friend shot by a Boston cop were also not discussed, nor how they became…special. Sam only found out those tidbits of their pasts while she searched for traces of Missy online. She searched as secretly and thoroughly as she could but had found nothing after weeks. It was a long process to hide what she was doing amongst genuine searches related to her training. 

Sam was tentatively mapping server locations where Missy may have pinged when her friend blurted, “can I cut your hair?” Tandy idly messed with Sam’s unkept regrowth. She hadn’t touched it since waking on the floor in Massachussetts after first injecting herself. “You’ve got a ducktail going back here, and it’s not exactly flattering,” the blond coaxed.

“Whatever you want, Dee,” Sam mumbled, lulled by the gentle touch in her hair. She hadn’t had a haircut in over a year, back when Annie insisted on a salon day for her bridesmaids. The incessant, high-pitched laughter, the gossip, and the roar of a dozen dryers had taken all of the pleasure out of someone massaging her scalp.

“Hear that, Ty? Sam trusts me with her hair.”

“You’re s-s-still not touching mu-mine.” Tyrone flipped through some news articles while eating cereal, his favorite afternoon snack. They also didn’t discuss his stutter.

Tandy’s frown was audible, even from behind Sam’s head, and Sam smirked. She enjoyed their banter, all day, everyday.

“Sam, you wanna wet your hair for me? I’ll get scissors,” Tandy said to perk herself back up. “Come on.” Her gaze shot back playfully to Tyrone. “Don’t choke on your Fruit Loops while we’re gone. No one will save you.”

Tyrone brandished his middle finger on his spoon hand. He didn’t look up.

The girls headed off to Sam’s room, since Tandy’s was farther down the hall.

“Not that you have to,” Tandy started as they bounced along, “but you might want to take a full shower. You’re a bit ripe after today’s training.”

Sam laughed anyway. Only Tandy could critique her while making Sam happier. “Yeah, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

“But you’re a punk who needs my help,” Tandy saluted Sam and excitedly trotted down the hall.

The door took her handprint, a newer feature. The tiny twin bed inside cradled the same watercolor blotched comforter Sam slept under since she was four. She took it to the Barton’s originally, but by eight years old, she abandoned it here at Christmas. Thirteen, the year after Sam chose Mistress as a present, that was the year Nat stopped decorating her room with lights. True to form, no one had touched it but her since. The comforter was worn thin, the corners threadbare, but it felt familiar when nothing else, not even her own body, did. 

Sam kept the habit of owning little clothing from her time in Wakanda, though the clothes were not as baggy on her now that she ate whole foods.

She’d never exercised so much in her life.

Since no fighter in the building trusted her to attempt using her new abilities, Bruce proposed Samantha’s more ‘human’ strengths be developed and tested. She spent her mornings running while Big Sam watched and timed her increasing speed and endurance. It didn’t matter that she could do it; she hated running all the same.

Afternoons were hand-to-hand combat with Natasha, a particularly humbling experience since Sam could not think of anyone she was more afraid to hit. Nat may have stopped visiting her in the hospital three years ago, but that anger did not translate to stupidity. They don’t name you Black Widow for nothing. 

Sam flopped a change of clothes onto the bed and popped into the shower, leaving the bedroom door open for Tandy to come back in. She hap hazardously scrubbed and rinsed, never much caring about the relaxing effects of washing. Sam had spent so many hours ‘relaxing’ in a regeneration cradle full of nutrient gel, she could do with never relaxing again. She was quick to throw on a towel and swing open the bathroom door simply to move on to fun with Tandy, but she was no longer alone.

It wasn’t Tandy who’d come in though.

“I knocked, but the door…” Bucky Barnes stood looking around her room, and while she’d seen him since waking up, he had never been inside her personal living space. 

Sam stumbled over the small lip at the bathroom threshold, knocking her shoulder on the doorframe. A corner of her towel fell, and in her attempt to grab the falling fabric, she clenched the wrong end, lifting the bottom of her towel up high enough for half of her backside and chest to hang out.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, shutting her eyes as hard as she could pinch them, awkwardly hunching to push as much fabric over her as possible.

She thought she heard him say “you’re okay,” but the damage was already done.

Sam’s glow of shame spread to her left arm—the only appendage not reinforced with vibranium—igniting the terry cloth towel she held tight. She tried not to pay attention, to hum something soothing and back into the bathroom with some semblance of dignity, but to no avail.

Her unexpected guest ripped the smoking fabric from her body and started stamping it out on her bedroom floor.

Bucky pressed something silky against her shoulder. Sam clamped her arms across herself and cracked a single eye open, hoping she wouldn’t light the whole room on fire. 

“Brought you something. Figured you’d need it.” Bucky’s eyes were glued to the floor. He held out a slinky looking jumper of navy blue material. It touched her skin but still felt cool. 

Sam snatched it, slamming the door between them. 

“Banner found this fabric in the Baxter building after the Four…” he yelled through the wall before clearing his throat. “Human Torch needed clothing that wouldn’t burn up, and Bruce figured so do you.”

She took the time she spent squeezing into the legs of the leotard to calm down. “Does this mean I get to train for real? Seriously?” Excitement replaced embarrassment until she had a thought.  “Wait—you knew I’d burn my…”

“Yes, but I didn’t see anything.” When Sam threw open the door again, he rushed to the hallway door, eyes still turned down.

“What?” The elephant sitting on Sam’s chest shifted pressure to her stomach. She felt a little sick.

Bucky didn’t turn around but must have felt guilty enough to offer his best attempt at an explanation. “Bruce knows the temperature you can reach when you—he calls it Deregulate, but I—you were covered in mud. I saw nothing in Wakanda. Promise.”

In her terror, Sam sensed more was required to embarrass the Winter Soldier. “But…”

“But…I had to carry you back,” he softly admitted. Then Bucky changed the subject abruptly, adding, “your training starts with me tomorrow, and we’re going out. We’re starting slow.”

Sam’s cheeks caught fire, or might as well have. She was grateful Bucky still faced away. The tall, dark haired behemoth at her bedroom door just admitted to carrying her around naked while she was unconscious, then he chose the worst possible wording for his follow-up statement. She couldn’t process all the implications at that moment.

“Meet at the garage at six,” Bucky said, opening the door. “I know you’re not a morning person, but we have a ways to drive.” With one last look directly at Sam, he added with a smirk, “no bikes. Promise.” 

Sam vaguely recognized the Boy Scout’s honor sign in the hand he raised but was too shocked to care. Tandy stood outside, eyes indiscreetly wide.

The blond giggled before she shut the door. “Oh, there’s a story there,” she squeaked, eyes landed on Sam’s new outfit, adding, “and this is…hideous.” Tandy’s immense disappointment released in a dramatic sigh. “At least Ty has some fashion sense. He would never give you this to wear. Why the hell would you need something so unflattering?” Tandy tossed her own hair back in distain before brandished her comb and scissors, smiling.

Sam stood slack-jawed, unable to answer. Her mind raced to recall any poorly worded comments she might have let slip in subsequent conversations she and Captain Barnes had since their return stateside, but nothing stood out. He was perfectly friendly, he never looked at her strangely, and so it seemed to matter very little to Bucky personally that he had…done that. Sam concluded he was mostly sparing her the embarrassment of flaring off her clothing again, this time in front of people who might not be as indifferent. That’s…nice, I suppose. He’s a nice guy…to everyone.

“Sam, you ok? You look pretty pale.” Tandy handed her the fresh clothes she’d set on her bed, subtly nudging her to get out of the fashion faux-pas of the tight onesie.

Certainly not alright. “Yup, just tired from the run.” She strategically layered the regular clothes over the flame-retardant fabric. She no longer questioned why they had babied her interactions so far; Sam was a hazard until she could properly control herself.

“Sit down,” Tandy demanded happily, “we’ll get coffee and show you off after.”

Not nearly as much as I just showed off. Sam lamented no longer having Missy as her personal security system. Missy would never have let this happen.

[Chapter 26: Capacity]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#all ages fanfiction #the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #cloak and dagger

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (24)

Tony Stark's daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Daybreak, part of Book III: Power (see previous or series)

Summary: An emergency hits Wakanda, leaving Bucky to race against the current threat. Tony lands in the aftermath, stunned.

Warnings for descriptions of painful Inhuman transformation/canon-level gore and action. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 3.2k A/N: eeee! We've reached one of my fave chapters 🤩 Hope you enjoy 😘

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—March 2039

“The King of Atlantis and his sentries are still searching the seas for Doom, and our ground intel has garnered no further sightings,” T’Challa finished his portion of the brief in a mumble of disappointment. “I cannot ask Namor to continue to expend resources when weeks have left us no closer to capture or proof of death.”

Shuri nodded toward her brother. “At least the threat of a wide release of D-Lite seems to be handled for now. Romanoff has completed her trace of the tainted heroin from Marshall’s facility after it arrived in Hong Kong and will return to New York soon.”

Bucky remained seated, quiet and watchful. He and the white-haired Ororo were the only two that did not speak. T’Challa’s betrothed sat quietly, eyes turned away towards the windows. Ororo, Storm they called her, always became the most concerned when the weather was beautifully clear. Nature spoke to her, and when nature was quiet, she listened harder. Bucky was mostly distracted by her hair, a silkier, lighter version of T’Challa’s mother’s, and Ramonda had the loveliest hair. Sam Wilson nudged him to participate, but Bucky lifted a palm to indicate Wilson could proceed without him.

Falcon started the hologram, describing several mutated figures captured from across Northern Africa. “Unfortunately, these appear to be victims of the same drug Nat tracked down in China. A portion of the shipment must have been smuggled into a Mediterranean port before we were able to intercept. Less than half of those we’ve found took it voluntarily, but none of those can describe their attackers.”

The whole group sighed in exhaustion. While this was a lazy, mid-morning gathering, mission after mission fighting for a semblance of control across the world left them ragged. T’Challa scanned the information but asked nothing. That part was Bucky and Wilson’s assignment, and the King of Wakanda left it in their hands. Monsters, creatures, mutants, inhumans—whatever you wanted to call them needed to be captured, questioned, and distributed to the proper authority. Criminals to the police, victims to the proper hospital or therapy, and children and young adults to Xavier’s School. 

Bucky was a soldier, neither a babysitter nor a therapist, but witnessing the confused, violent suffering of newly transformed people took its own special toll. When a Dosed woman screamed “Who could do this to someone?” with tears streaming down her face before her insides boiled out through every orifice, Bucky thought of Sam’s apparent “choice” to become something else. That woman died in transformation. When another Dosed man viciously slashed at him with thorny tentacles, growling about his right to be as powerful and deadly as he could manage, Bucky thought of Sam becoming an unrecognizable enemy. However, since that first meal after the team dropped Doom off the coast to supposedly drown, Wilson had conspicuously failed to mention either Samantha or Bucky’s new arm. Big Sam did seem to eye him knowingly whenever Bucky’s thoughts wandered to a new sensation or her condition. Bucky thought to say something aloud a few times, but what he wanted to say changed constantly, multiple times a day, for weeks. So while Falcon remained methodical and cool-headed, Bucky felt as though the unknown outcome of each mission was unravelling him like a single thread pulled from a parachute. At some point, his mind wouldn’t hold up his body anymore, and he’d crash.

”Stark is due back today,” Wilson added after a long pause. Bucky jolted from his reverie.

Shuri nodded again. “We have tracked his progress in the solar system, a few hours at most an—.”

Ororo snapped up from her chair. “Something is wrong.” 

Dora Milaje burst into the room.

“My King, there is…we must go.”

Shuri furiously swiped through her tablet to view the alarm. “The border registers a sea level disturbance.”

T’Challa straightened. “I am not fleeing from an earthquake.” Storm grabbed his arm, eyes clouding as white as her hair briefly.

“It’s not an earthquake, brother,” Shuri stood this time, shuffling across the room, “it is a tsunami.” She said no more before bolting down the hallway.

Without pause, everyone seated rose and rushed out after her. T’Challa ordered transports sent to villages to remove civilians from the ground back to the highest buildings. Shuri sent evacuation instructions to crowded rural populations on higher ground, then divided any remaining areas to select guards and their Kimoyo beads. Falcon got his assigned location and jumped from the nearest balcony. Storm descended to assist the transports heading to the coast outside. The terrain of Wakanda flashed through Bucky’s mind as the orders were given, allowing a sickening thought to awaken: the annex lab sat in a gentle valley closer to the cost.

He spun Shuri around to face him. “What about Samantha?”

“There is no time, James. We must get as many civilians above it as possible.”

“She is a civilian.”

“The cryo tanks should survive the impact. We built them outside of the barrier for a reason, and you know that Barnes. You cannot go—”

Bucky was out the door before Shuri could finish; ‘should’ was not good enough. He took his bike from the platform and raced towards the secluded building where he’d first been stored decades ago when Steve hid him in Wakanda. He had been given the chance to reclaim his mind and his life; he could not let Sam die submerged in a tomb of his own making. He feared her changing, but he feared her death more.

His bike had never felt slower though he topped the speedometer as high as he dared. He could feel the heavy impact of his steps on the soft ground, the concrete floor, the suspended stairs, and finally on the clanking metal scaffold in front of Sam’s frozen, serene face. Bucky tapped the panel to the right of the container. It showed only her unchanging vitals and temperature control; he was not authorized to change it.

“Shuri,” he shrieked through the comms. She didn’t answer right away. “Shuri!”

“I’m sorry, Barnes. I’m not going to expose you both. Get to the highest lev—”

Bucky cut off his comm. He slammed his fists against the clear, solid wall between him and Sam. There must be a failsafe on impact, something, anything to trigger the door. It was only when he stopped beating the glass to pry the seal that he heard the small beeps.

The screen to the right had changed. It showed neon green text against a black screen, like an ancient computer: James Buchanan Barnes? Yes/No

He tapped Yes. Another question: Will you save Samantha Stark? Yes/No

He tapped Yes again. Almost before he hit the response, one more question popped up: Do you promise? Yes/No

What the hell? He tapped Yes, and the modern screen appeared again, flashing the start of the reversal sequence. The vapor and frost seemed to take an eternity to dissipate, and Bucky could see nothing outside of the fogged windows facing the valley. He willed the chamber to warm faster, but a thought sprang up in the back of his mind. If the sequence isn’t complete, or the whole process is rushed, what happens to her? His stomach churned. Time slowed to a crawl.

The fear left him when the glass slid away from a flesh-toned Sam. It had to; there was no time for fear. Bucky gracelessly heaved Sam over his shoulder and fled the building. When the rhythm of his run slowed, approaching the motorcycle, he noticed her moving. The excitement he felt died when he saw her face as she clawed her way out of his arms. Sam screamed, eyes fixed on the bike. What the hell?

“No,” Sam screamed over and over pulling away from him with every ounce of energy she could muster which was shockingly strong.

You idiot, Buck. Her accident. “Sam, I promise I’ll keep you safe. Stop, quit fighting—you have to get on.”

She didn’t relent. For a moment, Bucky thought of knocking her unconscious, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing. Then he saw her skin, orange and raging into a glowing yellow, like a twinkling star up close, but that wasn’t all. Whole areas over her body shone blue and flashed as if the yellow beneath were trying to escape. They still had to move. “Get on the damn bike!”

Dragged forward by his arms, Sam fell to her knees. She’d stopped screaming, now only taking huge rattling breaths, no longer loud enough to hide the rushing sound of water nearby. 

If the wave is that close, Bucky thought, it’s too late, and the water slammed him back into the corner of the building.

The flash of the barrier nearly blinded him on reentry. Unable to reach anyone on comms, Tony jetted towards Wakanda pulling so many g’s, he nearly passed out and crash-landed outside the glistening dome. His body fatigued by Earth’s gravity, he kept the entire Iron Man suit on to prop up his weakened skeleton. The fog was thick, the ground covered in nearly two inches of water that rippled slowly as it slid back downhill. Bit odd for this terrain. He looked around. He had to use infrared sensors to perceive anything over two meters away. His scan showed rubble to his right, two prone bodies, and an warning that one more approached from behind him.

He squelched through the mud towards the bodies. Friendlies?

“You filthy, selfish surface dwellers,” a deep voice echoed from behind him. “My wave should have crushed you.”

Not friendly then, but familiar.

 “Payment is required for your missteps, human.” This time the growl was personal, delivered with acid irritation, but no form or shadow could penetrate the mist. 

Tony leaned down to the first body. Friday sensed a pulse, scanned, and found no other injuries. He rolled the mud-covered figure to face him, wiping hair away and out of the receding water. It was Sam, barely. From a video connection across space, nearly a year ago at Harvard, and a boozy-fog of a wedding reception, he had little reference for her features beneath the caked earth, yet his daughter was laying unconscious in a field with an enemy 15 meters away. He looked at her scan again: no indications of a healed fracture, or any injury at all. Had he been wrong? Worried these weeks for nothing?

“He took her because of you, Stark,” the voice shouted.

Tony spun, blasters ready, struggling to raise his heavy arms. There stood the King of Atlantis, shimmering in the low light of the mist, hardly dressed and dripping wet.

“What did you do?” Tony blurted. His interactions with Namor were more limited than those with Sam. Namor always struck him as an even more arrogant and fool-hardy version of himself, or perhaps just a younger version, except with zero humor. Add in the additional intensity of blood royalty, and King Waterworld embodied everything that irritated Tony.

A long, sharp trident lowered towards Iron Man’s neck. “What have I done? You and that cheeky princess have enabled terror and destruction upon my city. You killed my people.” 

Tony touched a finger to the foreign sea metal to nudge it away from himself and Sam. “I literally just got here, so you’re gonna need to be more specific. Last I saw, you were helping zap a zit off that coast,” he pointed, taking the opportunity to stand and step away. Friday beeped that the second form was stirring.

The king’s nostrils flared. “A mutant dosed with my genetic code—the containment for which Princess was solely responsible—attacked my home. My betrothed was taken,” Namor seethed, gripping his weapon anxiously, “Tigershark, he called himself, and when he razed our palace, he claimed we could ‘thank Young Stark.’”

Tony’s mind went into overdrive, processing years of information told in pieces or briefs all at once: Namor’s DNA, ‘Young Stark,’ the glow he’d seen Sam inject into Bucky’s shoulder. Extremis samples in the Wakandan shipment stolen a year earlier, among samples of multiple mutants. Simon Marshall’s experiments to produced new mutants. Marshall taught at Harvard. Sam went to Harvard. ‘Young Stark.’ No trace of a healed break… Stall.

“Yes,” Tony stumbled before catching his stride, “our lifespans must be very comical down below. You look marvelous for being twice my age, by the way. You know, I diet, but—”

“Enough,” Namor bellowed then advanced. “Dorma,” the king whispered, “deserves justice.”

“And just out of pure curiosity,” Tony added, “what would satisfy your…justice? I’m not up on my Atlantean law—”

“You cheek, as the Princess up there does—” Tony kept his eyes fixated on the direction of the trident, now raised to the hill of the city—“It seems the guilty of the surface can do nothing but belittle the lives of my people. You,” Namor snapped at the newly risen figure behind the rubble. “They call you Captain. Are you the one who stopped my ocean’s advance? I doubt it, weak as you appear after a little splash.” The king smirked.

Tony shifted to see Barnes covered head to toe in thick, dripping muck. “You look like shit,” Tony stated flatly. On any other day, Tony would be thankful for that small victory. That irritatingly naive soldier never aged and still acted oblivious to having fangirls across the world ogling his blue eyes. Tony watched those blue eyes roll across the ground, slowly sweeping back when he saw Samantha’s body a few feet away. Today, Tony was simply thankful Namor had no clue Samantha Stark existed. Bucky met Tony’s gaze, a question silently conveyed and answered in an instant. Bless you for being sharper than you look, Terminator—wait, no arm. What do I call you now?

Bucky raised his hands slowly, stepping away from Sam. “You can deal with me.”

“You did nothing,” Namor advanced savagely. “What good does a lap dog do me?”

Tony jumped in to further distract the Sub-Mariner. “Actually, that one is definitely more of a cat. Very anti-social, gives everybody dirty looks. The original Cap, now he’s your golden retriever typ—”

“How then—” the tines of the trident laced around the iron throat “—do you propose to make amends?” Namor slid his hand up the shaft to tower over Tony, face to mask.

Inside the suit, Tony’s eyes shifted to Sam. She hadn’t moved yet. The helmet split open to reveal his own haggard face to the king. “I can bring her back to you,” he said honestly, “Dorma, was it? But for the record, I did not knowingly help anyone to attack you—”

“Stark,” Bucky mumbled in warning.

“I can offer you…myself, as a hostage and helper in finding this—this Tigershark.”

Namor regarded Tony thoroughly, sizing up his ability and his sincerity all in one raking with his pitch black eyes.

“I know what that feels like,” Tony quietly added, “to lose her.”

This seemed to refocus the King on his answer. “And Wakanda’s Princess will give me the tool to rip apart that murderer,” Namor said finally.

“We’ve got all sorts of tools,” Tony chirped, “take your pick.”

Namor twisted his trident to pinch the suit’s jaw and shoulder. “I require the Cosmic Cube.”

Except that one, Tony thought, holy shit, you are not getting an infinity stone. “That’s…not currently available for loan,” he started, though the trident twisted more, “but Cap here will take your request straight to top brass, yes?”

Tony could only assume Bucky nodded behind him when the scraping metal slid away from his own neck.

“There will be other consequences,” Namor allowed, “once Tigershark is killed and Dorma is safe.”

“Of course,” Tony said, “I’ve heard shark is delicious.” From the look returned to him, Tony knew he’d need to hold his tongue as best he could.

“Humans are disgusting,” Namor grunted, yet tossed his head to lead Tony away. 

Stark sighed in relief for equipping that suit to be air-tight and pressurized when necessary. Tony checked his oxygen supply left from re-entry. The marker read 79%, so maybe he wouldn’t die…right away. The king grabbed the suit’s arm when Tony delayed, a grip as tight as a vice, and led them back towards the sea. Poetic justice if he snaps my arm, Tony mused. “I will not drown you,” Namor added, “as long as you are useful.”

Ah, there it is, the warm tingle of friendship. As Tony shut and sealed his helmet again, squelching through the mud, he hoped Barnes understood to protect his daughter in his absence.

Bucky was attempting to get an arm under Sam and enough traction under his feet to lift her when Wilson yelled from above that he was incoming.

“Sweet Barbecuing Betty,” Falcon sassed as he landed beside Bucky kneeling in the mud. “Look at the crisp on that wall.”

 Bucky looked up to see some of the fog clearing. A black, charred streak defaced the entire side of the four story annex building. Towards the center of the mark were indentation with white ash peeling away in the damp.

Falcon continued, hands on hips, taking a few steadying, wet breaths. “When did Shuri create that bomb, you think? Wish she would have told you about it before you drove right into the line of fire. Your comm wash away?”

“How many did it get?” Bucky asked. 

Falcon shrugged, lifting his goggles to rub his eyes. “No one past that hill at least. We’re checking the coast now.” He finally looked down towards Barnes before panic rose in his voice. “The hell— Is she breathing? Lil’ Sam, can you hear me?”

“She’s—” Bucky didn’t know how to describe it, but Wilson bent to check her regardless. Pulse fine, breathing slow and unhindered, but his hands and her face were too dirty for him to check her pupils. Instead he changed the subject. “What do you mean—what did you see?” Bucky planted a foot against a root in the ground to push him and Samantha upright.

“From up there,” Wilson rattled, eyes on Lil’Sam and using a palm to scrape excess muck off of her, “the water was a strange shape, like it pointed to the city, and then it just…exploded—evaporated really. Looked like a bomb went off. Turned the whole thing to fog and mist and rain… Man, it’s hard to breathe in this. Think she’s having trouble?” Falcon checked her for the third time, looking towards the building for the next safest step. The blackened facade distracted both men for a moment, specifically the bottom of the scorch mark that showed a perfect outline of a human bust. Wilson spun around, assessing the newly visible terrain. They were standing in a wide, shallow hole approximately ten meters across, spotted with sharp blades of sunlight. “You’re gonna tell me what the hell happened here, right?”

Bucky remained fixated on the Annex wall, unflinching. “As soon as I know,” he mumbled before meeting Falcon’s eyes. Bucky shifted Sam’s weight to keep the mud from slipping them apart. “We need to see Banner.”

[Chapter 25: Compound]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (22)

Tony Stark's daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Failure, finale of Book II: Mind (see previous or series)

Summary: Samantha Stark helps Bucky while Tony gets in the way. Who will help Sam? Can she be helped at all?

Warnings for description of injury and amateur medical assistance. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 3.5k

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—February 2039

The sound of her blood pumping rang loud as a siren while Sam bounded down the corridors of the palace. She heard it all when Missy tapped into the team’s comms. That amount of electricity…she didn’t know what his new arm could truly endure attached to original tissue. Sam planned for the worst when she snagged vials from her room, yelling at Missy to go ‘ultra dark,’ as she called it. To think there was evidence on Missy of an obvious mistake, something she’d missed, Sam was too ashamed; Missy would have to hide it, and she was programmed to erase herself if it wasn’t Sam who returned. With any luck, and a little faith in her own intelligence, that would never happen.

Several prominent members of Wakandan nobility and other staff stared as she barreled past, clutching a small velvet pouch. She had to get outside to the landing pad as quickly as possible. Just as she skidded around the corner to the great gallery, the one offering a view of the concrete pad and the fields beyond, Iron Man landed with a thud, indelicately dropping Captain Barnes onto the hard ground. For a moment, Sam hesitated at the door. If she couldn’t fix the malfunction in Bucky’s arm, her father would be right there to witness it. Her chance would be over, and it may have already been gone if this had cost them their fight.

This might be her entire legacy: ruining a soldier’s body and poisoning her own. That’s all Tony Stark would ever know about her, and Bucky would never forgive her. Sam’s arms shook when she pulled the grand door open enough to squeeze through. Shuri’s medical team hustled across the pad from a different direction, so Iron Man stood facing away, calling out what had happened.

The wind took half of his words. “—arm is stuck in—looping the strike—of Thor—” Tony’s suit seemed to jump awkwardly, moving too robotically to be functioning properly. Sam took her chance. While the medics babbled in confusion, unable to get Iron Man to understand or turn around, she jumped over to Bucky’s left. The residual charge had dissipated; he didn’t shock her. She started trying to unbuckle his strapped jacket. Bucky jerked around, muffling screams for a few seconds before letting out a growl, then stuffing what noise he could back behind excruciating, jagged breaths. Sam’s weak fingers stalled on the thick leather and icy metal from his high-altitude transport.

“You have to stop flailing,” Sam tried, “I have to get to the shoulder.” Bucky rolled away, pushing her hands and arms off of him. “Hey, it’s me,” she tried again, leaning farther over his bulky form to grab his face, “it’s Sam. Please let me fix it, ok?” Bucky’s cold, blue gaze landed on her with a ferocity that stopped her heart. He looked at her as if she were sticking a white-hot poker into his shoulder, letting loose a howl that froze her further. Sam knelt back on her heels, terrified.

“You,” Tony’s mechanized voice said behind her, “move away.”

The velvet was soft in her twitching fingers. She had to. Sam looked up to hold Bucky’s gaze long enough to see some recognition and then went back to furiously undoing the top buckles. The leather snapped against her delicate fingers, and she felt her nails bend backwards when she pulled at the clasps. She peeled away the thick fabric to reveal another shirt.

“Really?” Sam breathed, but she grabbed the neckline as hard as she could and pulled until she could she the dip between his collarbone and humerus.  Syringe and needle in hand, she leaned her weight to steady him. “Youwe ill fill uh foo…” she started, holding the cap in her teeth, but the rest was too garbled to translate.

“That’s all vibranium. Your needle won’t go through—“ Iron Man explained walking back towards his charge while the medics shuffled around him. Tony maneuvered the suit to see around Sam, getting a glimpse of pale flesh. “What the hell, Barnes?!”

Over the series of small injections around the edge of his left shoulder and pectoral muscle, Tony could see Bucky’s veins glow lightly. It took a moment for him to realize there was no metal at all. Bucky’s legs stopped scratching beneath him, and his shifting lessened. When Sam finally pulled the needle away, she reassured Bucky with a half-smile, smoothing his long hair out of his face. After a few more seconds, his pinpoint pupils relaxed.

Sam sat back on her heels, relaxed this time. “Ok,” she huffed, “it’s okay.”

Several medics stood or knelt around them now, watching, arranging different implements from their cases, or shouting orders to others left by the doors.

Iron Man bent down to rip the black leather glove from Bucky’s hand—a real, skin-covered hand—then the red and gold face looked up to see her face pointed to the sky, panting. “Sam?” Tony stuttered, taking in her short hair for the first time. “What happened!”

The suit twitched quick bursts of audio and motion. “What did you do? What is that? It looks—are you serious? Did you do that to him? We could have DIED!” 

She tried to stand and back away, but as she rose, Iron Man latched his glove onto Sam’s arm. Sam squirmed against the suit pathetically. The medics ignored them, heaving Bucky onto a hovering table and collectively leaving to care for his recovery.

“Sam,” Tony yelled, clenching in his shock and outrage, but the connection cut in and out. Her name was cut short the second time, and the iron hand shut hard above her left elbow, the same spot that healed after her bike accident.

The snap of her bone was audible. Her eyes widened, and she fell onto boney knees that ached. Iron Man released her arm to let it fall, limp, to her side. Sam hissed in agony. The suit said nothing more. Mark XLII walked methodically back inside to its closet.

With a tickling precision, the hair on the back of Sam’s arm stood on end, a small shiver crawled up her neck, and the pad in front of her shimmered. Sam jumped out of the way as fast as she could before the Bifrost cracked and burned its design into the concrete. And just like that, Thor stood, arms outstretched in smoldering, rainbow glory.

“Victory,” the god of thunder bellowed, golden hair flying in triumph.

The Dora Milaje moved to chant congratulations, and the bystanders turned towards the Asgardian long enough for Sam to sneak away into the tree line.

Tony ripped the headset off and slammed it against the wall. The durable screen only cracked, making it the least broken thing held by Tony Stark. He’d heard it clear as day, a different kind of snap, one that he couldn’t take back, one he’d never forget.

“Boss,” Friday asked, concerned, “are you alright?”

Tony felt entirely disconnected from reality. As many times as he had controlled an XLII, he had mostly been on Earth, once from orbit, never hundreds of thousands of miles away. That was the first time he had even been with his own daughter inside the suit, and you broke her goddamn arm, asshole. He kept replaying it over and over. Bucky knew her well enough to let her handle him. His little girl jumped on top of a soldier to shove a syringe into him. What the hell would she know about treating him? Why the hell was his shoulder covered in skin? Was it made of flesh? What the hell was Shuri playing at? Did the Wakandan Princess, genius that she was, recruit Sam into this madness? Sam was at Harvard, doing what, Tony had no clue, but she was at Harvard Medical…so she would know—

She would know how much force he’d used on her arm in order to break it; Sam would blame him. In fact, Tony could not be sure it wasn’t his fault that the suit gripped that hard. He wanted to blame the connection or the suit, but he knew full well that no lag in connection would let the suit move outside of his mimicked motion. At very least, the suit would never do a more violent movement than instructed to execute. The lag would cause a weakened response, not an increased.

“Friday,” he huffed, “get us home as fast as possible. Whatever it takes.”

Bucky walked quietly over the packed earth between trees in the forest behind his hut. The rough guess was that Sam had wandered out past the goats’ grazing fields, but only Shuri had spoken to him about Samantha’s involvement at all. The commanding scientist had seemed particularly upset by security footage, threatening to raid Sam’s room for information if the girl wasn’t found quickly. Only after all that formality did Shuri lean closer to Bucky and explain that Sam might be hurt. She did not believe the reclusive Sam would let any guard help, and while Shuri was intrigued by the soldier’s new appendage, she sent Bucky off after a few quick checks.

“Just don’t die, and don’t let her either, until I can figure this out,” the princess demanded. “Get going, Barnes.” 

So he jogged off to make up the head start his weak, injured prey had. Since this wasn’t a mission in which he anticipated contacting firepower—or anyone other than Samantha Stark, an eighteen-year-old science nerd—Bucky held no weapon and stayed fairly relaxed, letting his mind wander during his trek out past his home.

 What would the metal of his weapon feel like without the glove? Would the rapid-fire barrel be hot to the touch? Other than the force of Thor’s lightning, would things be painful, different than his ‘natural’ side? Normal things like airflow, fabric, even his own fingers brushing his palm distracted him. He took on a slower pace, obsessed with the touch of bark on the trees and the smoothness of leaves. Bucky had spent so many decades feeling nothing in his left arm that the sensations made him feel heavy, lopsided with the attention demanded by new neurons. He could feel the rolling of muscle fibers over bone when turning his wrist, the gentle friction of prints when rubbing fingers together, and smooth, flat nails when making a fist. He had skin, layers of malleable material over tough fibers and hard bone. Perhaps he should refer to those as a close approximation to flesh, since he knew it wasn’t strictly flesh. He did not understand the science, but this was the first ‘improvement’ given with his permission and not explicitly to make him stronger, deadlier, or more controllable. Sam had worked tirelessly to make him feel more human. Not only had she asked him, but Sam waited for his decision.

Years of the Avengers constantly rushing to add more weapons and protections had left Bucky feeling as if he was being poured into Steve’s old mold of Captain America. Of course, Steve got the benefit of being a pacifist at heart, so his improvements and upgrades were mainly costume enhancements. The Winter Soldier was solely born to kill; it was the one stigma of that past that never washed away. Bucky just killed for the good guys now, or as Tony told him to think about it, “evil suppression.” The Avengers made a lot of assumptions about him in the long run. Whether he really wanted to or not, Bucky was made into too good of a soldier to retire, ever. 

Bucky slowed as he heard crackling twigs ahead. Silent as a ghost, he advanced to see Samantha dragging her feet in an exhausted shuffle forward, scraping mounds of leaves up with her toes. He crept closer. She looked like a zombie, wandering alone without any of her own kind. Sam no longer held her arm in front of her. Unlike the security footage Shuri had shown him to track what direction Sam ran off in, her broken arm hung limp at her side. She walked so slowly that it would only take a few paces to reach her side, and he could see her clutching a small package to her chest with her right hand. Her focus did not find him. She seemed to have no focus at all.

Mid-step, Sam collapsed.

Bucky hurtled forward when he saw Sam’s limp body hit the dirt. When he made it to her, he spread her across his lap, but her eyes were closed. He tried to revive her, smoothed his new hand over her face, her hair, calling her name softly. She didn’t wake.

It took thirty-five excruciating seconds for Sam to regain consciousness. He checked her pulse and breathing. His pleas became commands. Seeing blood on the inside of her broken arm, he searched for where to place a bandage. He smeared crimson back and forth with his gloved hand, but there was no wound to find. He patted Sam’s face to bring her around, leaving bloody marks on her cheek. Her eyes opened slowly, like chocolates unwrapped with care and anticipation.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered. “Stay with me. Tell me what to do. I’ll help.” No bruising showed. Her skin looked a fresh, pink beige. She didn’t look sick, but one bicep swelled to twice the size of the other. She still slumped like a wet rag while he held her.

“Please don’t,” Sam quietly rasped back, “it hurts like hell.”

Bucky gave in to a small smile, though she remained looking off into the sky. “Now will still be better than later, I promise.” He looked around. This was going to be one of the more F.U.B.A.R. medical procedures he would be part of, but there was no better option. She had walked too far into the woods to carry her back without losing too much time. It was also probable that Sam would need some sort of surgery after the break was realigned. Bucky would get Sam stable enough to get to the palace infirmary and Shuri.

“Just do it,” Sam caved, weak but steady. Her breathing caught, labored, and Bucky knew she would pass out again soon. If he couldn’t see what was going on, he needed her awake to tell him.

He laid Sam down as gently as he could, unfolding his legs from under her, and stretched her flat across what was as tidy a patch of dirt and leaves as any other. He climbed over to crouch at her left side. He tried to hold her gaze to see if she was ready, just as she had done for him earlier, but Sam remained fixated on the branches above them. Even in pain and danger, Starks were stubborn as ever.

Relieve some pressure first, he thought, then move the bone back into place. He reached back into his leg holster for a serrated knife. This was going to get messy.

He took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. Once he started this, Bucky would have to ignore protests and screams until everything was settled, and he did not look forward to the amount of hate about to spew his way. Natasha was one of the only women he’d ever patched in the field; she was battle-trained and tested yet still let loose a venom he’d rarely experienced. That was her way of coping, Bucky supposed, but Sam was a desk jockey at best. This would get gruesome.

The point of the knife found the top of the swollen bulge in her arm, sliding in easily enough, and there was little more than a whimper from the patient—at first. The force with which blood spat out of the wound pushed her slippery arm right out of his grasp. It spewed everywhere. By the time Bucky got his grasp back around her elbow, the cut was sealed again.

“You just had to experiment on yourself, didn’t you?” he groaned in frustration, wiping blood away where he could.

“It helped Sam, didn’t it,” came a quiet reply between pained breaths.

Aw, hell, she’s talking in the third person now. We are really screwed. The next slice would have to be bigger and faster. He may even have to hold it open for a moment, if her skin would allow it. So that’s what he did, as fast as he could. 

The terrified, piercing shriek from Sam’s lungs tore at his gut and eardrum alike, and instinctively, Bucky shoved his hand over her mouth, forgetting flesh was susceptible to teeth. Sam’s jaw clamped down on the soft corner of palm just above his wrist. Suddenly, Bucky fought a scream, more in shock than unbearable pain. She let go after a long exhale. He had to cut her twice more before the excess pressure released, when the cartoonish sprays of blood stopped to become trickles. Each time her skin sewed itself back together quickly, evenly, with no sign of puncture. The only signal Bucky had as to the toll all this took on Sam was her jaw relaxing and her gaze slowly lolling off to the canopy of the woods.

“Just do it,” she whispered. Her free arm scuttled and groped through the leaves beside her; probably trying not to take a swing at me, Bucky thought.

He settled his knee into the dip of her chest beside her shoulder. He grabbed Sam’s arm above the elbow and ripped it to the side. The sharp crack sounded good, in a way, effective. Great, she can punch me with this one soon. Bucky felt Sam’s chest press his knee to rise beneath him, so he moved back to her side. The bulge of swelling returned, and he made another cut with his knife. 

This wound, however, did not heal right away, allowing blood to ooze out with a slowing pace. It took a moment for him to understand. When Bucky’s eyes shot back to Sam’s face, her eyes were blank, her whole face lax. His brain exploded into expletives. She’d done so well; he never thought…

He looked over the disastrous, bloody scene beneath him. Sam’s right arm stretched out at an awkward angle with her palm down as if still grabbing for something. A few inches away, tumbled in the dirt and leaves, sat the little velvet pouch, its flap open enough to reveal the cap of another syringe.

Bucky scrambled across the dirt. Now his heart pounded for them both. It could be a pain killer, which would do Sam no good now, or it could be the same serum she’d given to him earlier, which might revive her and might not…

…or it could be more…

He needed it to be more. For the first time in years, he pleaded with himself, with some power beyond himself, anyone or anything, for this to be more.

Bucky tried to slam the needle into Sam’s neck, hoping the pressure remaining might carry whatever was inside far enough into her system to make a difference, but the needle snapped off before it penetrated. The skin there wouldn’t budge.

“What the hell,” Bucky huffed. We do not have time for this, Sam, he screamed internally. No one had ever made such a fuss about staying alive. Of course, he wanted Sam to be alive, desperately so. Sam made him feel human. Sam had him dreaming again, dreaming about dancing and holidays and birthdays. He actually felt more because of her, and not just in his arm. The idea that Sam would never speak to him again felt crippling. We could be having our first argument right now. You just have to wake up… Why did he not ask her more? He hadn’t told her how amazing it was to have his very own feely, fleshy arm back. She didn’t understand how miraculous that was—she was—for doing that, for giving him that. All she had ever mentioned wanting in return was a little recognition. She wanted to be a part of the family she was born into. Sam would want to keep going, to keep working. Wouldn’t she? Or was that his choice?

Even with the broken tip, Bucky pressed the syringe into Sam’s cut arm, beginning chest compressions with his other hand. He moved it to the other end of the cut to empty the rest, hoping somewhere in there was a vein to take the medicine through. He didn’t know how long to keep compressions up. Every second felt too long and not long enough.

Bucky grabbed Sam’s chin, tilted her head back, closed her nose and blew into her mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. As he returned to chest compressions, her arm caught his eye: no cut. He checked at Sam’s throat and found a weak pulse. 

In that instant, he couldn’t stop to think; Bucky scooped Sam into his arms and ran. He ran past his own hut as the sun set behind them, the goats bleating in encouragement and indifference.

In the dark, Sam’s arm glowed a deep, vicious orange, and it was getting brighter. Only in those last strides towards Shuri’s lab within the tower did Bucky begin to fear what he had done to Sam, if he’d made the right choice, if it would even be Sam who woke up…

End of Part II: Mind

[Book III: Cryo]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

The Stark Legacy (21)

Tony Stark's daughter (OC) x Bucky Barnes epic slowburn

Under, part of Book II: Mind (see previous or series)

Summary: Bucky is sedated while Samantha Stark replaces his arm. Doom shows up in Wakanda just as Tony phones in control of his suit.

Warnings for canon-level self-experimentation/medical testing and violence/action. Rated Teen/15+ ONLY, please. WC 2.8k

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—February 2039

After every effort had been made to ensure he was relaxed, Bucky still felt uncomfortable.  Sam had turned up the temperature in her lab, he was covered other than the top left of his torso and the nub of metal beneath his detached arm, and Sam had let him put on whatever music he wanted. While he would have preferred some jazz, the beat would have encouraged him to move, so he opted for classical instead. The tunes may have been soothing, but Sam’s very light, soft touch tickled.

“The scar tissue surrounding your shoulder…piece,” she mumbled, face close to his chest, “I have to make some measurements and re-graft that skin in the cradle. You won’t be awake for that either because—just sit still.” She looked up over her magnifying glasses. “I’m sure you’ve had enough experience being a lab rat.”

“Yes, I have.” He continued to watch her mark length and width of each scar he’d clawed into his own body in the few lucid moments he experienced before the Hydra brainwashing took hold. No one had ever offered to smooth them, heal them; at this point, Bucky thought his pain a simple, esthetic choice the Avengers could exploit when they needed emotional jaunts. He watched how meticulously she worked to perfect him, only after he’d asked to be made, well, normal. Every detail was calculated and thoroughly planned. She ensured as little need for his presence and time. She wasted nothing. Sam looked down when their eyes met briefly. “Are you nervous?”

The corner of her mouth twitched, her brows tightened, but Sam only shrugged.

Bucky continued to pry, gaging each micro-reaction carefully. “You aren’t exactly a doctor. You’ve never had a patient before.” 

Sam’s expression was surprisingly blank before rolling over to type a few measurements, lowering her chin to hide her eyes. “You don’t pay attention as well as you think.”

Bucky balked, furrowing his own brows. “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell right away because of the clothes I wear,” she started casually, finger moving across a few lines of her notes, checking every word and formula against her screen. “I told you about the motorcycle accident, and you saw the scars. I also badly burned myself after Cooper’s wedding when Lucas…” Sam trailed off but continued with the clicks on her monitor. “There’s a regen-cradle in my room—“ her hand waved over to the corner “—and now I can replace your arm with vibranium-enhanced flesh, right?”

“Yes,” he allowed, but she said nothing further. She measured and typed intently. His eyes followed her hand back and forth, every movement of her fingers, her tendons, and then he really saw her hand, her arm, her shoulder until the strap of her tank top. No sleeves. There wasn’t a single mark, no faded scars, not a pucker from stitches. His mind had attributed the light clothing to her increase in the temperature for him. Why had he not realized before? “You did it to yourself,” he breathed.

“Well,” Sam frowned, “I didn’t replace my limbs, but I’ve been my own patient…of sorts.”

“Is it why you lost so much weight?” Bucky could see how thin her arm had become, and when he thought back to how full her face had been at the wedding, he saw a large difference in her cheeks and neck. Her collarbone seemed sharp and prominent now.

“Ongoing treatment,” Sam mumbled, still imputing measurements.  A whirring noise started inside the cradle, and its mechanical arm ran a test cycle of movements.

Bucky watched Sam, so focused on working on him that she hadn’t touched whatever she was drinking when he’d arrived. The giant bottle contained what looked like one of her father’s smoothies but even thicker and more disgusting. Call me old fashioned, Bucky thought, but that’s not food and never will be. Sam must have seen him sitting with a sour face.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to drink that. It’s not for you.” In fact, it was barely even for her now. The nutrition in place of the nutrient baths was not working. Sam knew her condition was deteriorating, but she kept telling herself she would fix it after Captain Barnes was complete. He was her most important project; he would prove so much to her and to the Avengers.

A few minutes more, and Sam wheeled back over to her patient. “You ready?”

Surprised by the lurch in his stomach, Bucky nodded. He didn’t know it was still possible for him to be anxious, excited even. In a few hours, the last visible reminders of his time with Hydra would be gone.

“Tony, that’s great, but we are kinda busy here,” Bruce prefaced his receiving of the data on Annihilus. The surrogate suit that relayed Tony’s movements from his headset in space squatted awkwardly in front of Dr. Banner because its controller was seated lightyears away. “That threat is on the other side of the galaxy. I’ve just had to send Falcon to Wakanda. It seems without the Fantastic Four, a man named Doom’s terrorizing North Africa.”

“Doom? Seriously,” Tony’s voice projected through the Iron Man suit in New York.

A few seconds later, Bruce shook his head. “Doctor Doom, actually, and this time I agree with you on the name. Victor Von Doom, meaning he is either DVD, or VVD, which sounds like a venereal disease—” Banner sighed, removing his glasses a moment. “Could you get back here, Tony? My brain hurts trying to think like the both of us. Your jokes are—”

“Hilarious,” Tony tried, standing back up.

“Terrible,” Bruce finished, launching an eyebrow up in concern, “and I believe your feed has a lag. Not surprising from outside the Solar System.”

“Then where am I the most useful? I’ve only got about two hours before the relay point has to change,” Tony checked the map on the monitor past his headset, a bright map showing his shuttle’s path in blue and the bouncing relays time coded by F.R.I.D.A.Y. in red and orange. “Then I’m dark again.”

“One-hundred and twenty-three minutes, Mr. Stark,” his system chirped.

Bruce shrugged, blandly ordering, “better hop your metal ass over to Wakanda then.” No sooner had Dr. Banner given him the instruction, Tony’s NY suit powered down, kicking on its automated, robotic return to the storage closet.

“Barnes!” 

The banging on the door made Sam jump in her desk seat. “Shit,” she mumbled when Missy brought up the security pinpoint camera to show Princess Shuri in her full war gear.

“Samantha Stark, open this door!” The banging continued.

Sam glanced at the progress bar reading only 89% COMPLETE—it ticked to 90%. The banging stopped. She knew what came next; they’d just break the door down.

“Missy, open it.”

Shuri came in after a moment of hesitation, a suspicious look melting into curiosity. She saw Bucky prone in the cradle first, her eyes following across the messy room to Sam at the other end.

“I thought…” Shuri straightened. “Barnes must come with me now. We will discuss all this—” she waved her hand around, the other wrapping her gauntlets to her chest “—later.”

Sam glanced again at the monitor: 93%. “How about in five minutes?” Sam was not used to being given direct orders and cowered quickly at the Princess’s sharp advance to her corner of lab.

“No, girl, now,” Shuri demanded, trying to get at the console behind Sam.

“Ok, I’ll stop it, just,” Sam scrambled to shut down the cradle and revive Bucky, “he’ll meet you…where?”

“He’ll know,” Shuri squinted at Sam all while her eyes flickered over as many details of the room as she could before leaving. From down the hall, one more shrieked “NOW” rang out.

Trying not to think of all the things that could go wrong, Sam grabbed the small pile of clothes Bucky had set on the dresser. “Damn it,” she breathed. She’d been anxious enough watching the slow pieces of progress, staring in concern between every rise and fall of his chest in the glow of the cradle, and to have her golden opportunity cut short—with so little time left to begin again or think of a new, impressive contribution—Sam was gutted. What if she’d screwed something up? What if Barnes couldn’t fight anymore? What if he got hurt because the arm wasn’t right?

Bucky stirred. Sam’s heart pounded. She choked back rippling tears, so afraid to admit she may be wrong. Before she moved into his view, Sam pressed the fabric of his clothes against her face and screamed. Even on the floor of the kitchen in Massachusetts, covered in scalding water, alone, she had never been this afraid. It felt as if she’d been sitting at a table learning the rules of poker only to blink into the spotlight of world-wide broadcast competition. She was not ready.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered.

“Captain Barnes,” Sam’s voice wavered, “they need you to meet the Princess for a mission.” If she had screwed up, she didn’t deserve to call him a familiar name.

The stimulant the cradle administered was strong with very little grogginess. “Did it work?” Bucky asked calmly. Sam wished he were not so lucid while she admitted their current situation.

“I—I had to stop to wake you. It’s mostly done, but I don’t have time to check anything. Here,” she handed him the shirts as he sat up. “You have to go,” she said, and then quietly, “I’m sorry.”

He stared intently at the door as he jumped off the table. “Ok, I’ll be back then,” he replied monotonously and left. Perhaps it should have reassured Sam that Bucky noticed nothing different, sliding on one layer without a glance to his new shoulder before he was out of sight.

If she’d eaten enough, Sam would have vomited right then. Her stomach whirled about. She felt light-headed. A vicious part of her brain stopped her from rushing after him. What could you do now? What help would you be? You’ve done enough…

T’Challa gave a small nod towards the remote-controlled Iron Man suit that emerged from a storage chamber in Shuri’s lab. The King of Wakanda’s image was projected in rippling nanoparticles activated when Tony’s signal woke the suit. “We are grateful to have your assistance, Stark.”

“What exactly am I helping with?” Filtering out the suit’s vital statistics, Tony’s eyes flickered over the ticker tape of information Friday delivered now.

“Coordinates have been entered for you to meet us.” The Panther stood fully uniformed except his helmet.

“What does Doom want?”

“Vibranium to enhance himself and his followers,” the king responded.

The suit paused, then jerked its neck to the side. “What is he, some sort of cult leader? Where did he come from?”

“Latveria,” T’Challa’s projection fell away to leave the voice speaking through Tony’s suit directly. Iron Man shot out the door and into the sky. “But that’s not where you’re going.”

Tony heard Sam Wilson on the comms demanding, “anyone found Barnes yet? Get him out here. Get—”

“Falcon, you’re fighting again?” Though he trusted the life-long militant man, after such a devastating head injury, Tony allowed himself a fleeting hesitation. He’d work with what he had.

“Stark?” Wilson’s surprise was equal to Tony’s. “Are you topside?”

“It is good to have you back, Stark,” Thor’s booming voice echoed in Tony’s headset, “did you bring the Rabbit?”

“When am I ever gonna be enough for you,” Tony feigned emotionally, then jumped right into assessing the situation, “who else we got?”

“I brought Maximov,” Wilson chimed, “and the Sub-Mariner may show up since Doom is over the Gulf of Aden.”

“Still not much of a team player, that guy,” Iron Man’s comms crackled. Tony hadn’t had a real conversation with Wanda since she stopped offering him his bizarre therapy a few years before. They’d fought together sure, but nothing any deeper was spoken of than the weather. As far as he knew, she’d moved on to spend most of her time teaching mutants at Xavier’s school. Luckily, this didn’t seem like the occasion where lengthy discussions were imminent. “What’s Doom working with?”

“Tech suit and various energy-projectile capabilities, magic—” Sam Wilson replied.

“Strange?”

T’Challa hesitated. “The Sanctum is not answering.”

“Figures,” Tony mumbled.

“On our way,” Shuri sounded off.

“Great, I’ve got a visual from Red Wing,” Falcon hollered, “you guys land at the beach.” The background cut out, and Tony pressed his suit to render-vous faster.

“Is the atmospheric anomaly the target?” Several scans of temperature, infrared, and electromagnetic readings showed for the area where his surrogate suit would programmed to land.

“Tis I,” Thor unnecessarily boomed over comms. Outdoors, the demigod never fathomed the need to adjust volume for sensitive mics. “But I can see the enemy as well. He is over the water.”

“Keep an eye on him. We are almost there,” Shuri answered. Tony shifted the suit’s head to see her and Bucky’s shuttle zipping past at a lower altitude, beating him to the beach. He had to hand it to her: the princess was a remarkable innovator and genius.

The Mark XLII suit landed gently. Shuri stepped out of her shuttle, gauntlets at the ready, and Captain Barnes followed shield on his back, three handguns in various holsters, and assault rifle at the ready. Tony looked curiously on at the hundreds of slender-billed gulls gathering on the beach with more soaring towards them from inland.

“Is this breeding season?” He mused. 

Barnes traipsed over in the sand, directing Tony’s gaze towards Falcon’s recon high above. “It’s actually him.”

“Coast is clear of civilians,” Wilson rattled. “Why isn’t Doom advancing?”

“I don’t know,” Thor replied.

“Guys,” Tony said, spotting a rise in sea level from behind the hovering metallic figure, “is he doing that?”

The swell rolled forward, passing just below Victor Von Doom’s feet, and as it grew closer, a pale spot appeared in the middle of the wave. Bucky braced the butt of his rifle on his chest. Shuri lifted her arms at the ready. 

A massive, bare-chested being broke from the swell of water as it passed under Thor. A shining, humanoid robot fought to release its ankle for Namor’s grasp, but the King of Atlantis, wrenched the poor pawn down, grabbed it by the neck, and ripped its head off in one clean motion.

Wilson admired over comms, “this dude is cool as f—”

Shots fired on Tony’s right. “They’re coming from the water,” Barnes called out, his attention fixed on the shoreline dotted with dozens more emerging robots. 

Tony’s deja vu wrapped him in a vague terror. Just for a moment, Doom became Ultron; the enemy became his fault again. He didn’t know that for sure—whether Doom was born of something Tony started—but all roads always seemed to lead back to him. He’d have to break the cycle eventually. For now, he called back, “light ‘em up,” and flew forward to blow some shit to high hell.

T’Challa clawed his opponents in half like scrap metal. Wanda raised her prey to blossom red fire in between manufactured joints, severing the cables of their insides. Bucky’s controlled burst sniped down target after target. Shuri blew limbs and heads off with shockwaves. Tony played hop-scotch from bot to bot, blasting his boot stabilizers to incinerate where he hoped their CPUs were built in. All-in-all, the pawns were surprisingly weak, but expendability was their purpose.

“Thor, we gotta take out the puppet master,” Tony deduced.

Thunder cracked, Lightning flashed down to Stormbreaker and bolted towards Doom, but their adversary’s metallic shielding repelled the blast back at the beach, and Iron Man barely vaulted out of its path. 

Barnes wasn’t as quick. The full force of Thor’s wrath hit him square in the chest.

“Buck,” Sam Wilson yelled, a bazaar of peregrine falcons swooping past him aimed at Doom while the soldier landed to check on his friend. The hunting birds dodged and distracted the floating figure, tossing flying boots off balance. Doom scrambled momentarily.

The sea rose again below him, but this time, it was all Namor’s doing. The king called forth a swirling mass of frothing water to encase Victor Von Doom, roiling his metal body in chaotic circles.

Bucky’s screams rang over comms with crackling force. 

“He’s sparking my wings. I can’t get near him,” Falcon called out for help, “we gotta get him off the beach.”

“Stark, take him before we lose your connection,” T’Challa insisted. 

The Iron Man suit raced forward, tossed Bucky’s rifle away, grabbing the secured straps holding Cap’s shield and launched them both inland. From Tony’s feed in space, he could tell that Barnes was still dissipating the chain’s force by the flashes of black interference. He had only 25 minutes of connection to return a 40-minute trip. Luckily, if he was right, the super-soldier he carried could survive a break in the sound barrier…maybe.

[Chapter 22: Failure]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#the stark legacy #tony stark's daughter #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #slow burn #slow build #epic tale #avengers fanfiction #tony stark fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #all ages fanfiction

[ronearoundlightly]

Threadbare (Finale)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Five: Reversal Point (see previous or series)

Summary: The big day (and date) has arrived. Tonight is the Hellfire Gala!

Warnings for floof, fuff, foofin', double-floofery, and death by fluff. WC 3872

(art by DonAguillo on Facebook)

You’re nervous, but it’s hard not to be.

Steve sent a text five minutes ago saying he’s almost to the shop, so instead of pacing around upstairs, you made your way down and are locking up.

Above you flutters the reflective blue tarp over the window Steve broke into nearly two weeks ago, but that only makes you smile.

The whirlwind of a successful show—one where not only did you kill it on stage, no one actually died—has brought a wave of press and a lovely flood of new clientele, men who would never have thought to bother with your designs when they’d only ever seen you cater to bulky physiques. It’s an honor (and a testament to the efficacy of Tony Stark’s stupid manipulation) to dress more an more unique souls, but you’ve been left no time to handle the ‘break-in’ damage.

The media buzz keeps you busy enough that all four of your employees have been at work at least six days a week, in addition to finishing the trimmings of Captain America’s suit for this Gala and creating an entirely new gown of your own. People can’t stop talking about the fashionable woman fielding bullets with no training. Lately, the press likes to think of you as the amateur engineer version of Black Widow. You’ve been dubbed the ‘Red Weaver’ by some shitty blog that got traction in the messy aftermath of your show.

You couldn’t really care less. You got to spend the night and day after Fisk’s attack isolated in your upstairs bubble of a studio with Steve Rogers.

The new nickname, however, gave you the idea for your dress. You knew you would want to compliment Steve’s patriotic palette, but since you’re not very well going to rewear the gown from your show, you’ve leaned into the Red Weaver/Black Widow persona and built an ombre gown. It has a cheeky casualness compared to your date’s formal three-piece, double-breasted, matching overcoat ensemble.

[Image offered as example, not reflective of Reader's race, size, shape, or skin tone.]

It’s all very fancy and promotable.

In truth, you prefer ‘Button,’ specifically being Steve’s Button, and tonight that is exactly and entirely what you get to be: a button on Cap’s handsome arm.

It’s Hellfire Night.

There’s a crackle of road gravel as the limousine pulls right up to your curb, but you don’t see Steve first. Sam Wilson pops his head and torso out of the sunroof with a beaming white smile.

“Ah yes, the woman of the hour,” he coos before glancing back down into the backseat. “Close your mouth, buddy. You’re gonna swallow a bug.”

You giggle and approach the shiny black car. The door latch opens from the inside.

“You look ama—“

Thud. Steve whacks his head on the door rim trying to step out.

“Oh gosh, are you okay?” You make it to him just as Steve stands up straight on the sidewalk.

It’s easy and instinctive, meant to be, the way his hands settle against your arms and sweep down to hold your delicately gloved hands.

“You’re stunning,” Steve whispers.

“That’s not a concussion talking?”

“He’ll survive,” Sam yells from inside the car. “Pretty sure he ran through several solid walls just to get to the showers after our run.”

“It was one glass door and I didn’t see it close after Davis,” Steve barks over his shoulder. 

You tick your head up toward your apartment. “You and the windows, handsome. Not friends, huh?”

He rolls his glittering blue eyes playfully, huffing, “Don’t you start.” Steve releases your hands and straightens his jacket. “How do I look? Do I have designer’s approval?”

You shimmy his tie a little tighter. “Yes,” you sigh, “always perfect.”

Steve’s grin matches Sam’s as he helps you into the limo. On the relatively short drive over to the venue, since Wilson is there, too, Steve holds your hand over his thigh and runs his bare thumb over your red glove. You can’t for the life of you pay attention to their conversation, so you gaze back and forth from the city lights to their glow and shadow flickering over Steve’s face.

The wonderful thing about this ‘first’ date is you and Steve are already baptized by fire; in every crisis, you’ve complimented each other. He hopes to protect you but doesn’t treat you like a fragile innocent. You admire him but don’t stand on the sidelines. Best of both your worlds, together, in harmony. (Also, you’ve already kissed so there’s definitely chemistry.)

You’re happy tonight is about him. Captain America has been a pillar of the superhero movement and a cornerstone of the Avengers team for over a decade (and famous for a fair few before that), so you squeeze his hand in encouragement when Sam lets himself out onto the red carpet first.

You can hear the roar of paparazzi in the seconds the door is open and shut.

Steve, in no hurry at all, shifts in his seat and studies your face with soft eyes.

“I don’t want to…” his gaze darts down to your lips and back “…mess up your makeup,” he finishes, tongue darting to wet his own.

You don’t let him get away with just a hope this time, cupping his face and planting a huge smooch square on his beautiful pout.

“Waterproof,” you tease. Your finger sweeps over his not-reddened—but not unaffected—lips, and you wait the extra few seconds for Steve to snap out of his distraction and clear his throat.

“Right,” he breathes. “Will you hand me my cloak and I’ll help you out?”

“Sure thing, Handsome.”

Captain America steps out into a flashing sea of people, a navy blue suit with red pinstripes sculpting his frame. His grey vest, skinny black tie, and neutral, muted shirt all harken back to his original army days, and you offer the statement of the whole getup when he turns back around.

He tosses the red satin-lined, bold blue trench coat loosely over his broad shoulders and holds out a hand for your to take.

Steve’s eyes never leave you.

There are questions shouted incoherently in the chaos, but step by step, you two make it to the entryway.

You jump when you hear a voice much closer and clearer than the press.

“Sheers!” Tony wastes no time holding out his hand, but not to shake. In between two fingers is a folded paper, and he peers at you over his trademark shades.

Knowing he won’t lay off until you answer, you pluck the offer from his grasp, read it, and shove the bit into his breast pocket.

“What is this, Tony?” Steve tries to ask.

“No,” you answer simply. You curl around Steve’s arm and nudge him to lead you both inside.

The billionaire playboy is not pleased to lose, his face falling in a flat line of disappointment, but he doesn’t follow. You doubt that’ll be the last you’ll see him tonight.

Imagine the most extravagant and enchanting display. Stark has put that to shame.

You’re practically blinded by the opulence, but of course, everyone in the building knows and loves Steve Rogers, so even the foyer is the start of a dozen conversations. You expect the shaking hands. You expect questions to focus on him. What you don’t expect is how he introduces you to every single agent, mutant, and superhero to cross your path.

This gorgeous lady…this stunner here…this beauty…

This is my genius date.

Then there’s the response.

“Oh, I know who Tovarich is.”

“Don’t worry! She’s already a legend.”

“I’ve watched every show a dozen times on YouTube.”

“I’d just die to be wearing something of yours!”

Whenever someone gushes about your dress or Steve’s suit, he preens and echos every flattery. Steve’s enthusiasm seems directly linked to his obvious habit of ‘bragging’ about you at work, and he easily folds you into conversation like you’ve always been by his side. It’s not fake. He’s animated, comfortable, and downright loving.

Your heart races with a contact high from so much praise.

At one point mid-mingle in the ballroom, a hand lands on your other shoulder.

“Stark,” you say, turning away from Steve and several agents’ small talk. “To what do I owe—oh!”

Another piece of paper. He’s insistent. He waits with impatient arms wrapped over his chest and stares at Steve whilst you mull over his proposal.

“My god, you’ve managed to keep him the second sexiest man in the building while completely covering his ass. That’s talent.”

You open the paper, shake your head, and return it. “I know. How else do I stake my claim?”

Tony, obviously believing himself the first among sexy men in the joint, checks his watch and grumbles.

“One day you’ll call me ‘Tony,’” he mutters. “Alright, Sheers. You drive a hard bargain. Give me twenty minutes,” and he’s off like a shot, phone to his ear.

Steve wraps an arm around your waist. The gesture is a cocoon of comfort with his long coat still on, his grip gentle and steady, fingers fiddling with the layering of black tulle as it puffs out from beneath your thick belt.

“Everything ok?” he whispers in your ear, kissing your temple.

“Oh yes,” you sigh, moving to lace your own hold around him, “man just can’t read a room.”

You’re not sure when or how it happens—given the blur of hundreds of people spread out through a dozen rooms—but as the event wears on, Steve finds you seats, brings over food to share, hangs his coat over the back of the chair, and folds his jacket as well. He specifically asks if it’s ok to take out his cufflinks in order to roll up his sleeves.

“Don’t want to ruin the look,” he jokes.

Carefully, you remove your gloves and offer to style him all over again.

Steve smiles, leans in, and flips his wrist over, letting you deftly remove the cufflink which he just now notices is an exact match to your earrings.

As you fold over one starched sleeve, he smirks.

“Thank you.”

You’re precise with your task, and at first, he doesn’t elaborate. The venue is bustling, people all around, even a trio who sat at the other side of the round table, but Steve’s blue eyes are only on you. Each exposed forearm flexes to aid your work, and during your finishing touches, he lets his fingers brush your lap.

You’re about to ask what he’s thanking you for when the look in his eyes stops you hot.

Steve reaches out, running his knuckles behind your mirroring earrings and letting his skin graze yours. He fluffs up the tulle around your wide collar. “Just…wanted to contribute,” he whispers in the din of the party, blushing, his fingers lingering across your collarbone.

“Capybara,” Stark bursts from behind you again, “I can see the bottom of the lady’s glass. I know I’ve taught you better than that.”

Steve shoves his sleeve up a smidge higher like a nervous tick and winks at you, squeezing your knee gently through your skirts.

“I was just going to refill them, Tony. Cool your jets.” He heads to the bar in the next room over.

Stark unceremoniously drops into the chair behind you, sliding a third, folded paper over the tablecloth.

“Final offer. I think you’ll find it…tempting,” he says darkly.

You open the note and try to keep your face neutral until Stark also points his phone screen at you. He lets you flick through a string of pictures.

“And this is a done deal?” you clarify. “Not a hypothetical?”

“Yes, why else would it have taken me—“ he checks his watch again “—what?—thirty-two minutes to secure? I’m losing my touch…”

You feel light-headed with the possibility. Tony Stark really has outdone himself this time, and yes, he has finally read the room—read you—correctly. It’s perfect. You’d be a fool not to accept.

Stark raps his knuckle triumphantly on the table once you nod.

“Talk contracts tomorrow?”

“No,” you laugh, biting your red lips, “not tomorrow, Tony. But soon.”

“These glasses—“ Stark taps the thick wire and acetate rim of his spectacles “—now have video confirmation of your verbal agreement. So that’s a handshake deal. No take-backsies.” He stands just as Steve returns.

You’re settled by a quick peck to your temple when Steve leans to place two icy drinks on the tablecloth.

Stark hasn’t wiped the smug look off his face.

“What do you want? A pinkie promise?” you bite sweetly.

“Unnecessary,” he scoffs, “but for reference, I want a coat like that—“ he points to Steve’s chair “—in red and gold, obviously, and now, I leave you with the knowledge that I win. You called me ‘Tony.’”

Stark winks and puffs out his chest, smoothing a ringed hand over his velvet lapels.

“Tah-tah. Oh, and don’t you two dare sneak off before my speech.” He holds you and Steve’s gazes for a long, forceful second. “Excellent.”

“What on Earth was that about?” Steve ponders, nudging his chair under the table but coincidentally closer to you. “Everything alright? What’s he been bothering you with?”

You’re too curious to go into it without some confirmation.

Casually, you pick up your drink and clink glasses with your date, thinking about whether you can call him your boyfriend yet, wondering if you’ve just overplayed your hand.

“You grew up in Brooklyn, right?” you start. “Do you miss it?”

Steve sighs and looks longingly into the distance. “All the time,” he says with a soft smile. “I suppose the neighborhood isn’t the same—maybe not even close—but it still feels like home every time I get over there.”

You try not to let the dewy tumbler slip through your clammy fingers. “How often is that?”

“It’s not even far.” Steve knits his eyebrows in shame. “Too long between visits, but…that separation—not being at that Tower and enjoying the feel of normal life—that is nice while I’m there. Why do you ask? You ever been?”

“Of course,” you shrug, “like passing through. Nothing… long-term.”

Oh boy, you’ve got to steel your nerves. You wiggle into the upholstered seat, taking a few fortifying gulps.

“Tony has just succeeded in recruiting me,” you admit.

“Ah, I see.” Except, Steve clearly doesn’t see the connection. He simply gathers his attention back to you instead of his far-off reverie. “How many zeros did you make him add since we walked in the door?”

Here we go, you think. “Words. I made him add words, but he finally got me.”

Steve snorts. “Did you make him change ‘million’ to ‘billion?’”

This could go very well or very poorly. It’s technically your first date, but you’ve defeated a villain together, spent weeks sharing everything from meals to colored pencils to sunset sit-downs, and might be working closely long-term. If you can’t admit what you want for your future now, when can you?

“No—“ you fiddle with one of your gloves on the table “—he changed ‘billion’ to ‘Brooklyn.’”

Steve stops moving entirely, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand.

“An address,” you clarify. “Tony’s secured me a house in Brooklyn. I’ll have my own place. I won’t live where I work anymore.”

Steve’s expression morphs constantly as if he’s trying to cover up a bad poker face. “That’s wonderful,” he says warily, with just shy of a grimace. “Better than I’ve managed to do in ten years…”

You take a sip and clear your throat. This is hard to fathom saying to Captain America in a building full of people who can do anything and have whatever they want.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say…I know it’s…early on…but—“ you scoot in your seat until your knees touch Steve’s thigh “—you’d be welcome to visit—to stay—if you want.”

He’s silent. The music ramps up in time with your heart rate.

“You know, just so you can have that separation whenever. I saw the pictures. It certainly has enough bedrooms that—“

Steve bursts out laughing, shocking himself if how quickly he claps a hand over his mouth is any indication. It’s a bad time for a fit of giggles, but that’s exactly what takes him over. When he moves his hand, it lands on your trembling one, pressing down into your lap. His huge frame continues to shake, racked by contagious jubilee, and after he’s tried to stop, to calm down, to form words—twice—and failed, you break, too.

What exactly you’re laughing at, you have no idea, but apparently, your proposal of sorts is wildly amusing to your date.

“You’re right,” you backtrack in between nervous peels. “It’s ridiculous. Just forget I—“

“No, no,” he finally manages, squeezing your hand again. “That’s not—I didn’t mean to laugh at that. It’s just…it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He tilts your chin up to force your eyes to meet his.

“I think Tony might be dangling you in front of me like a carrot.”

“I promise I don’t have an agenda,” you offer.

He shakes his head gently, one of the longer strands of his golden hair falling across his face. “No. Just a job. Button sewing buttons in Brooklyn for the betterment of a billionaire,” Steve jokes quietly, playing with your palm, his rough fingertips tracing every line, callus, and joint of yours.

“Your Button,” you add, “suiting up superheroes in exchange for a Handsome fee.”

“Your Handsome,” he corrects, brushing over the rapid pulse at your wrist.

“Well then…” you’re frozen in his endless sky eyes, thirty-thousand-feet high on possibilities “…my Handsome deserves a home, too, don’t you think?”

Steve’s only answer is to lunge, locking his fingers behind your neck to hold your lips steady when he is anything but.

A few younger mutants start cheering and shouting for Cap to ‘get it,’ but you simply smile into his kiss because Steve isn’t at all concerned about your lipstick anymore.

He pulls back less than an inch, thumbs petting the thin bit of bare skin behind your ears. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

Your breaths mingle, but you don’t open your eyes. “It was always real for me, Steve.”

The pressure of his hold increases as you are pulled back to his lips.

“Me—“ kiss “—too.” Another kiss. “Me too.”

Before you drown completely in the bottomless pit of his affection, however, you remember that you two are supposed to stay decent until after Stark’s speech. You don’t know how long that is scheduled from now, but you won’t last lip-locked with Captain America like this.

You push your forehead to knock you apart. “We should—“

Steve shoots backward, at immediate attention. “Go see the house?!” He bounces with impatience like a kid on Christmas morning.

“I—well, I was going to say dance,” you chuckle, licking the taste of him from your surely faded but  freshly swollen pout, “but I suppose—“

“No, you’re right. Of course.” Steve blushes furiously and scrambles out of his chair. “That was stupid. Forget I said that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, taking his hand to be led off to the open floor.

EPILOGUE

“And then Uncle Tony threw his hands up—“ Steve pulls his baby’s legs into the air playfully while happy shrieks ring out “—and welcomed our teammate, the Red Weaver herself—“ he wiggles the onesie back up a squishy little body “—Miss Tovarich.”

He fake-cheers very, very quietly. “The crowd went wild.”

Enormous blue eyes meet equally joyous cerulean.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking, but that was before Mommy was Misses Rogers.”

Steve dramatically heaves the freshly changed baby into his arms.

“Gosh, you’re so big.” There’s babbling in reply. “Another story? Okay. I think we’ve got time for one more…”

He returns to the living room where you work at the table, sketches spread out, a shared tin of colored pencils open in the center. “When’s Abby coming?” he asks.

“Any minute now,” you mutter with a wink. “Won’t take too long to get ready after that.”

“Alrighty!” Steve sits in the adjacent chair. “I’ll tell ya the first moment I knew she was the one.” 

Your child faces you, balanced on your husband’s lap as he eyes your work not-so-subtly.

Steve describes the night of your Spring Show, how he expected to be blown away, how he didn’t expect to have his whole life flash before his eyes.

“See, that’s when I knew Momma loved me for everything I am and ever was.” He matches your sweet smile across the cluttered surface. “She had no need to prove herself. She didn’t even know I would be there. She did it all anyway.

“That’s what makes your mom the best,” he says, kissing a soft, fuzzy head. “She makes the only best for your outsides because she sees who’s inside.” He taps the baby’s tummy. “Right there. She sees beauty in there—“ giggles “—and makes sure everyone else sees, too. The whole world. She knows there is no one mold for everyone and celebrates them all. She lets them shine.”

Steve lowers his voice fondly.

“She let me shine through.”

By now he’s told you many times over, but that show—to see how he was born appreciated and glorified—healed a fissure within Steve Rogers he had not known was only connected by a rotting bridge. What he was made into by Erskine’s formula…there’s nothing wrong with him this way, but so few people in his life have ever proved the original truth to Steve.

There was nothing wrong with him before.

“That’s right, little love,” you lean over to tease your husband. “And Mommy lets Daddy wear all the sweatpants he wants because he’s comfy. He deserves to be comfy…and he looks very good in them.”

Steve chuckles, bouncing his tiny charge with the movement. “And Daddy lets Mommy measure him whenever she wants.” 

You gasp in faux scandalization, placing the gray back in the single, shared case of colored pencils between you.

“Also, most importantly—“ you point a finger at a tiny, button nose and crossed eyes “—in this house, we never give Tony Stark credit for anything.”

“Uncle Tony hates not getting credit,” Steve agrees. “And Momma loves driving him nuts.”

The doorbell rings.

You pop up from the table. “It’s the little things in life…”

Abby takes the little Rogers into the family room to play while you and Steve get ready for one of those stuffy events, the ones that are a little less terrible when you suffer through them together, the ones suffered through in style.

With a final shift of his tie and flip of his collar, you pet your ringed fingers down his chest.

“Making this look good, Handsome.”

“Thanks to you, Button.”

“Anytime.” Steve leans his forehead against yours.

“Always.”

After a few calm breaths, you squeeze his shoulders to head out to the waiting car, shutting the front door of your Brooklyn home, leaving the hall light on over the family photo: the Man With A Plan in blue, the Red Weaver, and their beautiful baby in a pure white christening gown.

A/N: *incoherent weeping noises* I don't even know what to say yet, so I'll come back to it. Thank you so much for reading! 💚💜

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