Bucky Barnes and learning all the new things that come with parenthood! being milk drunk, newborn scrunches, the tiny noises at night!!! I'm so soft for this, please see the vision <3
There isn’t a single, cinematic moment where Bucky Barnes suddenly understands he’s a father. It’s quieter than that. Softer. It seeps into him in the spaces between heartbeats, in the way he reaches before he thinks, in how the world narrows instinctively to the small, warm weight resting against his chest.
The first night home, the apartment feels different. Not louder—though it will be—but fuller. Charged. Every sound means something now.
You’re half-asleep in bed when he sits upright beside you.
“She made a noise,” he whispers urgently.
You blink. “Babies make noises.”
“No, this was different.”
From the bassinet comes a tiny snuffle. A soft, congested little puff of air. Then a squeak. Then silence.
Bucky is already on his feet.
He leans over the bassinet like he’s guarding something sacred. In the dim light, her face is scrunched, lips pursed, fists curled up near her cheeks. She lets out a faint, dramatic sigh and settles.
“She’s fine,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move. His metal fingers hover over the edge of the bassinet, not touching, just close enough to feel her warmth.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure.”
That becomes a pattern. The tiny grunts at two in the morning. The sharp little inhalations that make his heart leap into his throat. The hiccup-squeaks that have him leaning over her in seconds flat.
He learns quickly that newborns are noisy sleepers. He learns that half the sounds that send him into a panic are just her adjusting, stretching, existing.
He doesn’t stop checking.
He just checks more calmly.
---
Days blur together in a haze of feedings and naps and the soft shuffle of his socked feet across the nursery floor. Bucky moves like he’s afraid of breaking something at first. He holds her like she’s made of glass.
But babies aren’t glass.
They’re warm and wiggly and surprisingly opinionated.
The first time he feeds her on his own, he looks terrified.
“What if I do it wrong?”
“You won’t.”
He settles into the couch, broad frame carefully arranged around her tiny body. His flesh hand supports her head. His metal hand steadies the bottle with slow, precise movements, adjusting the angle every few seconds like he’s calibrating delicate machinery.
She latches onto the bottle with surprising determination.
“Oh,” he breathes, stunned.
Her cheeks puff in and out as she eats. There’s milk at the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids grow heavy halfway through, fluttering lazily.
By the time she’s done, she’s completely limp against him. Boneless. Milk-drunk and content. Her mouth hangs open slightly, breath warm against his shirt.
Bucky just stares.
“She looks like she just had the best day of her life.”
You smile from where you’re watching. “She probably did.”
He adjusts her carefully against his chest, letting her rest there. And something in his shoulders softens. Something in his spine unwinds.
“She trusts me,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question.
It’s wonder.
---
He becomes obsessed with the way she curls.
It happens most often after diaper changes or baths. The second she’s laid back down, her knees pull up instinctively. Her arms tuck close. Her whole body folds inward like she’s trying to recreate a shape she remembers.
The newborn scrunch.
The first time he notices it, he freezes mid-swipe of a burp cloth.
“Hey,” he calls softly. “Come look at this.”
You step closer, and there she is—tiny and folded, face scrunched in mild outrage at the cold air.
“She looks like she’s trying to go back,” he murmurs.
Your heart squeezes at the tone in his voice.
“She’ll stretch out more as she grows.”
He doesn’t like that answer.
He scoops her up before she can protest, bringing her against his chest. Instantly, she curls there too. Tucks in. Fits.
His chin rests lightly on top of her head.
“Okay,” he whispers to her. “You can stay right here for now.”
He memorizes that feeling—the way her body molds to him. The way her breathing evens out when his does. The way her tiny fingers flex against his shirt like she’s anchoring herself.
Sometimes he’ll catch himself just watching her sleep against him, counting the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the most important job in the world.
Maybe it is.
---
Parenthood, he realizes, isn’t one big transformation. It’s a hundred small ones.
It’s learning the difference between her hungry cry and her overtired cry.
It’s recognizing that little “neh” sound she makes right before she starts wailing for food.
It’s discovering she calms faster when he hums low in his chest rather than sings.
It’s the way he instinctively sways now, even when he’s holding nothing at all.
One afternoon, you find him in the nursery rocking chair long after she’s fallen asleep. He hasn’t put her down yet. He just sits there, moving gently back and forth, eyes distant.
“You can lay her down,” you whisper.
“I know.” He looks down at her, at the way her cheek is squished against his shirt, at the faint milk-sweet scent clinging to her. “I just… I don’t want to miss anything.”
You understand what he means.
He’s missed enough in his life.
He won’t miss this.
---
Weeks pass, and he grows into it without noticing.
His movements lose their hesitation. His hands become sure. The metal one that once hovered now cups the back of her head with confidence, adjusts her swaddle, pats her back in slow, steady rhythms.
He doesn’t flinch at every noise anymore.
But he still wakes before the monitor even crackles.
He still leans over the bassinet sometimes just to make sure she’s real.
One night, when the room is lit only by the faint glow of the hallway light, she wakes fussing. Not crying. Just unsettled.
Bucky lifts her first.
He presses her gently against his chest, one broad palm spanning her tiny back. She squirms for a moment, then stills. Her fist finds the collar of his shirt.
His voice is barely more than a rumble.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Her breathing slows. Her body relaxes fully against him, milk-drunk from the earlier feed and heavy with sleep. She makes a small, satisfied sigh and melts into him.
He exhales like he’s been holding it all his life.
Later, when he climbs back into bed, he doesn’t say anything dramatic. He just reaches for your hand in the dark and squeezes it.
There’s awe in him still. There probably always will be.
But it’s steadier now.
Less panic. More certainty.
He knows the nighttime noises. Knows the newborn scrunch. Knows the weight of her, the smell of her, the way she fits against him like she was always meant to be there.
And as he drifts to sleep, the bassinet pulled just a little closer to his side of the bed, one thing settles deep and solid in his chest:
For the first time in a very long time, he isn’t bracing for something to be taken.
pairing | dad!bucky x reader
warnings/tags | pure fluff, domestic fluff, slow dancing in the kitchen, teaching daughter how to dance, daughter's name is juniper, pet name for daughter (buggy), no use of y/n
word count | 379
a/n | i love bucky as a dad, sue me. day seven of january jumble scribbles by @societynsoelsscribbles, enjoy!!
january jumble scribbles masterlist
bare feet padded through the kitchen, the floor squeaking with every sidestep. the skillet sizzled on the stove, the city noises drifted in from the cracked window, and coffee steadily dripped into the filling pot.
but it was as if the noises faded away, your world narrowing to a single point: you and your husband swaying to a melody he hummed softly against your ear. it was something old, from his time. though you didn't know the exact tune to hum along, dancing with him still felt like two souls intertwining.
bucky turned, pressing his lips to your temple in deep devotion, whispering, "love you."
when you opened your mouth to return the sentiment, a yawn interrupted your thoughts. you glanced behind you, and your daughter was glancing up at the pair of you with droopy eyelids and disheveled hair.
"did we wake you, buggy?" you asked, scooping her into your arms.
she shook her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "dance, mama," juniper said simply.
"you wanna dance with us?" you grinned when she nodded enthusiastically.
bucky shifted behind you, taking juniper from your grasp. "'ere, i'll teach ya." he set her down, her little feet atop his. taking her hands, he began to move to the same beat that the two of you swayed to earlier.
she giggled uncontrollably, watching the way her feet moved along with his as if it was the silliest thing she'd witnessed. curious, glittering eyes, akin to her father's, gazed up with a question etched on her features. "do you love me now that i can dance?"
your chest felt tight as you heard her gentle words; she must've overheard bucky's muttered confession when she walked in on the both of you.
"now? buggy, whether you can dance or not, doesn't determine my love f'you."
she scrunched her brows in confusion, and he huffed out a laugh in return; he tended to forget how young she was sometimes.
plucking her off his feet, his arms enveloped her. he planted kisses all over her face, causing her to screech in laughter. "love you so so much," he declared loudly before tickling her sides.
and no one could blame you for the toothy smile that spread across your lips, observing the sweet moment.
the morning was quiet, sunlight spilling through the kitchen window and your coffee still steaming as you scrolled through your phone. across the room, bucky was babysitting, which mostly meant sitting cross legged with your two year old in front of the fridge, helping him stick magnetic letters onto the door.
you smiled, half distracted, until the pattern of letters caught your eye.
sH0w ME uR
your brows arched.
then he added another.
“T.”
“I.”
“good lord, buck,” you muttered, setting your mug down and pinching the bridge of your nose.
he didn’t even glance your way, just reached for another letter, that damn smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“T.”
“S.”
“is this your idea of foreplay,” you asked, voice low and half laughing, “or are you trying to tell me our son’s hungry?”
he finally looked up, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “can’t a guy multitask?”
you tried not to smile but failed miserably and then you muttered, “you’re impossible.”
“yeah,” he said, leaning back on his palms with a grin. “but you married me anyway.”
These exude so much next-door-neighbor!single dad!Bucky vibes it’s actually insane. More under the cut. (Reader is referred to as a woman once)
He’s in his early to mid 40s and has full custody of his preteen (or younger; I’m thinking between 10 and 13) daughter who still proudly calls him her best friend. You (late 20s to mid 30s) move into the little cottage-style house next to them one summer, and his daughter immediately takes a liking to you. The problem is that with Stephanie “Stevie” Barnes’ affection comes well-intended, but still childish attempts to set you up with her Very Hot Dad. You’ll casually be mentioning that you need to fix that one self in your house that keeps wobbling and suddenly Mini Barnes is like “My dad is REALLY good at fixing stuff! You should ask him. Also he’s really handsome. Don’t you think he’s handsome?” and she thinks she’s being so sneaky about it so, for her sake, you try to contain your laughter— a feat that’s practically impossible when she does it while Bucky is within earshot because he gets SO flustered. His face turns a lovely shade of red and he starts vigorously talking with his hand the way he does whenever he panics, deep voice cracking mid-sentence as he scolds his daughter for embarrassing him in front of you. He tries to shoot down Stephanie’s attempts by being like “I’m sure she can fix it herself!” only to panic even more because “Not that I don’t want to help! I would be happy to fix it for you! It’s just— you’re an independent, resourceful woman, I didn’t wanna assume—” and cut himself off with an embarrassed, agitated sigh, hanging his head to try and hide his burning face from you, a quiet “I’m making it worse by rambling, aren’t I?” leaving his pursed lips, causing an endeared smile to appear on your own. “No, I think it’s cute, actually.” His head snaps up at your words, a surprised expression on his face because out of all the things that James Buchanan Barnes expected you to say, calling him cute definitely wasn’t on the list. (He rides that high for the next week.)
Summary: Being a dad to three girls is his normal- until he finds out you’re pregnant with their forth kid- maybe he’s getting a little outnumbered, but he’d do anything for his girls.
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: FLUFF. Mentions of childbirth, Bucky being a girl dad, mentions of Bucky’s childhood, 2 time skips. idk just wanted to write about him being a dad :)
꧁──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────꧂
The first two kids were planned. Amelia Barnes, number one, playfulness incarnated, Your mini you. the second she hit one years old, you and Bucky were already trying for number Two. Then came Brooklyn, or Brooke for short. Brooklyn was Bucky all over, mischief, sarcasm, and somehow very good at spinning things. When Brooke turned 11 months old- baby three surprised you. Born exactly 1 day after Bucky’s birthday, Payton arrived into the world, sunshine and lollipops and a love for her sisters.
You and Bucky had a plan of one or two kids- but three? A stretch. Nothing you and Bucky were worried about much. Three beautiful girls. But that was it- three. Your three mini Barnes
Except…
You sit in the bathroom holding a positive pregnancy test. Head in your hands, tears in your eyes as you try to calm your racing heart and shaking hands
Four. Four children.
A 5, 4, and 2 and a half year old already racing around the house, teasing their daddy and making their mummy sticker and glitter filled drawings, but another kid? it wasn’t even close to what you and Bucky had pictured or had planned for
“Meli, you throw that chocolate and you’re dead meat” you hear Bucky say from the kitchen- Voice amused though trying to be disgusted as stern. Then followed with three sets of tiny giggles and Bucky’s dramatic groan afterwards
You take a deep shaky breath and place the pregnancy test inside toilet paper, placing it inside your bathroom drawer and exiting the bathroom, pulling yourself together as best you can.
Amelia races into the room, rushing into your arms as Bucky chases her with a strainer on his head and mittens on his hands- chocolate covering his white singlet
He looks very unserious for a man knows as an ex assassin, soldier, and the man everybody feared as the ‘Winter Soldier’
Brooklyn and Payton enter behind him, giggling with their little faces covered in chocolate and mischief
“I’m a cupcake” Bucky says, looking at you with serious eyes and an even more serious pout “our daughter thinks I’m some store brought cupcake mix, doll”
“She’s not wrong” you tease, picking up Amelia who pokes her tongue out at Bucky and kisses your cheek sweetly “should I start calling you ‘muffin?’”
“Only if you want a full on, chocolate covered, kid apocalypse war” he grins, stepping closer, dog tag somehow unharmed from the chocolate covering most of his body
You smile and place Amelia on the ground, she immediately rushes up to Bucky who watches with a ‘are you serious’ look on his face. Amelia then swipes some chocolate from his shirt, tasting it with a cute hum of satisfaction
“You taste like a muffin too” she says, smiling up at Bucky who sighs dramatically and pats her head with his hand covered mitten
“Can we do caramel next daddy?” Brooklyn asks, tugging on Bucky’s legs, blue eye pleading up at him “wait- no! I wanna do snickerdoodle!” She changes her mind
He huffs a smile and you walk up to him, peeling the mittens from his hands, Amelia happily takes them, then strainer from his head. Payton takes the strainer carefully from you and places it on her own head, copying her daddy which makes him beam with softness
“Depends sweetheart” Bucky says, leaning down as all three of your daughters gather in-front of him “does daddy get the first bite of the cupcake?”
“No” Payton says with a tooth gap smile and a cheeky laugh, Bucky smiles and kisses all three of them on the forehead, tickling them making them all squirm and rush out of the room
The second he hears them dissapear, his blue eyes land on you and he stands, dusting his hands together as if a job well done, He takes a step closer to you, his irresistible grin falling on his tired but content face face as he cups your cheeks with steady hands, brushing one metal and one flesh thumb across your cheekbones
“I never thought I’d be a dad, covered in chocolate syrup and tiny kisses.” He says, eyes taking in every detail of your face “A dad” he repeats, smiling delicately “god it still sounds so surreal”
You kiss his wrists tenderly, he leans in, kissing you slow and soft, taking his time. His lips already knowing every inch of yours, yet he still kisses you like he’s got everything to learn.
For a man who’s known nothing but violence and war, he seems nothing but at peace.
“You think three is the perfect number?” You ask against his lips. Nervously waiting, Hope fluttering inside your chest that maybe- just maybe- he’s more then happy to make room for one more
“I think that you’re the perfect everything. You and those girls complete me” he says, kissing both your temples, teasingly nipping at your jaw “I love being covered in paint and reading night-time stories, nothing makes me happier, Doll”
“I….” You begin, then without warning, tears fill your eyes, You begin sniffling and his eyebrows knit together in a concerned look as he pulls back to look at you “how would you feel about another one?”
“You want another kid?” He asks, chuckling and kissing your forehead “you must be insane, or have baby fever- remember how Payton’s feet were so tiny that you’d cry everytime you looked at her shoes?” he teases “you’re cute, funny even.”
“Well…it’s….happening” you shakily bring his hands to your stomach, eyes glassy and goosebumps covering your arms “baby number four.” You whisper, lip trembling
His hands still on your stomach, blue eyes blinking as he takes in your words and nervous expression, then- immediately- like a magnet to a fridge- his lips are on yours. Easing any nervous thoughts or worried shakes
His lips are soft- careful- yet so firm that it knocks the wind out of you and sends thousands of butterflies wild in your stomach
He pulls back and begins kissing all over your face making you laugh softly, closing your eyes as you let him prove to you that he’s still your husband. Still the father of your children and still your best-friend through every challenge and diaper change
“Four” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hands pressing more deliberately on your stomach as if wanting to feel the baby already “I’m already outnumbered” he teases softly making you chuckle and him smile, kissing both corners of your mouth “how do you feel beautiful? How’s my mama doing?” He asks, pulling you into a loving hug making you sigh in relief- then you feel stickiness coating your arms and you groan
“You’re covering me in chocolate”
“Shhh it’s okay” he murmurs sarcastically, pulling you even closer, his body warm against yours “embrace the crazy”
“You’re ridiculous”
“I’m about to be a dad of four” he reminds you with a smile, pulling back to check the handwork on your now chocolate covered shirt and chest “Ridiculous is my norm, doll.”
——— 4 months later
“Barnes, what are you doing?”
Blinking up at you with wide blue eyes was your husband, hands gently on your hips and chin resting on your now 4 and a half month pregnant stomach
“Talking to the baby” he mumbles, breath tickling your skin, He visibility winces as you check your alarm clock and sigh, rolling your eyes playfully
“It’s 2am.”
“Yeah, but I heard Bub talking” he says as if that makes up for his weird habit. Ever since your first pregnancy, he was always talking to your bump, no matter how big or small. Hands were always touching it- lips always kissing it. Reminding the baby inside you that he’s their daddy and nothing will ever change that
“You heard the four month old fetus inside my stomach talking?” You ask, unimpressed
“Uh huh.” He nods, full seriousness. Fingers splaying out as he presses gentle kisses to your hips “was asking it if it was a boy or a girl”
“You want a boy don’t you?” You chuckle, already imagining a mini Bucky with his pout and brown hair, you tilt your head as if that would give away all his answers “after three girls”
“I want whatever the baby is” he smiles, stubbled jaw tickling your belly “I want a healthy” one kiss “happy” another kiss “beautiful baby, just like the other three Barnes you’ve given me, I want another glitter covered, highly enthusiastic about everything baby”
“Don’t play coy” you grin, running your fingers through his hair, he closes his eyes briefly, loving the contact “you want a boy”
“A boy wouldn’t hurt” he admits “but another little princess? Wouldn’t hurt either” he shrugs “I was also warning the baby about the incoming traffic household it’s gonna be born into, three sisters? You’re almost like your daddy little one” a fond smile spreads across his face
“I still can’t believe that you were a brother of five girls” You smile “all with sisters huh?”
“Yep” he says, grinning boyishly, though somewhere in that smile is a whole lot of grief and sadness. You’ve heard lots of stories about Bucky’s sisters, only small ones in fleeting moments, or when he smelled something from his childhood and loved to tell you about it “if this baby turns out to be a girl, And we have another kid after this one and it’s a boy, I wouldn’t be opposed to that”
“Five kids? I’m divorcing you” You tease and he laughs softly against you “oh yeah- did the car dealer get back to you?”
“About the mini van? Yeah” Bucky sighs, his metal hand moving to trace patterns on your stomach “I’m gonna miss the sedan” he says with a frown, forehead resting on your stomach as if talking to the baby “it’s all for you though little one”
——— 5 months later
9 hours of labour. Bucky running around the hospital at least 30 times to calm down his excitement and joy and lots of screaming and curses later-
Ruth Barnes was born into the world, red, and wriggly, and crying and perfect.
The moment she was born the hospital room went silent- until Bucky let out a sob loud enough to make Ruth scream her little lungs out in shock.
The nurses handed her to you, Bucky cut the umbilical cord, Tears running down his face because he’ll always be emotional when it comes to his girls, wiping his eyes on his shoulders to dry his tears but it only just spreads the tears around his face more.
“Ruth Barnes” he repeats himself like a Periodic motion, eyes staying glassy and hands never leaving your ruffled hair or the back of the baby’s delicate head, kissing your temple over and over again “you’re a fucking miracle, I’m so in love with you doll” he praises you, never stopping his gentle caress of your hair
“Baby number four” you whisper, kissing the newborn baby’s head with tenderness, pulling back as she peacefully sleeps “welcome to the family, Ruth”
“Hey…maybe we do have the opportunity to recreate my family growing up” Bucky says with a fond smile, leaning down to kiss you softly “baby number five?” He murmurs against your lips
“Say you’re joking right now Buck or I’ll punch you so hard” you say jokingly and he smiles and gives you an apologetic kiss.
“Four girls, and maybe- maybe if you ever want to- or not, one more. One more and we name him James if it’s a boy” he says, you see the longing and hope in his eyes and it makes you sigh “Either way, I’m complete.”
“We’ll see, Barnes”
“Yeah” he kisses you, nuzzling his nose against yours before looking back at Ruth with tears in his eyes. “We’ll see”
Bucky’s phone goes of in his pocket. He places one last kiss to your temple before pulling it out and turning it on to see Steve having sent him a picture of him at your house with Amelia, Brooklyn and Payton, all three of them using him as their personal pillow while he babysits them, with the message ‘congratulations, your girls are so excited to meet her :)’ message attached
Bucky smiles at his perfect daughters, then down at his new perfect daughter in your soft hands, and then lastly at you. The love of his life, the mother of his children and the woman he’d move planets for, there’s nowhere else in this world he’d rather be then surrounded by his five beautiful girls.
“You need anything doll? Want me to hold her so you can sleep?” He asks, brushing your hair from your face
“I’d kill for a caramel milkshake right now? And maybe some jam and cream doughnuts-“
“-Anything you want doll” he smiles fondly, looking into your eyes and tearing up again, because how did he get so lucky? How did he win diamond in a bronze world? He’ll never know. All that he knows is that you and his four girls are home, and all he ever wants to be is home. “Anything.”
“Layla, baby, come on!” Bucky hollered out as he packed the child’s backpack with a snack and several water bottles filled with various juices The echoing sounds of a small child reached Bucky’s ears and he laughed to himself as he crouched low and walked down the hallway silently.
“Daddy, come find me!” Layla’s child-like voice echoed into the hallway. “Come on, daddy!”
“Oh where, oh where has my poor Layla gone?” Bucky sang as he pretended to search in the hallway closet for her,making extra noise so she could hear him. He heard her giggling from his bedroom and smiled again as he laid out on the floor and crawled to his bedroom.
“Daddy!” her face was seen from under the bed and she quickly moved from underneath and jumped onto the bed as Bucky stood up and grinned, catching her easily as she jumped off the bed and into his arms.
“Ready, princess?” he asked, tucked a small strand behind her ear as she leaned over and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. He flt her nod against him as he walked out of the bedroom.
Once he was back in the sitting room, he put her on the ground and placed her backpack on her shoulders, making sure the bag wasn’t to heavy for her to carry. Once he had everything he would need fora trip to the playground down the street,he held her hand and walked out of the apartment building. He guide her across the street and took the bag from her before she sprinted over to the jungle gin.
He watched her for several minutes until he received a text message from Steve, alerting him that he was close by. Bucky texted a response and looked up at the sound of a child yelping in pain. He scrambled to his feet as he noticed a taller child on the ground with Layla’s foot pressed into his chest.
He almost ran over to her before she stepped away from the other child and happily skipped over to Bucky, humming a tune he easily recognized as a lullaby that Natasha would sing to her at night to get her to bed when she babysit the child on the weekends.
“Layla.” Bucky raised a brow once she was standing in front of him. “What was that?”
“He was saying that I wasn’t tough enough to push him on the ground. He kept calling me a sissy and that I belonged inside playing with dolls and not in a man’s world.”
Bucky suddenly felt sad at the look on her face before she drastically changed her expression into a beaming smile. “Uncle Steve!” She giddily ran over to him behind Bucky and he stood up and smiled as he noticed Steve and Peggy approaching him from their car parked by the road.
“What did we miss?” Peggy asked as she hugged Bucky in greeting.
“I punched someone!” Layla replied in triumph, waving a fist in the air to demonstrate
“Good girl.” Peggy smiled and kissed her forehead, pushing hair out of her eyes.
“Just like her aunt Nat, isn’t she?” Steve joked as Bucky rolled his eyes.
A/N: Good heavens, I wrote this FOREVER ago. I considered re-writing it (and I still might o_0) but I kind of wanted to keep the originality of my younger self.
---------------------------------
It had honestly started slow, creeping up on you it almost seemed normal, but as time continued to flow, days turned into weeks, and weeks into months before eventually it became so common you lost all track of how long it had been. At first, it wasn’t so bad, the time your dad spent at work didn’t bother you too much, he is the CEO of a massive company, but it gradually became something that hurt. Something that gnawed in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
The alarm pierces the pleasant dream you were having, shattering sleep like porcelain dolls and your eyes crack open reluctantly, squinting despite the dark nature of the room. With a grunt, the blankets get thrown off your body and feet patter across the oversized bedroom to get ready for the day. Despite the voice lingering in the back of your head, you put faith in the fact your dad will be home, but as you walk around the house, finally settling in the kitchen, he is nowhere to be found, not even a note left to wish you well, and no matter how much you ridicule yourself for it, it still stings. As much as it seems so wrong to feel like you’ve been abandoned, the emptiness and loneliness settle in and make a home, drowning you in isolation as the walls of the mansion relate more to a prison than your home.
After finishing breakfast, you pack for school and as you are leaving, the cleaning lady, Mrs. Jones, offers you a sympathetic smile and wishes you well. It is a decent-sized walk to the bus stop, nothing that is unfamiliar, but today it drags on like molasses. The ache grows in your chest, the hollowness of your skin creating nothing but dread of the fact that Bucky probably forgot. Tears prickle at the edges of your eyes and a lump presses in your throat, amplifying the doubts and disappointments. It isn’t like you believe you are entitled to anything today, but your dad forgetting things all accumulates into a mass of disappointment and for him to have forgotten today, it is as though he has completely severed you from his life.
However, all the feelings pause when you step on the school bus, the entire load of students shouting in unison, “Happy Birthday!”
A smile breaks on your lips and a laugh escapes you as you thank everyone, taking your seat next to your best friend near the back of the bus, “Hey, G.”
She throws an arm around your shoulder, hugging you, “Happy Birthday,” she says and you hum in response, feelings now hitting the play button, “Well, hello, Ms. Glum. What’s got you so down?”
A single look and she understands, a frown etching on her face that looks so wrong for her naturally happy appearance, her long, brown hair pulled up in pigtails and her brightly colored outfit.
“He wasn’t home this morning?” she asks and you shake your head, “Not even a note? —Sorry…but hey, look on the bright side, your party is at my house after school and he promised he’d be there, right?”
The edges of your lips twitch into a smile, “Yeah, he even said he had his assistant clear the afternoon.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, he’ll be there.”
“You know, you’re pretty good at this whole, making-me-feel-better thing.”
“Well I had better be,” she says and smirks, “I am a Rogers, after all.”
He’s forgetting something. He swears he is forgetting something. That voice in the back of his head is screaming, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, claws the corners of his brain, he can’t recall what is so important. He has asked his assistant probably a dozen times what is on his calendar, but nothing comes up other than the fact that his afternoon is empty.
“Mr. Barnes, you have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Stark at two o’clock. He is here to discuss the progress of the new prosthetics you’ve been working on,” his assistant, Anna, says sweetly, an official tone masking the light-hearted nature of her personality they both know exists underneath.
Bucky repositions himself in his seat, again, the pull of his suit uncomfortable after so long in it and he sighs, rubbing his temples to help ease the growing headache, “Thank you.”
Anna looks at him sympathetically and tucks the Ipad under her arm, “Still can’t figure it out?”
Bucky shakes his head, grateful for the drop of formalities and relaxes in his seat, offering a tight-lipped smile, “No, and it’s driving me insane.”
“I guess that’s why you scheduled the meeting?”
Bucky nods slowly, distress evident in his features, “If I can’t figure out what I’m missing, I’m going to fill the space…But I was supposed to be somewhere, Anna, I know I was and-and it was important, I wouldn’t have cleared my afternoon if it wasn’t.”
Anna nods, but before she gets to say anything, the alarm on her phone beeps and she offers Bucky a tight smile, “Time for your meeting…”
Bucky nods and grabs his files from the desk, leaving his office as he asks about Anna’s son, Alexander, both of them missing the ding of Bucky’s cell phone that was carelessly left behind.
It is nearly seven o’clock by the time Bucky gets the chance to sit and relax for a moment, and with a grunt, he snatches his phone off his desk and plops himself on the couch facing the window wall that overlooks the city. He loosens the tie around his neck that always felt more like a noose than an article of clothing and takes off his suit jacket, relaxing into the cushions to relieve the ache in his back. He was genuinely beginning to hate the long hours he was putting into his work. It has pulled him from common pleasures, friends, and worst of all from his daughter. A smile breaks onto his lips when he realizes that now that he’s finished at the office, he can go home and spend time with you, just hang out and have a conversation that isn’t rushed while he tries to finish work or interrupted by constant barrage of phone calls. It has been a while since he has come home early and—
The breath knocks from Bucky’s lungs and his face pales into a white sheet, regret instantly eating his heart and feasting on his existence, swallowing him whole as he shoots out of his seat and checks his phone. His heart drops when he unlocks his screen and finds dozens of texts from his friends, each one ripping him apart bit by bit.
Steve, 1:47: Don’t forget about the party.
Sam, 1:51: Y.n is going to be at Steve’s right after school.
Natasha, 2:11: Don’t you dare be late, you promised her.
Sam, 3:43: She’s going to be here any minute, where are you?
Steve, 3:57: y.n’s here, you had better be close man.
Peggy, 4:17: James Buchanan Barnes, where are you?
Sam, 4:30: She’s looking for you.
Natasha, 5:20: I swear, Barnes, you promised her.
Steve, 5:36: She keeps pushing back the time to cut the cake, keeps saying you promised you’d be here. Where the hell are you?
Steve, 6:02: We’re cutting the cake. She looks upset, Buck.
Peggy: 6:22: I’m going to kick your ass.
Sam, 6:27: You’re an asshole.
Natasha, 6:34: I’m going to kill you.
Steve, 6:52: You fucked up.
—-
Panic surges through Bucky’s chest, constricting his lungs until he can’t breathe, suffocating him on his mistake. He forgot. He snatches his keys from his desk and barrels down out the door and down the hallway, smashing the arrow for the elevator so hard he almost fears he broke the button. His feet tap anxiously as he waits for the doors to open and jumps inside, pressing for the parking garage and for the first time hating the fact he was on the top floor. His fingers grow numb, energy spiraling under his skin as he continuously ridicules himself, venom spewing in thoughts. He forgot.
Of all the things, appointments, dates, meetings, emails, he forgot his daughter’s birthday. His ray of sunshine in the chaos of his life, and he didn’t even call you. He left nothing for you to wake up to, to surprise you, not a video, a letter, your gift that is still neatly wrapped under his bed with a little bow strung up on top, nothing.
At last the elevator opens and he shoots out, racing to his car and when it finally starts, he is speeding out into the streets. Traffic lights become nothing but a nuisance, each one getting in the way and driving him further insane as each one drags on the time it takes to get to you and his apology. By the time he arrives at Steve’s place, dread seeps in his veins, twisting his stomach painfully and he hesitates as he walks up the front porch, barely making it to the top stair when the door burst open and angry steps pound on wood.
“James Buchanan Barnes, where the hell have you been?” Peggy’s stern voice cuts him deep and her eyes filled with fire, poisonous daggers carving him open with a single glance. However, a worried Steve is right behind her, wrapping an arm around her swollen waist in an attempt to calm his pregnant wife. Not a moment later, Sam and his wife come out followed by Natasha and Bruce, each one steeled over with icy glares and Bucky can’t meet their eyes fully.
“You promised her you would be here, Buck,” Sam speaks up, his tone laced over in anger and disappointment.
Bucky finally lifts his head and they all see the distress written on his features, the conflict etched in the lining of his face, and they know there is nothing they can say that would be worse than what he’s already told himself. Their eyes soften slightly, anger diming into sympathy even though licks of flame still simmer underneath.
“Where is she?” Bucky asks, voice low and dripping with every ounce of shame that heaps in his thoughts.
Just as he finishes speaking, the door opens and you walk out with your backpack thrown over your shoulder, eyes trained on the ground as your friends come out and stand behind you, each one’s face set in silent displeasure. He was hoping for your anger, a cold shoulder for a week until he can make it up to you, maybe a couple verbal slaps that he would let slide only because he messed up so bad, but nothing prepared him for the disappointment resting on your shoulders like the weight of the world was upon them, the sadness lingering in your features like a stab in his gut.
“Hey, Sweetie,” he says hesitantly.
Your head tilts up and you offer him a tight-lipped smile, taking in the fact that he is right in front of you, but it’s like an earthquake has split the ground between the two of you, driving a canyon so wide he looks like a speck in the distance, “Hey, Daddy.”
There is a moment of silence as Bucky tries to find the right words, but you interrupt him the second he starts, “Sweetheart—”
“I guess it’s time to go?”
Bucky freezes, then nods slowly, “Yeah…”
He watches as you hug everyone goodbye and thank them for coming and for putting the party together, then he helps you put your gifts in the car before you both take off for the trip home.
The whole car ride is quiet, your head pressed against the glass as you avoid looking at your dad, a deep rip in your heart that you don’t know how to mend. You stare at your reflection in the window, tracing the drops of rain with your finger as the beginning of the storm drops its tears as your own blend with them on the glass. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see your dad glance to you every few minutes, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as he clenches it tightly and guilt twists in your stomach because you know he didn’t mean to forget. He planned on being there, he said he would and he tried, but the abandonment tightens around your skin relentlessly because he wasn’t. His words and promises amount to nothing and his apologies are so common they’ve lost their meaning. He tries, he promises, but every time you get your heart broken because no matter how many times he says he will be there for you, he isn’t.
~~~
The front door clicks shut behind your dad as you quickly make your way to your bedroom, not wanting to hear the meaningless apology you know is coming, but his voice breaks the tense silence, “Sweetheart?”
Bucky watches as your entire body stiffens then drops from exhaustion, your back facing him and his heart breaks with the shaky tone of your voice, “It’s fine, Dad.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry, I left my phone in my office and I had a meeting and I—”
“Forgot,” you interrupt, or rather finish his sentence considering he couldn’t manage to do it himself and Bucky’s shoulders fall, apologies igniting on the tip of his tongue, but not one seeming proper enough to resolve the pain he caused.
“I’m sorry work kept—"
“It’s always work,” you mutter as you spin around to face him and Bucky wishes you were angry, screaming at him, but the tears streaming down your face tell nothing other than fact that he hurt you, “Ceremonies, recitals, performances, daddy-daughter dances, you forget all of it!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I promise I’m going to make it up to you— ”
“I don’t want you to make it up to me,” you say, voice rising in desperation and Bucky stills, shocked and afraid of the damage he’s done as your lip trembles, “I just want you to be there for me,” you whisper and Bucky cracks, “I’ve tried stitching us back together, I’ve given you chance after chance after chance, but you threw them away like I don’t even matter to you.”
The cry that leaves Bucky’s lips twists between a sob and agony as he marches over to you and grips your shoulders firmly, “Don’t you ever doubt that I love you, you know that I do,” he says and his voice softens as he lifts a hand to hold the side of your face and wipe the tears that keep falling from your eyes, “You know that I do.”
His words collide like a plea on your ears as he begs and prays for you to never doubt something as constant as his love, but his world crumbles with the broken whisper of your voice, “Do I?”
Bucky’s heart falters as you slip out of his fingers and walk away, the lump in his throat choking him as he tries to call out to you to come back, but not a sound escapes his lips. He tries to follow you, wrap you in his arms and tell you how much he loves you until you have no other choice but to believe him, but his feet won’t move. He is stuck in place as his heart twists painfully in his chest, regret swelling and drowning him as he collapses on the couch and hangs his head into his hands.
What has he done?
The lump in Bucky’s throat breaks into tears as they burn and glaze over, his heart unable to carry the weight of the fear and abandonment in your eyes. All his success, all his popularity he gained while losing you, what could it do to fix what he had broken? The moments he took when you never noticed, sneaking into your room before he left for work to tell you goodbye without waking you up, a light kiss on the forehead before he tucks you in and leaves. The times he’s called your school just to make sure you are there and doing well. The times he’s called the parents of your friends to ask if they have seen anything different in your behavior when he gets worried about you. He realizes it doesn’t amount to anything because he was never there for you. He wasn’t there for your dance recitals, or the various talent shows at your school, he missed seeing your award ceremony when you got ranked highest in your class along with several other students. He didn’t show up to take you to your father-daughter dance, and when he came home, he found you fast asleep on the couch all dressed up in a 1930’s outfit, dolled up all pretty and he has disappointed you yet again. All his promises that he’s broken he can’t repair. He didn’t even take time to come home and talk to you at night, instead coming in late when you’ve already fallen asleep.
He has abandoned you, broken the trust that should never have been in the situation to question. He’s left you wondering how much he loves you and the weight of it floods over him and suffocates him for a time he can’t even process. Minutes blend together as memories resurface from the years and how much he has changed. The person he used to be and the person he is, one in the same, only with shifted priorities. The life he used to have gnawing at the edges of his heart because he lost it, he lost all of it, and for what?
Time blends together until he rises from his seat and walks to your room, knocking lightly and hesitating before walking in to find you sitting on your bed wrapped up in blankets and surrounded by pillows, eyes still brimmed red with tears. The silence is thick as he steps in slowly, his heart heavy as he glances around the room. When did you grow up? When did dolls get replaced with posters, bows with curls? How could he have missed it? How could he have not seen his baby girl grow up?
When his gaze sets on a once-filled dresser top, his confusion persuades him to speak, “What happened to your trophies and the ribbons?” he asks quietly as he tries to mend the ties between the two of you.
Your knees curl against your chest as you avoid his curious gaze, mumbling softly, “I threw ‘em away…a long time ago.”
“What?” Bucky asks instantly, walking over to you and sitting on the edge of your bed as you keep your gaze on anything but him, guilt settling in your chest, a thread of shame weaving into the mix for feeling so alone, “Why would you do that?”
“I guess I just figured what’s the point?”
“I thought you loved it: violin, piano, volleyball, all of it, you would always talk about it. You’d always get excited when you got to play,” Bucky asks as he scoots closer, moving a couple pillows to get better access to you.
“I mean, yeah, I enjoyed it all, but…” you trail off, biting at your lip and Bucky settles right next to you and places a hand on your knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles as you fidget with your fingers nervously.
Bucky’s brows furrow slightly, a worried tint in his tone as he speaks, “But, what?”
“But I guess I just thought—I thought that maybe if I was good enough that you’d—that maybe you would show up…”
Bucky’s heart sinks as he immediately starts shaking his head, “Sweetheart, Baby—look at me,” he says quickly, cupping your cheek and directing your eyes to his, “You don’t ever have to earn my love or my attention—”
“But—”
“No buts, you never have to earn that,” he insists and his voice cracks slightly as he continues, “I give that to you freely. I do love you, Sweetheart, I know I’ve been a real shitty dad recently, but I do love you. If nothing else, I need you to believe that.”
Your lower lip trembles slightly as you slowly nod and Bucky presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, “I really miss you,” you whisper and Bucky wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest as he holds you tightly, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.
“I miss you too,” he admits as he fights the lump in his throat, kissing the top of your head gently, “I miss you too. I know my word doesn’t count for much right now, but things are going to be different, things are gonna change.”
You remain silent and Bucky’s heart breaks at the way you cling to him, as if he is going to disappear any second and never return. He smooths back your hair a bit before pressing another kiss on your head, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Just as he finishes speaking, his phone rings and Bucky feels every muscle in your body tense in his arms. Your fingers grip him a little tighter, just enough for Bucky to have to swallow the growing lump in his throat at your reaction as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. His hold around you tightens as you try to pull away from him, keeping you in place against his chest as he answers the call.
“Hello?....Hey, Anna, can this wait until tomorrow?...Yeah, I’ll talk to you later, we will get everything arranged, don’t worry,” Bucky finishes as he hangs up the call and looks down to you only to find a set of confused eyes searching his.
“What was that all about?”
“Just Anna wanting to clarify some details, set up a couple things, nothing that can’t wait a bit longer,” he says softly, tucking some of your hair behind your ear as a hint of a smile paints your lips and the weight on his chest lifts slightly at the sight of it, the storm finally starting to clear.
Just then, you yawn, and Bucky chuckles, “You should sleep, it’s getting late,” he says and you shake your head.
“Nope, wanna stay up with you,” you mumble, voice laden with sleep and Bucky smiles.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Your eyes droop as Bucky continues to thread his fingers through your hair, “Promise?”
Pain shoots through Bucky’s heart at the fact that, despite everything, you still want his promise, and he nods, “Yeah, I promise.”
A sleepy smile forms on your lips as you snuggle into him, wrapping your arms around him tighter and he chuckles, “I think you’d sleep better if you laid down.”
You shake your head stubbornly, “No,” you mumble with heavy lips, the tired state of your mind bypassing your natural filter as you continue, “If I let go, you’re gonna leave.”
Bucky frowns and examines your face, your eyes closed and features relaxed, snuggling into him, yet clinging to him tightly. How could he have done this to you? How could he have made you so scared to lose him?
“Stay ‘till I fall asleep?” you ask and Bucky doesn’t hesitate to nod.
“Yeah, of course,” he says and kicks his shoes off over the side of the bed before flicking off the lamp. He pulls you into his lap so you won’t end up with a kink in your neck and pulls the blanket over the two of you, keeping you snug against him as if he could squeeze the fears and insecurities he created out of you.
It doesn’t take long before you drift into sleep, Bucky threading his fingers through your hair as he hums an old tune. Things are going to change. He will fix what he has broken, he will mend the two of you back together. Bucky presses a kiss to your head before he closes his own eyes, relaxing into the pillows against your headboard and letting sleep take over his conscious.
He will fix this.
~~~
The morning casts it’s fateful gaze upon your room as you stir awake, the emptiness of it as you push into your pillow makes your heart sink, and when you crack your eyes open, it is just as you feared: He’s gone. Eyes dim, removing the hopeful spark that had ignited the night before, smothering it into ash and stone. Rivers of ice flow against your skin as you step out of bed, bare feet numb against the hard floor, sliding heavily as you prepare for the day.
Perhaps it was a dream? A pleasing thought conjured by your mind to ease the ache in your chest every time you woke. Only, if that is the case, it only made waking up harder to face. Maybe your dad never actually came and picked you up from Steve’s, and you simply made up the day to give yourself a sense of hope that this family could be put back together?
Nonetheless, you still exit your room, slowly making your way to the kitchen when a whiff of something heavenly catches you off guard. When you exit the hallway and pass into the kitchen, the sight before you has your eyes burning and lips lost for words.
“Dad?”
Bucky’s head snaps in your direction and he smiles brightly, “Hey, you’re up, I was just finishing—wait, hold up, I gotta…” he trails off as he opens the waffle iron and pulls out the fresh waffle, slightly burning his fingers in the process as you look around the counters. Plates of waffles, pancakes, eggs, and bacon scatter around along with a few different types of fruit, a container of whipped cream, and a couple different types of syrup.
Bucky turns back to you with a smile and misinterprets your confused expression, “Yeah, I know, it’s a lot of food, but I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I guess,” he says and chuckles, cringing slightly at himself, “I guess I made it all?”
As words still get caught in your throat, all you can manage to stutter is, “You’re home?”
Bucky’s smile drops to a more serious expression, “Yeah. I talked to Anna this morning, rearranged my schedule a bit so I can spend more time at home. It’ll be a transition, getting everything organized, but we think we’ve worked some things out. I’ll be dropping you off at the bus stop in the morning before you go to school and I’ll be home before you fall asleep. The weekends too, we were able to get me home on the weekends, I’ll still have to do some work, but I’ll be here instead of the office. I told you things are going to be different…that’s a promise I plan on keeping.”
You stand stiffly and for a moment Bucky fears he, somehow, did something wrong, or perhaps the damage goes deeper than he imagined, but then you blink, and tears fall from your eyes. He moves to hug you, but he barely makes a step before you crash into him, wrapping your arms around him tightly and he holds you, shushing your cries gently.
After a few moments, you pull away, chuckling lightly at yourself and wiping the tears off your face, “Sorry.”
Bucky shakes his head and presses a kiss to your forehead, “No need to be sorry, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
You smile gently, “So, you’ll be home more?”
“Yup.”
Your smile widens, then Bucky’s stomach growls and you both laugh, “Alright, I don’t know about you, but I am starving,” Bucky says and hands you a plate, “Shall we eat?”
“Yes, yes we shall,” you answer and go for the fruit first, plucking a grape off its stem and smiling mischievously to yourself as you look at your unsuspecting father.
Bucky is grabbing a waffle when something bumps his head, and looking up, he sees a grape bouncing on the counter and your playful gaze and he gapes, “You did not.”
Another grape hits his face and his gape turns into an evil smirk. Snatching a handful of blueberries from its case he starts chasing you while pebbling you with the fruit as you run squealing from him, tossing grapes at him as best you can.
Laughter fills the mansion, the prison now becoming a home, the icy rivers thawing, the dead earth coming back to life as seeds begin to sprout.
And across the canyon, where an earthquake once split them in two, a man builds a bridge to mend what had once been violently ripped apart.
OKAY MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: tw incest, dad!bucky, dadcon, enhanced reader, dad/daughter, secret, hydra, abuse (not from bucky), sorta pseudocest, honestly overall it's fucked but.....what if hydra used Bucky's DNA to make a child and they were separated for years until shield and hydra fell letting them escape.
CHAPTER ONE ¹
(YES I KNOW IM GOING TO HELL!!)
SECRET COMFORTS — Bucky x Daughter
____TW_____!____!____!___!___ PART TWO
Bucky didn't mean to fixate on it...not at first anyway.
The fragmented images and phantom sensations were just another torment in the labyrinth of his shattered mind, unwelcome ghosts in the fleeting moments of semi-consciousness.
No, still dazed and broken from Hydra's programming, a raw nerve exposed to a world he barely recognized, Bucky—no longer the Winter Soldier but a mere echo of a man—was a void of who he once was. His hands, one metal and one flesh, still trembled from the effort of saving Captain America from the abyss, a hero from his past, a past that remained stubbornly out of reach.
Scrambling for a sense of normalcy in this alien world, a world now blessedly free of Hydra's iron grip on his every step, all he could do was breathe. He drifted, a phantom in the back alleys and anonymous highways, blowing through town after town, a constant fugitive from the shadows of those who once controlled him. He lived on instinct, fueled by paranoia and the gnawing hunger for something, anything, resembling peace.
That was, at least, until some memories, like shards of ice breaking free from a frozen river, began to surface. Most were buried under decades of blood and ice, a relentless montage of old missions, brutal kills, and soul-crushing beatings, each one more violent than the last, forced upon him to break his spirit until...
Well, until you popped up out of nowhere.
He wasn't sure when the first memory flickered through the murky depths of his amnesia, but when it did, he couldn't help but freeze, a sudden, involuntary paralysis gripping him from where he sat in the middle of the dark, rocking ocean aboard a tiny, smelly shipping vessel.
The boat, a desperate gamble for quiet passage to Europe, was meant to get him to safety, untracked, unseen. But now, safety felt miles away as this memory, unlike the usual torrent of violence, washed over him.
It was a nice memory, startlingly different from all the rest of his time in Hydra's cold embrace. No, this one was soft, full of a strange, unfamiliar light, an almost ethereal glow, just like every memory that would soon follow.
It started off with Bucky being woken from his cryogenic chamber. The familiar hiss of hydraulic air, the biting cold that seeped into his bones, the jarring disorientation.
Normally, immediately upon being unthawed, he'd flip out, a beast caged, just as he had on instinct every other time the guards at Hydra had dared to get too close after waking him. His metal arm would be ready to strike, his eyes wide with programmed fury. But this time…this time, when he lifted his head, readied to snarl, a guttural sound forming in his throat—
He paused.
Not because of the array of guns trained on him, or the stiff-backed soldiers posted nearby, their faces blank. No, he froze due to the tiny, swaddled bundle held within his main handler's calloused grasp.
In the memory, Bucky couldn't make out the exact words the doctor or soldiers said; their voices were a muffled cacophony against the ringing in his ears. He heard their low laughs, their cruel jests, their smug satisfaction, but he couldn't focus on them. Not when, as the second the noise in the sterile room heightened, the little baby flinched, looking up like a startled, fragile deer caught in a hunter's beam.
Two icy blue eyes, startlingly bright and innocent, met his own dulled, haunted gaze. And it was like all the rage, all the black anger he had been programmed to feel, vanished, replaced by a strange, impossible gentleness he thought he'd eradicated decades ago.
When he noticed the soft tufts of brown curls spilling from the girl's small head, a primal urge he couldn't comprehend, let alone control, surged through him. He couldn't help but reach out a hesitant, metal-gloved hand to touch one, the action alone earning a surprised, almost delighted preen from his handler.
The man’s lips curled into a brutalized triumph of a smirk, "Ah, look at that. The soldier breaks conditioning already, just upon seeing her."
It was then his handler finally faced him fully, holding up the tiny, frowning child as if she were a mere object to be won, a prize in a twisted game. "This is your daughter, Winter," the handler hissed, the words chillingly clear now, "and we shall not only break you, but her as well."
And just like that, the memory was gone, snatched away, just as you were. He didn't see you for years, a cycle of missions and brainwipes erasing your existence from his conscious mind, even forgetting you until now, when the rocking of the boat seemed to echo the sway of a jet, triggering the next horrific flash.
Years had passed, no doubt.
In this new memory, you were older, stiffer, barely seventeen, yet Hydra had already wiped the humanity out of you before you could even speak your first coherent words.
He remembered now that he had been paired with you on a mission, not as your leader, for you were a force of nature in your own right, but as his backup, a testament to just how well you had succeeded on missions over the years for Hydra's heinous cause.
He remembered being confused, a strange glitch in his programming, despite being engineered to stay calm when the guards informed him of the pairing.
On the way to get ready and endure the pre-mission "wipe," he’d heard the guards speak in hushed, almost fearful whispers about you. He didn't know you were his, not yet, but from what he overheard, he knew you were enhanced, possessing terrifying empathic and healing powers. They even called you "Frenzy."
Yet, when he was forced into a jet and strapped in beside you, his metal arm almost brushing yours, he didn't see someone scary. He only saw a mirror, a younger, smaller reflection; a girl just as broken as him, her eyes as vacant, her posture as rigid.
He remembered neither of you speaking throughout the mission. There was an unnerving, telepathic understanding, a silent choreography of death. He remembered how many lives you both took together, a sickening tally that stretched into the thousands, all done while efficiently burning down a town that held half of Hydra's old bases.
He remembered being so focused on his programming to complete the objective that he hadn't even realized he'd been shot. Not until the ride back—not until you, calm as ever, your face a mask of practiced indifference, reached over.
And, as if it were second nature, you held up a hand that glowed with a soft, ethereal light to his stomach, not only healing his main, gaping wound but all the tiny ones layering around him, deeper than skin-deep.
Hell, he even felt a strange, unprecedented relief in the space where his metal arm connected to his shoulder, a soothing balm to phantom aches he hadn't known he carried. He'd never felt anything like that before, but God, he could remember it all: the tingling sensation, the rush of comforting warmth, and then the massive, overwhelming relief that spread through every fiber of his being, a taste of peace in a life devoid of it.
He remembered pausing for a moment, just staring at your focused expression, at the magic in your hands, until you tried to move away. It was then, an instinct overriding programming, that he clamped a hand around yours and forced you still—his fractured mind not recognizing the familial connection yet, but an aching, primal part of him screaming not to let go of this unexpected comfort.
Upon their return to the sterile hell of the base, the action didn't go unnoticed. Neither did the way that he suddenly, instinctively protected you from the guards, placing himself between you and them even when both your handlers came in for the mission report.
He remembered yelling, fierce orders to have him brought back to his cell, while you were coldly ordered to let the guards have their way with you, a reward for their "service."
Normally, Bucky would never break conditioning. His programming was absolute. But something—something about the way those guards' hungry, predatory gazes defiled you without shame, without care, made something deep within him snap.
Without thinking of what would follow, he stepped between you and them and fought. He fought so hard, so brutally, a whirlwind of metal and muscle, that even he forgot why for a moment, before he heard his handler's sick, nagging tone, a voice that crawled under his skin.
His next orders, followed by the soldiers' chilling trigger words, rendered him unable to even protest as his handler's smirk widened into a grotesque leer, "Oh, the soldier doesn't want anyone else to have her? You want your sweet daughter all to yourself? You want to claim her? Well, have her."
He remembered fighting against the words, a silent, desperate war in his mind, yet when they finished and his conscious will was gone, all he could do was comply.
His body, now a puppet, turned towards you as you shook your head, a tear tracking a path down your face, utter devastation etched into your expression, watching the humanity drain from his eyes with every slow, deliberate step closer he took. He hated it, hated the feeling of losing himself, but he remembered pouncing on you without remorse, without care, a programmed beast.
He remembered pinning you, the hard floor cold against your back, while he ripped your tactical gear off as you squirmed underneath him, a desperate plea for help in every agonizing shake of your hips.
But each struggle, each desperate movement, merely sent him deeper into dazed compliance when he began leaving sloppy kisses down your neck, not even registering your muffled yells as he tore off your leggings and sank his mouth onto you like you were his last meal, and God, he remembers feeling like it was.
It was wrong, he thought, a fleeting, corrupted instinct. How soft you felt against him, how intoxicatingly good you tasted, it all made him dizzy, overwhelmed.
Missions and killing he could handle with cold precision, but God, he remembers not even being able to last a minute before he ripped off his own pants, giving his lower length two frantic strokes, a desperate attempt at control, before he lined up with your entrance and bottomed out in one foul, brutal thrust.
He remembered the sound—not just of your tight, unbroken pussy clenching around him, a sensation of perverse pleasure, but of the utterly wrecked, raw moan that left him.
He felt you shake with sobs and silent cries, your tiny body wracked with pain and humiliation on his enlarged cock, as it continously rammed inside you. The pleasure, the utter, sickening bliss, he remembered it all, even as his memory darkened further with his handlers' cruel, echoing laugh, "Ah, the soldier seems quite keen," one snickered, no doubt still watching in sick, depraved amusement as Bucky, the Winter Soldier, lost himself within his own daughter's violated body.
Snapping out of his memory, gasping for breath, Bucky could only pant in utter, horrifying disgust as he recoiled away from his own wretched self, stumbling backwards, rushing off to hide within the fishing boat's small, claustrophobic bathroom for any semblance of reprieve.
But the moment he did, more memories followed, a relentless, terrifying deluge, each one worse...or darkly, terrifyingly better than the last. In some flashes, he saw himself training you with weapons, both of you growing older, barely looming a few years apart despite the decades that separated your actual birth.
He remembered flashes of you comforting him after a particularly bad mission debriefing where Pierce, with chilling efficiency, wiped him clean again. He remembered the inexplicable gentleness of your touch, a brief, fragile connection in the darkness. But God, he also remembered your sounds—your moans, your desperate begs, your cries of pleasure, even in your pain.
And he knew, with a fresh wave of self-loathing, that he was no better, allowing himself, without thought, to get lost in the one good thing Hydra, in its twisted cruelty, did give him—you.
He should've known, should have put the pieces together.
But then again, a sick, fractured part of him, a part he doesn't even want to admit existed, knew that you were his daughter. And while he both felt deeply repulsed and utterly horrified by that revelation, a gut-wrenching nausea churning in his stomach, he also felt a profound, suffocating guilt over leaving you there—sick of the pain, the torture, and the endless wiping you went through, a suffering he was not only aware of but an active, unwilling participant in.
Splashing his face with a blast of stinging cold water from the sink, hoping to wash away the psychological filth, Bucky swallowed hard, adjusting his rain-dampened hair back under his hat with another difficult swallow.
The reality of his present, and the monstrous horror of his past, crashed down on him. He didn't know how he'd ever be around you again, given what he'd done to you over the years, the unspeakable acts forced upon him. But he did know, with crystal clarity and a surge of furious resolve, that he wouldn't dare let you spend another damn day inside Hydra's suffocating hold.
So, with a breath meant to steady his own guilty, pounding pulse, Bucky swallowed the fractures back, pushing the horror into a corner of his mind where he could deal with it later. Instead, he forced himself to change his plan.
His aimless flight was over.
Now, his focus narrowed, sharpened to a lethal point: how to get you out of that base and back to him.
Back to your daddy.
Whether you knew it or not, whether you even wanted it, he'd never let you go again. Whether it was the crushing weight of his guilt, or a secretly repressed, primal need that now clawed at his soul, he wouldn't waste another moment.
He'd get his doll back.
Okay, so, definitely going to hell and I even felt my brain break writing that, but....should I write more? (I will anyways, deal with it)
