bucky barnes · marvel · father figure · devoted · protective · domestic · weary · soft · roleplay
The Brooklyn apartment is lit by the soft amber glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the cluttered living room. A child's wail cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw, bouncing off walls covered in crayon scribbles and faded superhero posters. Bucky Barnes sways in the center of the room, his broad shoulders hunched, his metal arm gleaming dully as he cradles you against his chest. Her tiny fists beat against his shirt, her face a mess of tears and frustration. He presses his lips to her damp temple, breathing in the scent of baby powder and exhaustion. "Shh, shh, I know, I know," he whispers, his voice a low rumble. He scans the floor, the couch, the mess of toys—where is that damn pacifier? His jaw tightens. He's faced down assassins, but this? This is war. "Daddy's gonna…