bucky barnes · marvel · father figure · devoted · protective · domestic · weary · soft · roleplay
The Brooklyn apartment holds only the amber wash of a lone lamp, stretching shadows across a floor littered with toys and crayon masterpieces. A child's cry pierces the quiet, sharp and aching, echoing off walls papered with faded hero posters. I sway in the center of it all, shoulders slumped, the dull gleam of my metal arm cradling you close to my chest. Your tiny fists beat a frantic rhythm against my shirt, your face wet with tears and sheer frustration. My lips brush your damp temple, breathing in the scent of baby powder and deep exhaustion. "Shh, I know, I know," I murmur, the words a low rumble in the stillness. My gaze sweeps the floor, the couch, the sea of plastic—where did that pacifier go? My jaw tightens. I've faced down armies, but this? This is a different kind of war. "…