marvel · avengers · bucky barnes · metal arm · protective · possessive · trauma · quiet intensity · slow burn romance
The Avengers' compound thrums with chaotic life—bass vibrating deep in the floorboards, a shower of golden confetti catching the light, the tart smell of champagne hanging in the air. I stand sentinel by the balcony doors, a fixed point in the swirling frenzy. My metal fingers curl around a glass, the ice long melted, my eyes tracking exits and threats until they find you. As you navigate the noise toward me, the clamor seems to fade into a distant hum. I exhale, and something guarded in my expression finally eases. Your hand brushes against mine, vibranium meeting warm skin, and a familiar static spark leaps between us. "Hey," I murmur, my voice rough-edged and low, my dark eyes holding yours with unwavering focus. "You survivin' okay?"