kiwi-peaches-blog

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

To Love, What A Curse (Aegon II x Little Sister!reader, Unrequited!Aemond x Little Sister!reader)

Part 2

A/N: It’s taken me a week to get over Aemond’s betrayal but this was written at the height of my pain. 

Summary: (S2 episode 4 spoilers) You watch from a distance as Aemond and Vhagar send your husband and his dragon tumbling to the Earth. You land in the newly created clearing to find Aemond intent on murdering your beloved. 

Word count: 3,880

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, canon typical incest, INCEST, age gap between reader and siblings because I needed it for a part of the plotline but I didn’t specify it, slightly obsessive reader, ig toxic codependency between reader and Aegon, unrequited love, angst, like a lot of angst, like ANGSTTTT, believing that a main character has died, Aemond Targaryen slander, (isn’t Aemond himself a warning??), SPOILERS: S2 Ep4, kinda smut? Like I describe the female body from a sexual male gaze, probs typos  (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

Even as a child, Aemond sometimes believed himself incapable of love. Not in a bad way, he did not feel he lost much without it, simply that he was incapable of it. Alicent, in the rare moment she chose to spend her time with her children, would read a story all about love, and he would find he could not understand it. He simply couldn’t relate. He had warm feelings for Alicent, a certain care for Helaena to be sure, but it was always belied by a certain numbness in his heart. 

And then suddenly… there you were. In his mind you appeared out of the fire. Like a dragon rising out of the ashes it created. In reality, you had been born just as he was reaching maturity, the age when you finally started remembering things for the rest of your lifetime. He had stood outside of Alicent’s birthing chambers, anxiously waiting for her to come out and tell him everything was fine. He could hear her screams, guttural and animalistic. He had only ever heard the dragons make such sounds. And then there was silence, a long moment of silence he would never forget because he knew not whether Alicent was dead, the child dead, everyone dead but him. Then the cry of a child, loud and shrill and rather annoying. 

He had pressed his ear to the door to try and listen, but all he got was cooing and hushing and the clatter of tools and the sloshing of water. It was but ten minutes later he almost fell forward into the room when someone opened the door. Alicent lay on the bed, shining with sweat, her beautiful red hair spread out all over the pillows and her eyes closed as she took deep breaths. A nursemaid on the side beckoned him inside as she gently swayed with a bundle of cloth wrapped in her arms. He wasn’t sure who to go to at first, Alicent or the short chubby woman with red cheeks who smiled warmer than Alicent ever had. He chose the latter, his intense curiosity to see the child surely contained in the bundle of cloth in her arms far outweighing the concern he had once held for Alicent. 

The nurse maid simply handed a young Aemond a little bundle of blankets with your little baby face peeking out of it. He stared at the pinched little face, this wriggling creature that was red all over. He believed that that was the first time in his life he had felt real love. Oh, and when you grasped onto his finger with your little hand, he felt he had been placed in a hot pan to gently heat up from the inside-out. From that moment on he had loved you. He had loved you so dearly that sometimes he snuck into the nursery just to watch you sleep. 

You were small, innocent, like a fresh snowflake fallen into the palm of his hand. You were to be protected at all costs, for the rest of his life. He willingly took up the challenge. Your entire childhood seemed a collection of memories of Aemond. Aemond cheering you on as you called ‘dracarys!’ for the first time. Aemond chasing you around the halls of the red keep when you wanted to play. Aemond distracting you when Alicent couldn’t be bothered to be your mother…  

Though it began as something innocent, something brotherly and sweet, it seemed the Targaryen curse for it to grow out of control. Suddenly a few years passed and you had become a woman. And suddenly he could not keep his eyes off of you no matter how hard he tried. One night, some moons after your eighteenth nameday, he had come to your quarters to return a book he had stolen at some point during the day. Not realising that you had had a rather difficult day, that you had wished to bathe in peace, you had sent all your maids away. He had walked in on you rising from your bath. No one had been there to stop him or usher him out, and he had stood there, frozen, watching you jump and try to cover yourself with your hands before grabbing the robe left on one of the tables beside the bathtub. He had dropped his head, his remaining eye shuttering open and closed like the wings of a butterfly. A short and quick ‘my apologies’ left his mouth and he walked back out. But the image came with him. 

You, shiny and wet, glistening in the light of the fire. The sound of the water dripping off of you and back into the bathtub, little plink plink plink sounds as they hit the edges. Your hair, darkened at the edges and sticking haphazardly to the skin of your shoulders. Your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. The space between them that was just shadowed enough that he could only see the top where your lips began to separate… He could not sleep for days for fear of encountering the image again behind closed eyes, in the free land of his dreams.  

You were sweet, and kind, a bit of a miracle considering the situation you had been raised in, and it suddenly seemed an unfair expectation for him not to fall in love with you. Had you not been made for him? Crafted by the same womb to be his for eternity? You defied everyone with your kindness devoted to him. You made him smile with your smile, made him dance as you danced. You sang little songs you made up in your head and cuddled into his side so he could read to you in High Valyrian. You seemed just as attached to him as he was to you. You were perfect… except for one thing. What he considered your fatal flaw. Your unending, almost obsessive devotion to Aegon. 

Mayhaps you had had the same effect on Aegon as you had had with him. Maybe it was simply that you had slowly made Aegon partial to you by being that sweet creature that you were. Though he believed anything possible when it came to you, he was never quite sure how you had changed Aegon. If not for everyone, but at least for you. It was obvious to the eyes of those who could view into House Targaryen that Aegon, described by his closest family as a hedonistic wastrel, cared for you, took care of you, hid from you all the deficiencies of his character. No one could make head or tail of it. How did you differ from Helaena or Aemond or even distant Daeron? You, conceived exactly the same way as the others, related to him exactly the same way as the others, were no different to the siblings he already had. But he thought Helaena weird, thought Aemond a rather pathetic and easy target, didn’t think of Daeron at all, and viewed the rest of his life as an excuse to get drunk. Aemond believed it to be your kindness that, if capable of piercing his own stony disposition, could easily curl up around Aegon’s fragile heart and devote him to you.  

In truth, out of all of his siblings, you had simply been the one to truly love Aegon, whether he wanted it or not. You seemed to make up for all the love he lacked from every other person in his life. You saw him as the eldest, the one to look up to, the one to lavish with love and devotion in your position as the youngest. He would be the one to protect you, the one to treat you as his littlest and most loved one. Wishful or not, all the stories told you that this was his position. Though Aemond spent most of his time looking after you, being the protector, you did not seem to hold him in esteem for it. He was simply there. 

At first, Aegon had failed in these expectations of yours. He had not bothered to spend time with you, not bothered to indulge in the love you so freely offered him. He believed you were just another creature created by Alicent to look down upon him. Another person to disappoint with his shortcomings. He later considered those his lowest moments. But then he had seen the way your face fell when he had shooed you away, saw the way tears collected at the corners of your eyes when you offered him a flower and he had barely turned. Slowly, he began to humour you, smiling widely when you offered him the flower once more. Not shooing you away anymore, but simply telling you that he would come find you when he was available to do it. He pressed kisses to your little cheeks and tickled your stomach. And with this care returned, your devotion grew. 

He remembered vividly the first time he had truly noticed not only how much he cared for you, but how much you seemed to care for him in return. He had taken the blame for you once, when Alicent had walked into her living quarters and found a jug of wine spilled all over the floor. You had dropped it in your bid to reach up and grab it, hoping to sip from the jug though you weren’t allowed wine yet. Aegon had claimed it was him, that he was too drunk to see properly (when in fact he had been sober for the first time in a long time). He had been sent to bed without being allowed any dinner, and Alicent had raged at him for twenty minutes about his lack of duty, respect, propriety. But then you had snuck to his room after everyone had gone to bed with two plates filled to the brim with food. He felt he had never eaten better in his entire life. You had sat with him, giggling then shushing yourself as you looked up at him starry eyed. You seemed to give him all the kindness and love you possessed in your body, and he was ready to take. Frankly, he had nowhere else to get it from anyway. 

Maybe some part of you had always believed that you and Aegon were meant for each other, but you truly seemed to realise it the night Aemond read you the Targaryen histories. He had started at the beginning, telling you all about Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. You had sat up on his bed, pulling out from under his arm and turning to face him as you listened, enraptured. As Aemond spoke of the love Aegon bestowed upon Rhaenys, you thought of your Aegon. Of course, it all made sense now, you were destined. He was Aegon, and you would be his sister-wife, his Rhaenys, meant to be as it was in the greatest of histories. 

When your dragons mated, your beauty and his Sunfyre, it felt cemented into fate. It would have to be so. The gods had deemed it. When Otto and the council began clamouring for the children to be married, particularly Aegon, Alicent had gone to pray every day in the sept for a fortnight before allowing your betrothal. You secretly believed that she was praying for the gods to intervene somehow but you knew they were the ones that had chosen this. 

When your betrothal was announced, it was the first time neither you nor he had complained about a decision made by Alicent or the council. Alicent had called all of you to her chambers, Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and you, to announce it, and neither you nor Aegon had a word to say in dissent. You had simply turned to each other and nodded, little hidden smiles only visible in the dancing of your eyes. Of course neither of you noticed the way Aemond clenched his fists behind his back, or the stony glare he switched between Alicent and Aegon. He had come over, kissed you on the cheek and whispered his congratulations as you hugged him animatedly.  

Aegon had even kissed you for the first time the night of your betrothal ball, hidden in an alcove at the darkest part of the night, hands buried in your hair, tilting your head back and pressing his mouth to yours as if he wanted to devour you starting at the lips. He had whispered ‘I love you’s’ in your ear the entire evening and you danced with no one else. 

Aemond was not sure when you broke his heart the most. When you had gushed to him all evening about your elation at being betrothed to Aegon, when you had seemingly forgotten his existence the night of your betrothal ball, or the evening you announced you were pregnant with Jahaerys and Jahaera. 

People seemed to tread carefully around you after Jahaerys’s death. You believed this to be the reason you found out too late that Aegon had taken off to Rook’s Rest. 

Every day, at some random point in the day, you would seek out Aegon, and the both of you would sit curled up together eating biscuits, drinking wine, and comforting each other. In the aftermath of Jahaerys’s death you had thought that was a necessity lest he try and run from you in his grief. Though he had still bludgeoned the man to death, had still had all the ratcatchers hanged, you were simply happy that he did not hide from you. 

In that spirit, you had gone in search of him, only to find out he had left an hour ago to chase down the battle after conversing with Alicent. You were forced to waste a little more time to change into your riding clothes as your beauty was saddled, though you had abandoned the attempts of your ladies maids trying to pull an extra blouse over your head. You wore only a simple tunic over your chemise and ran for the dragonpit. 

You weren’t quite sure why the gods wanted to punish you so. Your baby, little Jahaerys, was his death not enough? You were late, but not late enough to be spared the vision from a distance of Aemond commanding Vhagar to attack Sunfyre and Aegon. Your heart was in your throat, choking you. Your grip on the reins loosened, and as you watched Sunfyre tumble down from the sky, your dragon shrieked and began flying even faster. You heard the crash, even from how far you were. Your hands were sweaty and cold, and suddenly you wanted nothing more than to be off the dragon. You began unclipping yourself from the saddle, ready to slip off and plummet to the ground. Your mind was running so fast you couldn’t grasp a thought, only saw what you saw, heard what you heard, and felt what you felt. There were no words. But you stopped yourself, clipped yourself back in, and let yourself be brought ever closer to Aegon in whatever condition you would find him. 

Aemond watched the forest floor burn around Aegon without a single feeling. He watched the embers on Aegon’s body, sizzling away at his hair and skin. He watched the soot gather on Aegon’s armour, watched Sunfyre huff and writhe in pain as the fire continued its relentless assault all over their bodies. He did not feel anything. No remorse, no fear, no sadness. There was no happiness either, no joy or elation. There was simply nothing. 

His sword was in his hand, pulled mostly out of the scabbard, when he heard rustling behind him. He turned slightly, just enough so his remaining eye could gaze on the intruder, and he saw you. At first he blinked, once and then twice to be sure you were there and not a mirage in the heat. But then he saw the way you were looking at him, the creases around your eyes and mouth as you gasped, mouth agape in pain. Your breaths were ragged, and you were still mostly hidden in the brush, but he could see your face so clearly, as if you had been outlined against the shrubbery. The face that he had watched grow out of its baby fat and into the shape of the young woman that you were. The face that had once smiled brightly in his direction and sought him out for comfort. The face that he had loved so dearly. The face that now burned with rage. 

“You-you traitor! You coward! You have no loyalty, no respect!” You sounded almost hysterical as you spoke, clambering over shrubbery and shattered branches. Aemond stared at you as you screamed at the top of your lungs, each word laced with the deepest pain one could possibly experience, a half-sob half-choking sound. Your cheeks were bright red and shiny with sweat, you had shed your riding coat and your grey pants were covered in sap from clambering over a tree trunk. Aemond thought you had never looked more beautiful. “You truly are self-serving, and-and cruel.” Each word hit him in the chest as if Vhagar was breathing fire directly at him. He would not care if it had not been you saying these words. His grip on his sword tightened as he watched you begin to shed tears (though you already had dried tracks down your cheeks), hurrying around and looking for a way through the circle of fire around Aegon and Vhagar. You turned to him for a moment, a singular moment, and his heart stopped dead at the way your face was contorted in pain and anger and pure hatred. Your eyebrows knitted by a crease above your nose bridge, your mouth pulling back at the corners and your eyes burning like wildfire. “You’re a monster.” 

The word seemed to echo in the forest, even above the sound of the fire. His mouth was slightly open, his breaths heaving as he stared at you with a sense of his body crumbling. Not once in the entire battle had he felt this close to devastation. Not once in his life. Even in the darkest nightmares he experienced, not once did he ever imagine you saying these words to him, to look at him so… 

Aemond had not once cared about Aegon’s wellbeing in his entire life. Even now, he did not care about it. If Aegon died he would not shed a tear. In all honesty, he would be more inclined to smile, but watching you walk through fire to get to that manic drunk’s body sent a spear through his heart. Why? Why were you so willing to succumb to your own death for that fool? Why, throughout your entire lives have you always chosen Aegon, when he was standing right here, ready, rather, impatient, to love you? He would have raised his sword and begun walking again, a certain defiance suddenly filling him to the brim, had it not been for the way you began to wail at the sight of Aegon. 

It was a wail of death. He did not think a person was capable of this sound. Around him in the forest, another high keening sound began. It was your dragon, head raised to the sky, mouth open and roaring like the pain was within her. Then, behind him, with the very ground rumbling as she rose, Vhagar raised her head to the sky and roared so loud that legend states it was heard from the Wall to the southernmost tip of Dorne. Even Sunfyre, with his last breaths, keened in pain and joined the cacophony. Aemond pressed his hands to his ears and waited for it to cease. A war was being waged on him, inside and out. 

He closed his eyes, trying to forget you, forget the pain you inflicted on him simply by being in pain, but the gods would not let him. 

You were on the floor now, hands shaking as you reached out to pull Aegon’s half-singed body onto your lap. You were caressing his hair, rocking back and forth and crying salty tears directly onto his wounds. Aemond could not move. However much he wanted to walk toward you, wanted to walk away from you, the gods had set him to his place. You turned your head up to look at him through the fire, shaking and hiccuping. Your eyes were so full with tears that he could only see light reflected in them. 

“What did you hope to get out of this?!” You sobbed, almost screaming with the pain. It was minutes before you could even speak again.“Did you expect I would suddenly love you? Did you think you could buy me with a crown?” 

There it was, finally out in the open. The truth both of you had danced around since you had become of marrying age. You had known, of course you had known, though he had never been overly blatant about it, it was obvious that he had favoured you. The night your betrothal to Aegon had been announced, Aemond had gone to Alicent to beg her to change it, to offer Aegon Helaena's hand instead. But she had been adamant. His grandsire and Viserys had stated that it would be best for Aegon to marry a sister, prattle about emulating Aegon the Conqueror and preserving the purity of the King’s bloodline. It made sense to marry him to the youngest. Helaena could still be used to marry for advantage, a second child but first daughter held more sway. 

He could see that secretly his mother was happy to betroth Aegon to you. She didn’t want her youngest daughter to leave. She was by far more attached to you than any of her other children, and if you hadn’t married Aegon you would’ve been sent off. One marriage between siblings was enough, the rest were simply assets in a bigger game. 

Now, as Aemond looked at you, he could see none of the love you had once bestowed on him. The face he had once longed to caress, the lips he had once wished to kiss, all appalled at the sight of him. You had never sneered at him this way before, never even turned your face or voice to him in a negative way before. Maybe this was a nightmare, and soon he would wake up, sweating and panting and looking around with fright, before seeking you out, happy to discover that you were still unmarried, and ready to cuddle him to sleep.

You clung to Aegon even tighter as you glared at Aemond through your tears, just a blurry black spot in a sea of green. “If I was even capable of loving a creature like you before you did this,” you spat with such venomous rage that even Vhagar bristled behind Aemond. “I am incapable of it now.” You turned your head back down to Aegoon, and seemed to curl your body around him like a dragon curling over her eggs. The edges of your dress caught fire and slowly began to burn but you let it, not even feeling the heat. 

Ser Criston found the three of you like that, as if suspended in time. 

Taglist: @summerposie, @izuoyarmin 

A/n: Tell me. Was Aemond or Reader right about why Alicent didn’t refuse the betrothal between reader and Aegon? 

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

all we know of heaven, all we need of hell

winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader

word count: 18.7k

you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise

thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.

i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely don’t have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes ✨🖤

Circa 2013

“Согните локти. Я не хочу повторять это снова.”

You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.

His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.

Whoever that may be.

Bend your elbows. I don’t want to have to tell you again.

“My elbows are bent,” you say flatly. It’s a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.

“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.

He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.

You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.

It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.

He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.

He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.

“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.

“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”

You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.

It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?

None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.

“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”

His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.

“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”

He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.

“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”

With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

A fortnight passes before you see him again.

Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.

It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.

You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.

You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.

Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.

But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.

It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.

The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.

You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.

All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.

Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.

You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.

Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.

The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.

Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.

From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.

“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.

“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.

He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.

“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”

Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.

The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.

Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.

“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.

He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.

“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”

You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.

You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.

No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.

You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.

“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.

“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”

He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”

The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.

You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.

Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.

They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.

When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.

His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.

“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”

Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”

He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.

You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.

Kissing.

Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.

Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.

His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.

You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.

You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.

“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”

You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.

“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”

“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”

By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”

“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”

He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.

“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”

He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.

“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”

He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.

You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.

I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.

You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.

When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.

When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.

Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.

You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.

Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.

He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.

You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?

And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?

The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.

“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”

You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.

“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.

“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”

Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.

Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.

But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.

And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.

The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.

An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.

There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.

It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.

But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.

To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.

A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.

And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.

Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.

Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.

With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.

You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.

You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.

Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.

There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.

Or whatever else might await you at the end.

The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.

You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.

The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.

When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.

There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.

After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.

If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.

You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.

You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.

You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.

The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.

But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.

Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.

For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.

You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.

The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.

Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.

He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.

“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”

His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”

“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”

“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.

He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.

“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”

“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”

He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.

You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.

“On the count of three?”

You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“One. Two…”

He doesn’t say three.

Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.

The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.

He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.

“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”

“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”

You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.

Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.

But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.

Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.

“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”

He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.

Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.

“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.

You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.

“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.

You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.

I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.

You. Not us. You.

He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.

The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.

He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.

The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.

“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.

“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.

Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.

At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.

He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.

Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.

You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.

You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”

He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.

“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.

Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.

He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”

“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.

One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.

A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.

His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”

You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.

How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?

You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”

You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.

“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.

“Would you join me?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.

The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.

He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.

When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.

You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.

Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.

“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.

“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”

You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.

Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.

His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.

He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.

Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.

At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.

The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.

He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.

He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.

So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.

“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.

“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”

You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.

“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.

All you know is that the space beside you is cold.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

3 years later. Circa 2016.

“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”

You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.

You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.

She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.

Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don���t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.

Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”

Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.

It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.

“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”

“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”

There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.

“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.

“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.

“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”

Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.

Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”

You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”

“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”

You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.

It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”

You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.

You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.

He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.

You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.

You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —

Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.

“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”

“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”

“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”

“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”

You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.

“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.

“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”

Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.

The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.

The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.

You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.

“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”

“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”

“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”

You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.

James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.

Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.

There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

2 years later. May 2018.

You wish you could say that you kept your promise.

For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.

Then you saw him on the fucking news.

All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.

Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.

From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.

At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.

After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.

That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.

Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.

You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.

You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.

Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.

“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”

The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?

A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.

Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.

You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.

Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.

Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.

It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.

You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.

Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Post blip. Circa 2024.

Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.

The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.

If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.

If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.

And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.

You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.

Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.

No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.

You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.

And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.

Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.

You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.

So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.

By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.

It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.

“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”

You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.

If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.

When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.

“What brings you here, Yelena?”

She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.

She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.

“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”

“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”

She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”

You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”

The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”

You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”

Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”

“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”

Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.

“Why me?”

“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”

You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”

“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”

You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”

Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”

“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”

Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”

You raise a brow. “What’s true?”

She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”

Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.

“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”

Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.

“Good.”

You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.

You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.

“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”

Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Present Day.

Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.

You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.

Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.

New York. Valentina. Bob..?

“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”

You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.

“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.

“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.

“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”

She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.

Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.

“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.

As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.

“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.

Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.

“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yelena—”

“Please. Just hurry.”

The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.

But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.

The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.

No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.

Especially if he’s there.

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.

Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.

You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.

It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.

You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.

When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.

“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”

Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.

You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.

You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.

Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.

Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.

But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.

You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?

The elevator ride feels eternal.

You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.

His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.

His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.

You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.

All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.

Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.

They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.

Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.

“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”

“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.

“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”

Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”

“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.

“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”

“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.

“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”

Rogue agents? Ruthless?

“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”

Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.

Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.

As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.

“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.

“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.

“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.

“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”

Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”

“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”

At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.

“Thunderbolts?” You echo.

The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.

The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.

Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.

Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.

You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.

Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.

From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.

“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.

A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.

Sentry closes in on the both of you.

He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.

“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.

But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.

“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.

Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.

Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.

Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.

“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”

The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.

Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”

There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.

There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.

“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”

Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”

You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.

The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.

You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.

Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…

Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.

You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.

You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.

Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”

“I know.”

He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.

Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.

“You never came back for me. Why?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”

You wait for him to continue.

“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.

“All I wanted for me was you.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.

“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.

The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.

“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”

You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.

“If you’ll still let me.”

Without thinking, you press your lips to his.

It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.

It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.

Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.

Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.

Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.

The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.

“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”

Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”

You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”

You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.

It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.

But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.

And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Three hours.

That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.

You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.

None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.

It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.

You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.

His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.

“That was quick,” you hum.

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”

Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.

“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”

He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.

“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”

He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”

His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.

“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”

Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”

Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.

Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.

Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.

“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”

“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.

He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.

He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.

“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.

“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”

His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.

For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.

“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.

“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”

He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.

The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.

Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.

You’re both home.

if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻💖

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Who Am I, Darling To You?

Finan x Reader!

Title is based on this song:

Request: I was hoping you could write something about being in a relationship with finan? Maybe this is super self indulgent cause I can relate lol but being sihtrics sister and in a relationship with finan and reader had too much to drink so finan has to take care of her? Thank you so much 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Warnings: Mention of reader and Sihtric's traumatic past at the hands of Kjartan.

Sihtric was solemn and pleading as he stood before his Lord, on the eve of the attack on Dunholm, he looked so small that it made even Uhtred thread carefully.

“Whatever it is,” he urged gently, “Speak freely.”

“I have no right to ask this Lord,” he mumbled, still refusing to meet Uhtred’s eye, and Uhtred softened.

“But ask it anyway, Sihtric.”

“Spare my sister,” he begged and Uhtred looked at him puzzled, “I barely know her Lord, but she is not like them. She was whelped upon a kitchen maid, but she is kind and good. She is a shield maiden, she will be there I have no doubt, but she will reason and lay down her weapons if I may but talk to her.”

Finan who was leaning against a post, moved forward, “Sihtric, if she is caught up in the melee-”

“Or if she will not lay down her arms,” Uhtred joined in, and Sihtric was nodding in understanding.

“But I give you leave to try get her to safety,” Uhtred spoke and that was all the permission that Sihtric needed and he released the breath that had been caught in his chest.

“Thank you Lord.”

They had breached the fortress of Dunholm and hacked their way through defending Danes. Sihtric’s mismatched eyes were frantically searching for you as he fought his way though, but he could not locate you.

Suddenly, Kjartan was in the fray and Steapa was opening the gates to allow the band that Ragnar headed, through into the fight, and Kjartan and his men were forced to pull back.

Uhtred was suddenly screaming for his men to form a shield wall and they began falling in line as they began to push forward and Kjartan’s men were forced to keep pulling backwards, it was there that Sihtric finally spotted you, blood splattered across your face and matted into your plaited hair, your frantic eyes had yet to land on him but he had no choice but to keep pushing forward.

He could not help the shudder of relief that ran through his body when Kjartan demanded his side drop their weapons as he stepped forward in acceptance of Ragnar’s challenge and agreed to fight him in one to one combat and once Uhtred demanded to make the square your eyes finally landed on your brother.

Your face softened and crumpled as you spotted him and immediately the weapons dropped from your hands in surrender, he longed to break the square to rush and embrace you but Kjartan was roaring for a shield and Ragnar was stepping forward in challenge, he removed his helmet, he wanted his father to see him, wanted him to know in his last moments that his own son was part of the reason justice would finally be brought down upon him.

It was vicious hand to hand combat and Kjartan actively taunted Ragnar.

You and Sihtric shared the same look of victory as Kjartan was thrust upon his back and Ragnar stabbed his blade through your father’s sword arm.

“Kill him, kill him,” you were pleading, though your voice was drowned out by the cheering of the crowd.

He was pleading for his sword, but Ragnar continued to deny him and you locked eyes with Sihtric, smirking at the bloodthirst in his eyes.

But the smirk was replaced with horror as Ragnar hacked and hacked at him, even long after the light had left his eyes, continuing to stab at him in battle rage, your feet were moving forward of their own accord, unable to look upon the scene any further, bile rising up your throat until you were vomiting into the strawed ground, Sihtric visibly flinched with each blow but was unable to look away.

Thyra’s wailing pulled you back to your senses and you were brought back to reality, and you pushed through still bodies until you reached your brother who was stuck looking upon the hacked and bloodied remains of your father.

“Sihtric?” you whispered softly and he rounded on you, both of you stood facing each other in a state of shock, chests rising and falling rapidly before you were launching into each others arms, clinging to the other for dear and utter life.

You cupped his face in your hands inspecting him as if he were a cruel trick from the gods.

“I thought you dead,” you cried “You didn’t come back, I thought you dead.”

“I am here and it is done,” he was whispering into your hair as he pulled you to him.

“We are free,” you cried, clasping him to you in a ferocious grip, the only blood you had left on this planet.

That night the victors held a feast in the great hall and you hung like a shadow to the walls, arms hugged around your own frame.

Life under Kjartan had meant you had quickly learned how to make yourself small and undetectable, preferring to cling to shadows and always searching for your quickest escape route.

“What is it?” Sihtric asked gently and when you turned to face him your eyes were glassy with tears.

“I thought it would feel different,” you cried and he swallowed hard, he too had battled this feeling of nothingness in his chest when he was finally freed from your tyrant of a father.

“We are free- Thyra is free. So why does freedom feel like we paid such a heavy price?”

He had no answer for you, so you pressed further.

“You will leave here again brother?”

“I will follow my Lord, wherever he would command.”

“And what would I do?” you cried, uncrossing your arms and reaching for him.

“Be at peace,” he urged, shaking you gently, “Marry. Have pups of your own. Be at peace.”

You tutted and shook from his embrace and whirled on him, “This is not what the gods have mapped out for me to do,” you sighed and then you kneeled before him clasping his hand in yours, “My sword is yours, I will follow you. I will fight by your side.”

Sihtric’s eyes widened in horror and embarrassment as he ushered you up. “I am pledged to Lord Uhtred, I follow his command.”

“Well then I will swear my fealty to the Lord Uhtred,” you said it as if it were of no consequence who you swore loyalty to as long as your place was beside your brother.

Sihtric was reminded in this moment that he did not know you, not really, he did not know your will, nor your stubbornness yet, you were in many ways a stranger to him- but he would come to know you in time- but all he knew in this moment is that you were his kin, and all he had ever wanted in his life was to protect you from Kjartan and Sven, he had done that now so could rest, but if you wished to remain by his side he would not turn you away.

He watched you make your way over to Uhtred and Ragnar, kneeling before them, and although he could not hear what you were saying suddenly his Lord’s eyes were upon him, intently staring into his and all he could do in that moment was nod.

Finan had saddled up beside him, mug of ale in his hand, and laughed lightly, watching you, arise from your knees slowly, still locked in conversation with the two brothers.

“She is a tough one,” he commented.

“She is swearing her sword to Lord Uhtred,” Sihtric deadpanned and Finan’s eyes simmered as he looked onwards at the scene, and he straightened up as you suddenly made your way towards them.

“I travel with you in the morn,” you said triumphantly and Finan guffawed loudly and clapped you on the back as you passed.

“Do not let him leave without me Irishman or I will have your eyes out.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love,” he promised and Sihtric shot him the dirtiest look he could muster.

“Do not make eyes at my sister,” he warned and Finan stuck his hands up in mock surrender.

The next night as you made camp, Finan watched you hang back, the last in line for food, skittish and looking as though you expected someone to strike you, or steal the food from your hands, he noticed Sihtric’s eyes following his same line of thought and when Sihtric called your name you came warily forward, he placed his own bowl of stew in your hands and your eyes widened in shock.

“You have no need to fear,” Finan whispered softly “No man here will harm you and you have earned your right to your food, nobody will take that from you either.”

He said it like it was not the most profound thing you had ever been told and he simply turned around and filled up another bowl for himself.

You had lived a life thus far of being reminded your place in line was at the back, you never ate before the other soldiers and you certainly never had been given a larger portion than anyone else before.

You ate greedily and quickly, still fearful the bowl would be knocked from your hands or simply stolen away as seconds for another, and when Finan offered you a piece of stale bread he was shocked to find your bowl empty already.

Sihtric’s chest hurt, it was odd to see- almost mirrored the way he had behaved when he first joined Uhtred’s forces, the fear and the anticipation that pain was coming, even though amongst this band he had yet to see even an ounce of the malice his life had been under his father’s command. 

You lay down in your furs and your teeth chattered bitterly.

You were exhausted from being on such high alert throughout the day but you could not find sleep in the cold.

You were used to scouting expeditions and minor battles and raids, but you were ashamed to say that in the past few months since Sihtric’s departure, Kjartan had punished you for the crimes of your brother, food had been scarce and you had been kept in the dungeons more times than ever before. He had intended to make you weak and under thumb and his ferociousness towards you had served in keeping you compliant, but you were weaker than normal and could not quell the shaking in your body.

Sihtric was snoring soundly a few feet away from you and you rose and made your way towards his sleeping form.

“Sihtric,” you whispered trying to rouse him, “Sihtric,” you tried again and he mumbled in his sleep but did not awaken, “I am cold,” you pleaded, sounding more desperate than you had intended and then shuffling to his side caught your attention.

“You are cold love?” it was Finan, his hair tousled from sleep and one eye was opened, the other closed in sleep.

You were embarrassed and hung your head down, refusing to meet his eye.

“Come here you can have some of my furs.” 

When you didn’t make to move he rose gently, “Come on love, you’ll be no good to any of us if you freeze to death,” you couldn’t help the shy smile that graced your face, as you accepted the furs he wrapped around your shaking form.

“Christ, you are like a block of ice,” he whispered as his hands brushed your skin, “Your teeth will shatter in your skull, come here,” he fussed and you allowed him to pull you down to his camp bed and he wrapped his strong arms around you.

He swayed you both gently, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to radiate heat and even though it fought against every fibre of your being, you relaxed into his touch.

Finan realised too late and with a jolt that you were sleeping against his shoulder and his eyes instantly flicked to his sleeping friend, ‘He’ll have my head on a spike,’ he thought to himself, but when his eyes landed on your sleeping form his heart leapt in his chest, you were beautiful, truly beautiful, and he had known from the moment he had laid his eyes on you that he was in trouble, that he would do anything you asked of him, and now holding you against his chest, sharing his body heat with you he made a solemn realisation, he was yours whether you realised it or not, whether you wanted him or not.

"I'm fucked," he whispered into the night air.

Datchet (Kingdom of Mercia)

As you clambered off your boat onto the shore, your sword hand immediately went to the hilt of your sword in readiness.

“She says she loves me,” Sihtric continued in his pleadings about the whore he had been sleeping with.

You rolled your eyes and Finan laughed, Sihtric shot you a pleading look.

“I swear, she says she loves me.”

“She would,” Finan added dryly while Uhtred reminded him that she was a whore.

“What she loves is your silver!” Finan chided and Clapa goaded “Is that the name of his cock?” you made a disgusted face at the comment but couldn’t help but find the humour in the situation.

Until you spotted the crestfallen expression on Sihtric’s face and it wiped the smile clean off yours.

“I wish to marry her,” he said defiantly.

“I wish you to kill Danes and survive the night,” Uhtred shot back and you laid a hand on your brother’s arm when the sound of screams caught your attention, a silent plea to park this conversation until you were all safe. 

“Time to kill some raiders,” you announced and Finan smirked your way as you shared a cocky nod with him.

You all went to cover, under Uhtred’s command and waited for his word, your hand clasped tightly around your sword in anticipation for the fighting to begin, and on his command you surged forward following Finan’s lead “We kill every bastard one of them!” he was shouting and you sprang into action, hacking and slicing.

The women who had been dragged as slaves began running frantically and you shouted at them to get behind you, ushering them towards the bushes, they began to gather behind you, terrified and crying out but you sliced at any Dane who attempted to get at them.

When the killing was done, some clung to you, “It’s alright, you’re alright,” you were trying to reassure, “Return to your village, take care of your dead, you will be alright now.”

“Thank you! Thank you Lady,” one woman was crying at your feet and you locked eyes with Finan, an expression you could not read on his face.

“Take back what belongs to you. You’re safe now!” he shouted and your face crumpled with a small smile his way.

On the boat back to Coccham you were mainly silent.

There was blood matted to your face and even though all you wanted was to sleep, you knew you would have to bathe first, so you went straight to the stream to wash away the night’s blood.

You were just working your fingers through your matted hair when you heard the footsteps on the bank, you were thankful you had kept your slip on as you bathed for this very reason but nevertheless when you turned around, Finan’s eyes were almost a shade of amber in the morning sun and he swallowed thickly.

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t know you would be here.”

“I’m nearly done,” you replied, returning your ministrations to your hair, and he sat his weapons down upon the bank and began to strip off his own clothes, both of you trying to pretend it was normal. Just two bloodied warriors bathing the night’s battles away but the air was thick with something unsaid and not quite understood yet.

He didn’t mean to but his eyes settled on a huge ugly scar that ran along the expanse of your shoulders, it stood out a mile against your perfect skin.

“You were amazing back there,” he tried to say it casually but it came out like a confession, “The way you protected those women and children.”

You smiled, turning to face him but you caught where his eyes had been focused and you grimaced.

“I believe it is quite ugly, the scar.”

“No-” Finan shook his head and you softened, your body language telling him it was alright that he had been looking.

“A present from Kjartan,” you offered by way of explanation, “I can’t remember what for, but he had Sihtric locked in the dungeon for weeks, he was half starved and barely alive, I truly thought fever or hunger would take him, so I went down there and got him out, we had to fight our way out and we were so nearly free- we were just at the gates when Sven intercepted us. I didn’t see Sihtric again for months, I truly thought he had been killed and Kjartan had me whipped at the post just for good measure.”

Finan had moved subconsciously closer in the water to you, and reached out a gentle hand to touch the mottled skin, your eyes slipped closed at his gentle touch, and you turned to face him.

“You ask me all the time why I am a warrior? That is how Kjartan treated his bastard son. Now imagine what use he would have found for a bastard daughter if I could not make myself more useful than a whore.” 

Finan ghosted his hands up along your arms and you leaned like a cat into his touch, his eyes flicked down to your lips and you looked up at him doe eyed through your lashes.

“You could never be a whore,” he spoke, voice heavy.

“Then what am I to you?” you whispered and he leaned forward and for a moment you thought he would kiss you but voices approaching caused you both to break apart. 

“We should- I should never-” he was feet apart from you in seconds and the spell of the moment was broken.

Weeks passed and the moment in the stream was forgotten.

Uhtred went to visit the dead man Bjorn who spoke of prophecies and Kingdoms.

Aethelflaed, the King’s daughter married and you remained an honest and loyal warrior to your Lord.

It became clear that war was threatening to erupt when the Lady Aethelfaed was kidnapped by the brothers Erik and Sigefrid.

And you rejoiced in the arrival of Alfred’s bastard son Osferth who you very quickly adopted as an honorary brother, whilst your own was away spying on the two brothers for Lord Uhtred.

It became evident that war was coming to Beamfleot and on the eve of battle you tried your best to prepare the baby monk for what would lie ahead.

And on that hill in Beamleot when King Alfred called for the shield wall you fell in line behind Finan, he threw a worried glance over his shoulder and you smiled a reassuring smile his way, “Glory or Valhalla!” you shouted and he smiled in awe, brown eyes boring into the depths of your own before he turned away to face the oncoming Danes.

It was ferocious and fast. The ground was streaked red from the blood of Saxon and Dane alike and in the tumult of blows and swords, you had lost sight of everyone that mattered to you.

You drove your sword into the ribs of a Dane who spat blood into your face, and for a moment you were disorientated, shoved by the push and pull of the fight around you, and then you slipped, boots skidding across the bloodied ground and you hit the ground with a sickening thud, a loud ringing in your ears as your shield was kicked away out of your arms and your eyes widened in horror as an axe swung down at your face, your sword hand swinging quickly to deflect the blow and suddenly your attacker was sent hurtling across the mud.

“Get up,” Finan was roaring, his own face a mixture of horror and blood as he pulled you to your feet, but there was no time for happy reunions as you both moved like wolves, fighting back to back, and you hacked, swung and stabbed with all your might. A blow to your face had you swallowing blood and still you fought. To Finan’s left you watched a Dane sneak up from behind to stab him while he fought off another, his strike never landed because you drove your sword through his skull, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

"Thank you love," Finan shouted over his shoulder and your heart thumped in your chest.

Osferth told you after the battle that it had been the Lady Aethelflaed that had driven a sword through Sigefrid’s back and you relished in knowing he had met his fate at the hands of a woman. 

But the battle was won.

The drinks flowed and Osferth was drunk, asleep on the table of the alehouse. Sihtric had already gone to find his woman and Uhtred was with his Lady Gisela.

“You are a woman!” a Saxon man was shouting, “But you fight better than any man I’ve ever seen,” and Finan was laughing along easily.

He had his arm draped drunkenly around your neck and you were swaying from drunkenness. 

���Then I shall drink like a man!” you cheered and downed the entirety of the mug of ale in your hand in one go, to the shouting and cheers of all the men around except one.

“Okay- Hey, hey! That’s enough love,” Finan was chastising, but he could not fight the giant smile on his face.

“Another!” you boomed and the men went to fetch it for you, and he blocked your line of view.

“Love, that is enough. Uhtred and Sihtric will have my head tomorrow.”

“Just one more,” you pleaded arms wrapping around his neck and laying the weight of your body against him, and when the men returned with another jug of ale for you, he relented and collapsed on the bench with a sigh, he kicked Osferth’s legs and he awoke with a jolt.

“Bed!” he ordered and the baby monk retreated up the stairs solemnly.

He leaned his back against the table and watched as you laughed easily with the other men.

Perhaps it was the drink, at least that’s what he was blaming, but he was green eyed with jealousy.

The smile slipped off your face as you excused yourself from your group of admirers and saddled up beside him.

“You are staring again,” you teased lightly, and when he made no reply you huffed and without warning you plonked yourself down to straddle his lap, thighs pressed either side of his hips and hands braced against his shoulders.

His breath hitched and his eyes widened.

“I see the way you look at me,” you drawled, eyes boring into his now, his hands hovered by your waist unsure what to do.

The fire crackled and his hands found your hips, “Don’t,” he tried to protest but it was weak and feeble.

“Why not?” you pleaded “Aren’t you tired Finan? Don’t you want me, the way that I want you?”

His hands tightened on your hips, he closed his eyes, head thrown back in an attempt to regain some semblance of self-control and swallowed thickly.

You pressed your lips to his exposed neck, and he shuddered, body betraying him entirely as he bucked his hips in an attempt to cause some sort of friction and dug his fingers into the skin of your thighs to keep you in place.

“Please,” he gasped although he didn’t even know what he was begging for, but when you trailed your hand down the expanse of his chest and ghosted it along his waistband he suddenly rose, bench scraping away as he kicked it and he carried you upstairs, kissing you as he went like a man drowning, and he knew he shouldn’t want you like this but he was tired of denying himself of the thing he wanted most in the entire world.

The door slammed behind him and clothes were discarded in a fray of tugging and pulling.

He carried you over to the bed, his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he placed you down, but like a beast you lunged for more tugging at his hips and his hands were in your hair, tugging your head back so he could attach his lips to the smooth skin of your neck, he bit down hard and you cried out fingers clawing at his back.

“You’re mine,” he growled and you moaned, as he removed his lips from your skin, hand still fisted into your hair.

“Say it. Say it love, say that you’re mine.”

“Yours. M’all yours,” you panted, kissing him again and he pinned you down under the weight of his body, pinning your hands above your head, his lips trailed down along your jaw, your throat, and across the swell of your breasts.

You were a panting needy mess beneath him, bucking your hips up in an attempt to get him to meet you where you needed him the most.

You whined when he suddenly stilled all actions, brown-worried eyes boring into yours and releasing your pinned arms.

“Are you sure that you want this love? We’ve had ale- you might feel differently about this in the morning.”

You flipped him over to staddle him and cupped his worried face in your hands, “I could never regret you,” you cried looking at him with such sincerity it made his heart swell in his chest, “I am yours and you are mine- I have been waiting all this time for you, you have no idea how long I have wanted to make you mine.”

“My love,” he sighed, flipping you back over onto your back, spreading your legs apart with his knees and finally sliding inside, “I have been yours from the day that we met.”

He pounded into you hard and fast, the bed creaked under the weight of you both and your ragged breaths and broken sounds filled the room.

And when it was all over-When the shaking in his arms faded and you lay panting beneath him, he placed his forehead against yours, strong hand cupping your face beneath him, thumb brushing circles beside your lips, and he kissed you once more, just because he finally could.

“I love you,” he whispered so earnestly, your eyes flew open to look in his.

“And I, you!” you told him honestly.

The next morning in the soft glow of the morning light, he saddled up behind you where you stood, arms locking around your middle and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Do you regret it love?” he asked shyly and you turned around in his arms and pressed a kiss to his nose, “Never. Not with you.” 

“And in the light of morning,” he swallowed thickly, voice deep and rumbling from within his chest “Darling, who am I to you? Because I cannot go back to never having you like this again.”

You pressed up on your tiptoes, lips millimeters away from his, “You are everything,” you told him honestly “And I want you this way for all time. However long we have. For forever.” 

Tagging: (Just using my Sihtric tags but feel free to ignore if it's not for you)

@canyonmoon-2 @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @thenameswinter99 @foxyanon

@acdassenza @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @gemini-mama

@troyottonick @alexagirlie

a-beaverhausen nebulamorada izzydlb knight-of-flowerss

justcuriousandbored @leftoverp1zza @cheesesandwichsanto @oddsnendsfanfics

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Hi Cam,

Would you consider writing me Hannibal smut where Will saves a victim and the victim gets emotionally attached to him. Then, Will stays with them at the hospital after promising Jack he wouldn’t get attached. Eventually they get discharged and have nowhere to go. Etc.

— Drew

Will Graham X gn!reader: Tethered

Warnings: smut, penetration (p in v), gn!reader, soft sex, kissing, mentions of, wounds (not very descriptive), blood (very tame), no use of y/n, cute ending.

Word count: 1.6K

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be letting himself get so attached. But he can’t stop himself. The moment he found out you’d been taken, something snapped inside Will. He’d immediately jumped on the task of finding you. Alive. Because finding you in any other state would be unacceptable. Impossible. Heartbreaking. So yes, he would find you, and he would save you.

The warehouse had reeked of blood and damp concrete. Will’s gun still trembled in his hand long after the unsub had dropped to the ground. He hadn’t even thought about it—he’d seen the knife in the man’s hand and had immediately fired a shot. You’d let out a squeal at the sound, which had led him to where you were.

You were lying on your back, hand held over your stomach, your shirt soaked with blood. Will had expected it. Of course he had. It had been the killer’s trademark to slit a “smile-like” gash on his victims’ stomachs. But the sight still made his stomach churn. He’d yelled out for his fellow FBI agents. He stayed kneeling beside you until Jack had come, whispering small words of reassurance.

And when the ambulance had put you on a stretcher and placed you inside, Will had jumped in beside you without a second thought. He’d held your hand the whole way to the hospital, only leaving your side when they took you in for surgery.

Three days later, he was still beside you, his hand placed lightly on yours as you slept. Jack had come in on the fourth day to check on you, and when he found Will asleep in a chair beside your bed, he woke him up and pulled him aside.

“Don’t get attached,” Jack warned. “You did your job. Walk away.”

“I know,” Will replied, even as his gaze lingered on you through the door. “I’m not.”

But he didn’t leave.

You didn’t have anyone listed as an emergency contact. No visitors came. No flowers. Just the long silence of sterile walls and nurses who didn’t know what to say. So Will stayed.

You had been so talkative once, so full of brightness. But now you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling or sleeping, your body twitching through endless nightmares. It hurt Will to see you like this. So he did everything in his power to make you feel safe.

And one night, when the nightmares had been particularly bad and you’d woken up in a fright, your hand reached for his before you could help it. You knew he shouldn’t be here—visiting hours were long gone. But yet your hand found his.

“You’re still here,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Discharge day came with no fanfare. You had a paper bag of medications, a too-thin hoodie, and nowhere to go.

“I’ll be fine,” you’d said, but your voice cracked on the lie.

Will hesitated in the parking lot. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got a place. Quiet. Out of the way. You can stay as long as you need.”

Jack’s warning echoed in his mind like a loaded gun. But he chose to ignore it.

Will’s house smelled like wood and dog fur. Winston curled up at your feet immediately, tail thumping gently. It was raining, and the windows fogged over while the fire crackled in the hearth.

Will gave you his room, took the couch without question. But that first night, when your sobs cracked through the walls, he came to the door and didn’t say anything—just held you until you fell asleep again.

Weeks passed. You started to laugh sometimes. You helped with the dogs, cooked when you had energy, sat on the porch when the nightmares left you shaky. And Will was always there. Quiet. Steady.

And then one night, when the power went out in a storm and the fireplace was the only light, you kissed him. It was careful, almost hesitant, but you kissed him like you needed something to hold onto. He stilled. Then kissed you back.

The firelight flickered across your faces, casting shadows that danced with the storm outside. Will’s breath hitched as your lips lingered on his, tentative but desperate, like you were trying to anchor yourself to something real. His hand found the curve of your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You trembled, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if afraid he might disappear. Will brushed a stray damp strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

Your hands slid up his chest, memorizing the solid warmth beneath your palms. The weight of the world seemed to slip away with each beat of his heart. Slowly, Will’s lips moved from yours to the soft, vulnerable skin of your neck, pressing kisses that spoke of quiet reassurance.

When his hands slipped beneath your shirt, you didn’t pull away. You raised your arms, allowing him to tug the fabric off. He placed a soft kiss on your shoulder, and you shuddered at the feeling of his lips on your skin. He backed away slowly, eyes trailing over your bare chest until they found the scar on your stomach. The memory of how you’d gotten it made his face grimace. His fingers moved over the now-healed cut, tracing it with all the love he could muster.

You placed a hand on his face, causing him to look up at you. His eyes softened at the look on your face. There was a shyness there he had not expected. He kissed you again, a little rougher this time.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled against your lips.

The words made your heart soar.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, his voice thick with care.

You shook your head, words failing but your body answering with a soft arch toward him. You pressed closer, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck, needing the warmth, the connection. He groaned slightly as you rubbed against his bulge.

“Will,” you whispered.

He looked into your eyes, “Yes?”

“I want you.”

He smiled, a slow, tender curve that made your heart skip.

“Then I’m yours,” he murmured, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you impossibly closer.

He shifted both of you around so that you were lying on the couch. You widened your legs, allowing him to slot between them. His hand moved to your waistband, giving you one last questioning look before tugging them off. His hands caressed your thighs, eyes raking over your newly exposed skin.

You felt like hiding for a moment, overwhelmed by how vulnerable you suddenly were. But then Will looked at you and gave you the softest smile—and every doubt you had vanished.

He reached down, pulling his sweatpants down just enough to free himself. Then he leaned back over you, kissing you deeper now—slower, but full of the hunger he could no longer hide. You felt him, hard and hot, grinding gently between your legs, and you gasped, arching into him again.

“Ready?”

You nodded.

Both of you moaned as he finally pushed in. Your head tipped back on the couch as Will buried himself to the hilt. Your hands moved over his shoulders, trying to tug him impossibly closer. He let you adjust, forcing himself to stay still even as you clenched around him.

“Move, Will.”

And he did. He started slow—tender—thrusting into you like you were made of something fragile. But then you started clawing at his back, moaning his name, and his control slipped. He moved faster, his hips slamming into you.

All you could do was hold on and feel every inch of him.

Your bodies moved in sync, every thrust a wordless conversation spoken in heat and gasps. Will’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, mixing with yours as your name fell from his lips like a prayer.

“You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips tighter, grounding himself in the sensation of you.

You couldn’t respond—your voice had melted into moans and whimpers—but your body spoke for you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, needing more. Needing all of him.

His pace grew frantic, desperate, driven by the way you clenched around him and whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. He dipped his head, kissing you again—sloppy, needy—like he couldn’t get close enough no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m close,” he whispered against your mouth, voice shaking.

You nodded, dizzy from the pressure building inside you. “Me too,” you managed to gasp, your nails digging into his back.

He shifted, angling his hips just right—and stars exploded behind your eyes. You cried out, clinging to him as your release tore through you, your whole body trembling.

Will followed seconds later, his own climax crashing into him with a deep moan as he buried himself inside you one last time.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead before placing a kiss on your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked softly, still a little breathless.

“I’m perfect,” you sighed. “Thank you, Will. For this—for letting me crash here, for caring, for sticking around.”

He smiled, warm and full of something deeper than lust—something tender. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

And with that, you nuzzled into him, closing your eyes and letting sleep take over.

For the first time in weeks, you slept through the night without a single issue.

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

A Purpose - Spike x Reader [Masterlist]

*Updated daily

Summary: Spike wasn’t someone you associated with if you were sane. Once set on raising an army to kill the Slayer, his plans were quickly crushed—along with his pride. Drunk and bleeding, he ends up face-first in broken glass, only to be found and helped by someone unexpected: her.

Without even realizing it, he carved out a place for himself in her life. A place he hadn’t had in a very long time. And it started to matter. She started to matter.

She didn’t mean to let him in. But Spike kept coming back, and somehow, a space formed for him in her life—quiet, unspoken, and real. What began as reluctant friendship, slowly deepened into something else—something neither of them saw coming.

Note: This is the longest fic I've ever written. I'm just so happy with how it came out. I'm still in the midst of re-reading and editing, but I feel like it's coming along. I can be so indecisive, but overall, I feel like I've been cutting back all the extra fluff.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Walls

Summary : You never ask for help, even when your boyfriend wants to help you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Ex-Widow!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Watchtower fic. Reversal of the 'who hurt you?' trope. New Avenger!bucky and New!Avenger reader. Angst, Hurt/Comfort, reader was raised in the red room. trauma, injury, Cursing, non-sexual nudity and intimacy. bit of fluff!!!! Inspired by the song Walls by Kings of Leon.

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Bucky x red room!reader has been very heavily requested, so here it is! Taglist has not been updated but will be soon. Sorry, just been busy!!! Enjoy!

You never learned how to ask for help.

Not in the Red Room, where weakness was punished and silence was the only means of survival. Not when you were eight years old and pulled your own dislocated shoulder back into place. Not when you were fifteen and learned to kill without hesitation, or when Dreykov told you pain was just a minefield you had to run through.

By the time you escaped the Red Room and you were finally free—if anyone ever really was—some things were too late to unlearn.

You didn’t bleed in front of people. You didn’t cry. You didn’t ask for help, because help never came.

Then came Valentina. Then came the new Avengers. Then came him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He was a soldier like you, a spy like you. The was broken once, too, then built again from whatever pieces were left. You understood each other before either of you spoke a word. The bond was instant but slow to surface, like fossils buried under frost.

You loved him before you ever admitted it.

Bucky loved you like it hurt him. He loved fiercely, tenderly, constantly. But where you were quiet in your pain, he noticed it. Every bruise you didn’t mention, every limp you masked, every silence you brushed off with a dry joke—he saw it all.

Bucky wanted to protect you.

But you never asked to be protected.

So, of course, it naturally took you six months to even admit to yourself that you might have feelings for him.

It happened after a mission gone wrong.

Not fatally wrong — no one died, no one got captured — but wrong enough that your teeth were clenched so hard that your gums ached, your gloves were soaked in an enemy's blood, and the extraction window had nearly closed because someone didn’t cover the flank.

And that someone was Bucky.

You stormed off the jet the second it touched down at the compound, slamming your knives onto the bench in the gear room and with restrained rage.

Of course, Bucky followed.

“What the hell was that out there?” you snapped, spinning around before he could speak. “You were supposed to take the left corridor. Instead you—what? Decided to go solo because you saw a better opportunity?”

“I did what needed to be done,” he said way too calmly. “If I hadn’t looped around, John would’ve gotten pinned. You think I wanted to split off?”

“You left me exposed,” you accused. “I almost took a round to the head because I thought I had someone on my six.”

“But you didn’t,” Bucky snapped. “Because I took that into account.”

The two of you were standing way too close now. Whatever the hell had been simmering between you for months started boiling over.

You shoved him.

He didn’t budge.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “You’re so—so smug. You walk around like no one can question you. Stupid, righteous ass, annoying fucker who’s too good at his job and too cocky because he knows he’s right.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “That what you think of me?”

“I think—” You stopped, chest rising and falling, fists clenched. “Fuck. Fuck, this is so stupid. It’s childish.”

He waited.

You looked at him — at the way he stood there. He was always watching you. Always catching the things no one else noticed.

Your voice cracked, “I think I have a crush on you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. You were ready for rejection, or laughter, or a dismissive shake of his head.

But all he said was, “How is that childish?”

You blinked. “What?”

“How is having feelings for me childish?” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, and it lacked the heat, the sarcasm. 

You looked away. “You don’t get it—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “I do. Because I’ve been trying not to say anything for months because I thought maybe you didn’t feel the same.”

You scoffed. “You what?”

He let out a sweet yet frustrated laugh, as if he didn’t believe you never noticed. “What gave me away? The way I dive in front of bullets for you, or the way I bring you coffee every morning and pretend it’s just convenient?”

That made your lips curve up ever so slightly, despite the heat still in your chest.

“You still piss me off,” you said, softer now.

“Sure,” he replied, stepping close enough that your breath hitched.

Then he kissed you.

It was hard, desperate. His hands were rough, holding your face, pinching your chin gently and tilting your head up. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, and the rest of the world just… dropped away.

When you finally pulled back, forehead to forehead, you muttered, “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” he smiled. “Still want to try?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Still, it frustrated him—how your walls stayed up even after you'd let him into your bed, your trust, your life. You were his partner, but still you held most things alone.

You kept surviving on instinct.

Bucky wanted to be your safe place. And it maddened him that you wouldn’t let let him, even the part of you that loved him still didn’t know how to let him love you back.

Bucky had a lot of demons. You never scared him. But watching you flinch away from his concern terrified him.

—

Three months later…

You knew the mission was off the moment you stepped into the alley.

It was too quiet, like someone had already told them you were coming.

Still, you moved forward.

Two minutes later, it was chaos.

The intel carrier was a decoy, and you were ambushed by three mercs with military-grade weapons and more training than you were led to expect. Before you knew it, one pushed a knife just under your arm, driving up and in through the soft tissue of your side.

You didn’t scream. You bit down hard and twisted the blade out of your own skin with a grunt, turned the motion into an attack, and dropped him where he stood.

The other two didn’t last long.

But neither did your composure.

By the time you stumbled back to the jet, blood had soaked through your suit, and every breath was jagged.

You didn’t call for backup.

You didn’t radio Bucky or ping mission control, even when your hands started shaking.

You just activated autopilot, ripped open the med kit, and stitched yourself up with trembling fingers and an awkward angle.

No anaesthetic or mirror, just you and a needle. 

You bit down on the fabric of your glove, sweat beading along your hairline as you worked the needle through skin. Too shallow and it would tear. Too deep and it would scar. Not that you gave a shit about scars. 

You wrapped the wound tight, when you were done, when you sat back against the cold jet wall and stared at the ceiling, teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached.

It was fine.

You were fine.

Just like always.

When the jet landed back at the tower hours later, you pulled your jacket tight over the bandage and strode down the ramp like nothing had happened. You smiled at Bob in the common room and nodded at Ava in passing.

When Bucky caught your arm, eyes narrowing at the way your hand twitched at your side, you brushed him off with a look. “You okay?”

“Just jet lag,” you said, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth meant to calm him down. “Nothing serious, babe.”

He didn’t buy it. You knew he didn’t. But you kept walking before locking yourself in your room. 

—

There was a knock on your door thirty minutes later. 

You knew it was him.

You didn’t answer.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from the other side of the door after a beat, casual on the surface—but you could hear the tightening underneath. “Can I come in?”

You stared at the door for a moment, then turned back toward your bed.

“Later.”

There was a pause, before you heard the urgency in his tone. “Now, please.”

It was the kind of tone that didn’t push, but didn’t budge either.

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine.”

The door opened, but not fully— just enough for him to step in.

His eyes found you instantly, standing stiffly by the dresser, arms crossed, face taut with frustration.

“Hi,” he said, like he might still salvage this. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

“I said not now.”

“I heard you,” he replied, shutting the door behind him. “But I’m here anyway. So.”

You turned around, pain flaring at your ribs. “What do you want?”

He noticed, gaze dipping. “Who hurt you?”

For you — an injured animal caged into a corner — it landed like a punch and tasted like an accusation.

You stiffened. “Don’t do this.”

He tilted his head. “Please—“

“I’m fine.”

“Your side—”

“How do you even know that?” you snapped, flinching when you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself.

“You walked to one side,” he said. “And I saw the blood on the jet. You cleaned it up fast, but you missed some. You also used two syringes from the med kit and didn’t log it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You keeping tabs on me now?” you asked, retaliating. 

“I’m not keeping tabs, I live here—and I pay attention to you,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what people do when they care.”

“Care?” You let out a bitter laugh, trying to deflect. “Is that what this is? Or are you just trying to babysit your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s eyes flashed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” you challenged. “Don’t say the thing we’re both thinking?”

“I’m not infantilizing you.”

“You’re not? Because this—” you gestured to the space between you “—feels like you don’t trust me to handle myself.”

He was quiet for a beat, he was trying to find words that wouldn’t make you pull further away.

“I trust you,” he said, voice low. “But I saw you come back hurt, and instead of asking anyone for help— or go to the infirmary, you hid it.”

You clenched your fists. “I didn’t want to deal with you treating me like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said, exasperated. “I think you’re hurt and you’re acting like you don’t want me to care.”

“That’s not your job.”

The metal plates of his vibranium arm shifted, and for the first time, his voice raised. It was not loud, just… pained. “I’m not here because it’s my job, I’m here because I love you.”

That stopped you cold in your tracks.

Bucky stared at you, breathing hard. “So when I saw blood and you shutting me out, yeah—I panicked. Not because I think you’re weak, but because I want to help.”

Your chest tightened, but pride was louder than pain. “I don’t need saving.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is?” you bit out.

He let a deep breath through his nose, and for the first time, his voice broke a little. “I’m not mad you got hurt,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t trust me enough to help. You didn’t even want me in here.”

You folded your arms across your chest and regretted it instantly when pain bloomed under your bandage.

“Maybe I wanted to deal with it myself,” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you every goddamn thing!”

His eyes shifted. He didn’t argue.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You both just stood there for a moment, locked in a kind of stalemate that didn’t quite feel like winning.

Bucky turned toward the door. “I care about you,” he said. 

You didn’t answer or move.

And when he stepped out, you said, “I just need space.”

He paused—just for a second—but didn’t turn back.

And you pushed the door shut behind him.

—

The punching bag groaned under Bucky’s metal fist. He wasn’t pulling his punches—not tonight.

Thud. Thud. CRACK.

The chain creaked, and the bag swung violently to one side. Soon, he heard a slow clap echoing from behind him.

“Feel better?” Yelena teased.

He didn’t turn. “Not even close.”

She strolled in, wearing sweats and a sarcastic smile, and a half-eaten

 protein bar in one hand. Typical Yelena—casual as hell, like the world couldn’t touch her. But Bucky knew better. They both had ghosts—just different corners.

“You’re going to break that thing,” she added, nodding to the bag. “And you should be careful with the way you ask that question.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What question?”

“‘Who hurt you?’” she said, voice half-mocking, half-sincere. “Big mistake, Barnes. You ask that to a Red Room girl and you better be ready to duck.”

He sighed. “You heard us.”

“I think even Ava heard the argument, and she is three floors up.”

Bucky let out a bitter breath. “Do you think I screwed up?”

“She kicked you out of her room, yes?”

He nodded.

“Then yes,” she hummed. “You screwed up. Or she did. Or both. Probably both.”

“I was just trying to help. She was hurt, and she didn’t tell anyone. She lied about it.”

“She didn’t lie,” she corrected, “She withheld. There’s a difference.”

“She didn’t have to go it alone,” Bucky shook his head. “I was right there.”

“Yes,” Yelena’s voice softened. “But alone is what we’re good at.”

He sighed, not wanting to hear what he already knew to be true.

Yelena leaned forward, taking a bite of her snack. “By Red Room standards, I got lucky. Fake family, borderline functional spy-parents, annoying sister. I had… a taste of a family. people to remind me what kindness looked like, even if it was bullshit half the time.”

She shrugged. “But her? She didn’t get sent to Ohio. No fake American pie. No pretend bedtime stories. She had the real Red Room. Just… handlers.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “I just wanted her to let me in.”

Yelena stood and stretched, then nudged his shoulder with hers. “I know. You were trying to love her. That’s not the problem.” She turned toward the door, then paused. “You just forgot something.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You’re not here to fix her, Bucky. She has to do that herself.’ Her voice was kinder now — not condescending, not sarcastic. “You’re her partner. She doesn’t need you to ask who hurt her.”

Bucky tilted his head.

Yelena didn’t even look over her shoulder as she walked away. “She needs to trust that you wouldn’t.”

—

The morning after, you woke up sore.

Not just your side—though the wound throbbed like it was pissed at you—but in your chest. 

You’d barely slept, and the silence in your room was louder than ever before.

You weren’t proud of how last night ended.

But you also weren’t ready to admit it out loud.

You sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, staring at the door like it might offer answers if you glared hard enough. It didn’t.

What did come, though, was the sweet scent of breakfast. 

You opened your door and almost tripped over it.

There laid a covered tray, still hot.

You opened it and saw your favourite breakfast— toast with way too much butter and maple syrup, a few slices of crispy bacon, and even coffee—just the way you drank it.

You blinked.

A small folded note sat beneath the mug, written in neat block letters. 

“Thought you might still be mad. But you still gotta eat.

 — JBB”

There was no lecture or apology. Just… care.

Your first instinct was to leave it. To prove a point or maintain a boundary or whatever. 

So you closed the door paced for a few minutes.

But the smell.

God, the toast was warm and golden and perfectly ruined in that way you liked.

You stared at the door from the inside of your room.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Fuck, you were hungry— you didn’t have dinner last night. 

You muttered under your breath like a gremlin. “Stupid stubborn super soldier.”

You opened the door again and very cautiously pulled the tray inside like it might explode. You sat down on your bed and your arms. Then you uncrossed them. You picked up a piece of bacon, sniffed it, and ate it.

It was perfect.

You didn’t want to smile. But you did. Just a little.

You whispered to no one, “Thanks, Buck.”

—

Down the hall, Bucky leaned quietly against the wall just out of view.

When he heard the faint scrape of the tray being pulled inside, he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

—

The shower was supposed to help.

You stood under the spray with your forehead against the tile, letting the heat soak into your muscles. Steam curled around you, thick and humid. The kind that fogged the mirror and made your breath feel heavier. You watched a droplet trace its way down your wrist, vanishing into the edge of the drain. 

You hadn’t washed since you got back from the mission—barely slept, barely spoken. Just bandaged yourself up in the jet and buried the pain like you always did.

It was stupid. You knew it. You just didn’t want to see the worry in their faces. In his face.

You squeezed your eyes shut, let the water run over your body, then grabbed the loofah.

It was muscle memory— Scrub, rinse, repeat. So you weren’t even thinking when you dragged it over your ribs—just moving on instinct, wanting to be clean. Scrub the blood. Scrub the tension. Scrub everything off.

And then—

You felt white-hot pain.

You hissed, froze, and looked down.

The wound was red— bright and fresh across the gauze, soaking into the water swirling down the drain— the loofah had latched on to a thread and tore it out. 

The stitches were completely pulled out.

“Shit.”

You staggered out of the shower, dripping and trembling, gripping the sink for balance as steam spilled into the room. The mirror was a smeared blur, your reflection hidden behind a ghostly mask of condensation as a trail of red followed you.

You grabbed the towel with shaking fingers and wrapped it tight around your chest, pressing your palm against the fresh bleed at your side. The warmth of the water was already turning cold against your skin, and the throb in your ribs had gone from dull to searing.

You dropped to the floor with a grunt, pulling the first-aid kit from beneath the sink. Your knees hit the tile hard. You didn’t flinch as you opened the case and pulled the supplies into your lap: needle, thread, gauze, antiseptic.

The blood made your hands slick.

You tried to thread the needle. Twice. Missed. On the third attempt, it slipped from your grip and clattered against the tile. You cursed under your breath, picked it up again, finally got the thread through the eye.

You pinched the skin along the gash.

Just a few stitches. You could do this. 

But when you tried to push the needle in, your hand shook too hard. It missed the edge of the skin and dragged instead, scratching you. You tried again, gritting your teeth, but your vision blurred with the steam and the sweat and the water still dripping from your hair.

The third time, the needle went in—then tore the skin when you pulled too fast.

“Fuck!”

Your chest rose and fell. Your heart thudded behind your ribs, against your wound. You looked down at the mess of gauze and blood, the trembling in your fingers, the way your breath caught in your throat.

This was nothing.

You’d been shot before. Tortured. Conditioned.

But right now—sitting half-naked on the bathroom floor, wet and cold and bleeding again—you weren’t fine.

For the first time in a long time, you thought, I don’t want to be alone for this. 

So you got up, pressed the towel tighter, and walked barefoot down the hall toward Bucky’s room.

—

You didn’t knock right away.

You stood outside his door barefoot, one hand clutching the towel, the other pressed to the wound at your side, now throbbing with a hot ache. You hated how unsteady your legs felt, how your heartbeat was rattling inside your chest.

Finally, you raised your knuckles and knocked twice.

The door opened almost instantly, like he’d been standing just on the other side, waiting.

And maybe he had been.

Bucky stood there in a dark long-sleeved henley and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair damp like he’d showered recently. The second he saw you, his expression changed—not shocked. Not angry.

Just worried.

His eyes flicked down to the blood seeping through the towel. Then back up to your face. You expected a million probing questions, like how did this happen? Why didn’t you come to me sooner? How could you do this to yourself? 

He asked none.

You started to speak—“I—”—but your voice cracked, and the word never made it out.

Instead, you just looked at him, hand tightened over your side.

Bucky stepped aside without a word.

And that was it. No demand. No scolding. No what were you thinking?

You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a click.

You stood in the middle of the room you were very familiar with— you’ve spent most of your nights here, after all— and tried your best to stay up. 

He strode by you, looking at you like you hadn’t pushed him away last night.

His voice, when it came, was gentle. “Let me help.”

You nodded, just once, your chin trembling.

And finally, you like it hurt you to admit, you whispered, “I couldn’t do it on my own.”

“I got you,” he said simply.

Not I’ll fix you.

Not You should’ve come sooner.

His hands rose to take the edge of the towel from you. He waited—watched your eyes—for permission.

You gave it.

And as he peeled the fabric away from your ribs, his touch never faltered. 

He studied the red gashing wound before helping you down to sit on his bed. He grabbed his first air kit from his bedside. 

“I ripped the stitches,” you admitted the obvious.

He knelt in front of you without a word. The reopened gash was deep, but clean. No sign of infection, but it needed fixing.

“You scrubbed it open?” he murmured.

You groaned. “With a loofah. Like a genius.”

He gave a tiny huff of amusement. “A dangerous weapon.”

“I think it’s actually stronger than Walker.”

“Definitely smarter.”

You smiled despite yourself. Your arm dropped slightly, and Bucky reached for a clean towel and laid it gently across your lap before reaching for the antiseptic. You watched him work—his metal hand deft and practiced, his human one in a support capacity. 

“This is gonna sting,” he warned. “But I’ll go slow.”

You nodded.

He cleaned the wound gently, pressing gauze against it in soft, rhythmic motions. It hurt, but not like before. 

He threaded the needle and began stitching. The pull of the thread through your skin made you flinch, but his hand was there—resting gently on your thigh.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned back on your hands, letting him finish.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

When he tied the last knot, he set the needle aside and wiped the blood away with a damp cloth.

He looked up at you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”

You blinked at him—then dropped your eyes.

And for the first time, you didn’t say “fine.”

Your voice cracked when you said, “No,” followed with a quieter, “No, I’m not.”

Your lip trembled, and suddenly your face folded in on itself, hands rising to cover your eyes too little too late—too slow to hide the tears that came all at once.

You tried to stop it.

You tried to breathe through it, tried to hold yourself together because that’s what you’d always done.

But Bucky was already moving. He didn’t say anything and opened his arms.

And that was all it took.

You leaned in like gravity pulled you there, and you felt his arms close. Your shoulders shook and soaked his shirt through your tears. 

He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go.

His hand moved across your back in long, rhythmic strokes. He rested his chin gently on your head, his metal arm gently circled your waist, holding you without trapping you. His other hand moved to your hair, fingers sliding through the strands in calming patterns.

Your knees tucked up against his and your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. You breathed in his scent, faint soap and aftershave and something familiar that made you fall in love all over again.

He adjusted you without a word, easing you down so your cheek rested against his chest. His thumb brushed your temple once, then again.

He held you until your breathing slowed. Until your hands unclenched. Until your shoulders stopped rising, until you were still.

And when the last of the tears had soaked into his shirt, you stayed like that for a long time.

—

That night, he found you one of his shirts—worn and too big. You slipped it over your head in the bathroom, careful not to pull your stitches, and returned to the room with bare legs and clean skin.

Bucky opened the covers and moved aside.

You climbed into the bed beside him.

And after a long stretch of silence, you finally found the courage to say, “Thank you.”

Bucky turned his head toward you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Anytime.”

“And in case you were still wondering who did this,” you sniffled, “The guy who was supposed to be my informant got lucky.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around you, though not too tight. “You take his knife?”

“Left it in his thigh,” you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, finding a comfortable spot. “His wound is definitely deeper than mine.”

"That's my girl," he whispered proudly, his hand still gently stroking up and down your back.

The room had gone quiet, save for the occasional creak of old pipes and the hum of the heater kicking in. Bucky didn't move, enjoying your weight pressed into his chest, your cheek warm against the curve of his shoulder. His fingers trailed through your hair absently — like muscle memory.

"You know," he murmured after a while, his breath brushing against your hairline, "I still don't understand how you do it. Take down someone three times your size."

He smiled a little, one of those soft, private ones meant just for you, even though your breathing had deepened into a slower rhythm.

"Yelena and Ava, do it, too, sure," he went on, lips barely moving. "But with you… It’s so much brute force." He chuckled a low rumble in his chest. "It even scares me sometimes."

No response. Not a shift, not a twitch from you. He tilted his head, finally noticing the way your breathing had slipped and steadied.

Bucky glanced down at you, as realization settled in. "You fell asleep on me, didn’t you?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Jesus, doll, you were that tired?"

One tiny, unmistakable snore answered him — high-pitched and fleeting, almost like a hiccup, and then another.

He couldn't help it — he laughed, delighted. "God, your snores are adorable."

He pulled the blanket up a little higher over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple.

"Sleep, baby. I got you," he whispered. "Always got you."

And then, with you curled against him, still snoring softly into his neck, Bucky closed his eyes, too.

-end.

I have an idea for a part two that might never get written: Bucky genuine cannot believe it when you ask him if you could permanently move into his room.

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[kiwi-peaches-blog]

A You and Me Thing

pairing (romantic): MCU Bucky Barnes x reader (no pronouns used)

synopsis: Bucky loves seeing you laugh. But he doesn't love seeing other people tickle you.

words: ~4200

cw: tickling, swearing, kinda possessive!Bucky, protective!Bucky, Bucky verbally teases a lot. minors DNI (adult-aged character x reader).

note: thank you anon ~ for your beautiful headcannon message that sparked inspiration so profoundly unavoidable that i had to write this immediately <3

The Compound had its own rhythm.

Loud in the morning, chaotic by lunch. By late afternoon, it often softened into something unsettlingly domestic. But you'd grown used to the ebb and flow, the dynamics of it; the occasional crash from the training floor, the laugh from the living room, the bickering in the kitchen. The lives being lived loudly.

Somewhere in all that noise, Bucky Barnes had found you.

And you had found him.

Or, perhaps - you finally allowed yourselves to notice each other.

That’s how it felt, you thought: like a slow reveal, something waiting under the surface for permission to come up for air.

It wasn’t anything dramatic at first. Just looks across the gym. Passing comments in debriefs that made you laugh - followed by the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that looked like it had to breach surface tension just to show itself.

Then it was a brush of your arms when you passed him a mug in the kitchen. A sharp, quiet joke that made him laugh that rough, rusty sound that always seemed to surprise even him, and nudge your arm with his own.

And now... you were something. Not exactly official. Not exactly casual. You weren’t sleeping in his bed every night - but when you were on the couch and he came in, he gravitated toward you like it was gravity.

He flirted - oh, how he flirted - and he was persistence. Present. Available. In a roomful of people, always choosing you.

And today, for the most part, had been like any other over the past several weeks and months.

Until Thor got a little handsy.

It was stupid, really. Some documentary on TV you were only half-watching, some awe-filled comment from Thor, some sly smirk and snappy retort from you, a pillow hitting your shoulder with force, an even-more-violent pillow missile whacking against his head, then a hand around your ankle - yanking you onto your back - and a reminder that he is an older brother.

Two massive hands struck - tickling with quick and careful squeezes beside your hips, and your reaction was instantaneous; you burst into laughter, trying to jerk sideways, trying to kick against his thigh for leverage to escape.

"No fair!" You squeaked, sniffling between laughter and jerking again when one hand slid down to grab at the muscle above your kneecap. "THOR!" You wanted to argue that his unwarranted attack was a violation of Earth's unilateral peace agreement with Asgard, but the words were garbled in laughter until Thor allowed you squirm your way off the couch, and land in a heap on the floor. "Ow," you whined, but didn't really mean it.

Thor chuckled and turned up the volume of the documentary, a smug smile on his face at his victory. You glowered, no malice behind it, and stood, straightening your clothes.

Across the room, you felt his stare before you saw it. Your smile softened as your gaze flicked past Thor’s shoulder - locking with storm-blue eyes that had gone a shade colder.

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable - but his jaw was tight. Not angry, exactly. But something darker simmered beneath the surface.

You could feel the weight of it. The shift in him.

You brushed your hands on your leggings, crossing the room toward Bucky, and you clocked Sam watching the exchange with a lifted brow - but he, wisely, said nothing.

Bucky didn’t move when you reached him.

He uncrossed his arms slowly as you approached, but his expression didn’t change.

You stopped just in front of him, close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Hey."

His gaze flicked over your face, and you felt his eyes settle briefly on your mouth before he glanced away.

"Hey," he said shortly.

You cocked your head. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he said. Clipped. Too fast.

You paused, sighed through your nose. Then, you stepped in closer and leaned your shoulder into his chest, folding your arms as if settling in for comfort, but also calling his bluff. You didn’t push, didn’t ask again. You just settled, letting your body speak trust, even if he wasn’t ready to.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then, with a long exhale, he dipped his head and kissed the side of yours.

It was slow. Lingering. Just behind your ear.

Not performative. Not light.

Claiming.

Your breath caught - just a little.

And when he pulled back, you could feel the heat of his stare trailing down your cheek, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was low.

"Didn’t know you were so ticklish."

You smiled, soft, eyes half-lidded now, aware of how close your mouth was to his. "You've never tried."

His lips curved - barely. "Maybe I should."

A pause. His fingers skimmed the hem of your sweatshirt, almost idly - but you weren’t fooled. His touch was precise. Curious. Possessive in the way he wasn’t quite letting himself show.

"What's wrong, Buck."

"I just…" he started, then stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes didn't leave him. He studied your face a moment. Then: "It’s stupid."

"Try me."

Another pause. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I like being the one makin' you laugh."

Your brows rose in question. In steady challenge.

"I don't mean..." you could see his breath trapped high up in his chest, "not that I've got a problem with you laughing with other people - that's not what I'm saying - but... that feels different." His eyes held yours. "Tickling feels personal." His voice dropped lower. "Intimate."

Your chest ached. Not in a bad way.

Softly. Warmly.

Gods, you adored this man.

He used the silence to wince at his own words, tick his jaw, shake his head, start to over-explain. "Shit. I'm not sayin' any of this right. The last thing I want is for you to feel... controlled or-"

"No, I get it," You smiled gently, leaning a little further into him. "You'd just... prefer if tickling was a you thing."

He tilted his head, eyes not wavering, a small grateful tug at the corner of his lips. "A you and me thing," he clarified.

You smiled, gave a single nod, and slipped your fingers through his metal hand, warm and easy, and you tipped your face up to his. "That's fine by me, Sergeant." You placed a quick kiss on the curve of his jaw. Then whispered: "and just you know for sure... it's a perfectly reasonable ask."

And that earned you a real smile. Small. Lopsided. Relieved, and real.

And even better - it reached his eyes.

You gave a flirtatious little smile and added, "especially since we're 'goin' steady' - isn't that how you said it?"

"Shut up," he murmured, hooking an arm around your shoulders to pull you back in. "Punk," he whispered in that playful way of his, but then smoothed a hand down the centre of your back, and placed a kiss on the top of your head.

Time continued as it usually did - long days, short weeks, even shorter months, and you’d mostly forgotten about that day in the lounge.

New rhythms were forming.

You and Bucky weren’t exactly a textbook couple - you still had separate suites, separate closets, and more trauma between you than one relationship should reasonably have - but fuck, you were good together.

Especially those quiet moments. In the in-between.

The evenings where he let you play with his hair with a distracted hum, or the mornings where he pressed his face into your shoulder, refusing to get up until you whispered something filthy just to make him chuckle.

He was still healing, and it wasn’t linear. Some days were heavier than others. Some nights he held you like he was trying to tether himself to reality. And some days, you gave him space because you knew he needed to figure it out in his own head first.

This day had started like any other.

You’d laced up your boots and headed to the gym. Steve was there, you decided to spar. Bucky came in just after you started, watching with a proud spark and approving nod of your form. Your fierceness.

You were halfway through a round when Steve really got the better of you, and your back hit the mat with a breathless OOF. Steve’s hand planted against your sternum, keeping you down.

You winced. "Jeez, Rogers. Doesn't the serum have an expiration date or something?"

He lifted a brow. "Not that I'm aware of. Guess you'll just have to do better."

You rolled your eyes and muttered something snarky about brittle old-man hips coming for him, and before you could react - Steve’s fingers dug in where they were planted, hitting several ticklish spots on the front of your ribcage.

Your squeak echoed through the gym.

"Shit!" you gasped, laughter bubbling up as you squirmed, curling in on yourself as his hand continued the onslaught for a few torturous seconds. "Cut it out," you wheezed, swatting as he finally pulled his hand away and you started to re-compose yourself.

He smiled and held out a hand. "C'mon. One more round."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, but took his help. "Clean this time."

He nodded once. "Scout's honour."

But as you moved back into your stance to reset the drill, your attention flicked - automatically, instinctively - to the space where Bucky had been standing earlier.

It was empty. And the doors were sliding shut.

You showered and dressed for the rest of the day before seeking Bucky out, deciding to check his room first. You didn’t knock right away - just rested your knuckles against the door and waited a beat. Long enough to hear the subtle sound of a page turning inside.

Then you knocked. In the same rhythm you always did.

"It's open," came Bucky’s voice. A little too calm.

You entered, seeing him freshly showered, legs stretched out on the mattress in front of him, a few pillows between his spine and the headboard, paperback in hand. His hair was messily-tied, loose strands half-dried and curling against his temples.

"Hey," you said softly, closing the door behind you.

He glanced up. His face warmed slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Hey."

He looked back at his book.

You flexed your hands and crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed beside him. Not crowding. Just sitting there, quietly, letting the moment settle around you both.

After some silence, you spoke. "I'm... hoping you’re not upset at me for what happened in the gym today."

Bucky didn’t look up again. "I’m not upset at you."

You studied his profile. The tension in his jaw. The way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

"But you are upset."

He closed the book. Sighed. Scrubbed a hand down his face, voice low. "I'm not mad. I don’t blame you for anything. I just..."

"Didn’t like it," you finished gently.

He didn’t answer.

You pressed, voice soft but pointed. "It was Steve, Buck. And I didn't start it."

"I know. I know, it's-"

"Look... I know we agreed tickling would be and you and me thing, but it feels like you just want it off the table completely. I mean, you've never even tried. And if it's something you don't like, that's okay, you just need to-"

His laugh was dry. "What I don't like is wondering if I'd accidentally crack one of your ribs."

Your lips parted.

There it was. The vulnerability behind the sarcasm.

The muscle in his jaw flexed as he looked away. His shoulders had gone stiff, like he was bracing for battle. But a fight wasn’t coming.

You turned your body more fully toward him, knees bending to tuck under you beside his hip. You reached out, fingers curling lightly around his thigh.

"Buck."

He still didn't meet your eye, held up the metal hand with a little shake of his head. "It’s not exactly the most delicate tool in the shed."

You let a beat pass. Then slid your hand over his thigh more firmly - gentle, slow, grounding. "That doesn’t mean it would hurt me." You traced your fingers lightly over the seam of his sweats. "It's never hurt me before, has it?"

He gave a long exhale through his nose and closed his eyes. "'m sorry," he tilted his head back against the headboard. Your thumb brushed his thigh.

"I get where you're coming from. I do. And I don't wanna push you to do things you're not comfortable with, but I... I like a little roughhousing," a wry chuckle burst through your lips. Bucky's neck went upright again, eyes opening and finally finding yours. "I know we're not kids - I know who we are, I know what we do - but we can still... play. That's part of being human. Part of being together. We're supposed to have a little fun."

He let out another breath, and his eyes narrowed. Head tilted. It was an effort - you could see that; he was consciously trying to change his mood. And it was working. You could feel the shift. The warmth seeping back into his eyes.

He let his voice drop to that flirty tease he knew worked wonders against your composure. "Sounds like you're begging for a tickle fight."

You bit back a smile. "No - that’d be boring."

He lifted a brow. "Boring."

You shrugged one shoulder innocently. "It's not really fun to fight when I know I'd win."

His expression twitched. "Y'know, you can be a brat sometimes."

You smirked, whispered. "You’re just mad cause I’m better at it than you."

He blinked. "At what, exactly?"

You lunged at him.

Your hands landed at his ribs, fingers jabbing quickly, finding flesh over muscle - and Bucky jerked, letting out a startled sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff.

"Oh-ho," he said, voice dropping an octave. "Okay. That's it."

Before you could react further, his book hit the nightstand, and he twisted, grabbing you around the waist and hauling you over his thighs onto the centre of the bed.

You giggled and scrambled as you landed half-tangled in your own limbs, and Bucky followed. This was a chase. A mess of skin and clothes and laughter, your bodies rolling awkwardly across the mattress, twisting and dodging while he made exaggerated grabs for your sides.

You caught his wrist once, tried to twist, and he used the opening to finally get his fingers against your ribs - eliciting a squeal you barely bit back.

"Oh, sweetheart..." he chuckled, triumphant. "You’re doomed."

"Just you wait," you wheezed, pulling your leg away just as he made a grab for your ankle.

He grinned, ducking your flailing elbow. "You asked for this." His right hand slipped under your hoodie, fingers finding the edge of your hip.

"Wait!" You arched immediately, hands pushing against his wrist, laughter bubbling from your throat, wild and breathless.

"Oh, that’s a good spot," he murmured, delighting in the discovery. "I'm makin' a mental note of this one." He dug in again, making you kick your legs uselessly against the bedspread.

You shoved at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-wrestling. "You call this a tickle fight? This- ugh! This is weak!"

"Weak?"

He went for your ribs this time. You shrieked again, dissolving into laughter, twisting and squirming on the bed as his hands chased you across the mattress.

"Bucky! Wait- okay- let's reset!"

"We haven’t even started."

It turned into a tangle. A full-body scuffle - your limbs thrashing against his as he followed you wherever you rolled, one hand darting in to squeeze the side of your knee, another digging into your waist, drawing all sorts of laughter and flustered sounds from you. He broke your defences with each passing second.

He loved the sound of it all. Loved seeing you lose your cool. Your cheeks warmed, eyes gleaming as you tried to scramble up the bed.

"You're all talk, you know that?" he said, catching your ankle and dragging you back down with one hand. "All mouth."

"You love my mouth." You countered, twisting, trying to push up on your elbows.

"You’re not getting away that easy." He chuckled, catching the place above your knee and yanking you more fully into his reach. You landed on your side with your back to him, and couldn't get away before his arm hooked low around your stomach.

He pressed his thumb against your hip and you bucked, laughing uncontrollably as your hands tried to pry his free. He was laughing too now - the kind of warm, dark sound that made your stomach flip. And you were caught. Really caught. With every passing ticklish second, you lost more fine motor control, more tension seeped out of you, more fight evaporated.

Your mouth though... that kept going.

Kinda.

It tried.

"You- I- I swear I’m gonna-"

"Tell me," he leaned in, smiled against your ear. "Tell me what you're gonna do."

You craned your neck to look at him, giggling, breathless, still defiant. "Careful, old man. You’re sounding winded."

Bucky stilled.

Smiled and- oh, fuck. Not just smiled.

It was that rare grin. Full, and boyish, and wicked.

And suddenly you were flat on your back, his weight braced over you, knees straddling your hips. Your wrists were pulled against your chest, caught tightly between the two of you in one of his hands.

Your breath hitched.

He hadn't been letting you win...

But he had been letting you fight.

And it looked like you'd just lost that privilege.

"Repeat that?" he said, voice husky with mock offence.

You smirked, opened your mouth to do so-

You gasped at the cold as his metal hand slipped under your hoodie. Before you could protest the icy temperature, he dug in.

Right beside your hip, just on the side of your stomach. The spot you didn't even know was there to be found. But he pressed in fast, little circles, cold metal fingers expertly tormenting the exact right place to send you into chaos.

You threw your head back and laughed, deep and loud and hearty, unable to do anything else.

Bucky kept grinning, delighted, wisps of his hair falling forward as he leaned in close, not letting you escape any part of his attention.

"Mmm," he hummed, smug. "There's the goldmine."

He picked up his pace and you started squealing, legs kicking the bed as you bucked under him, laughter tearing out of your throat.

"I'm gonna die-" you gasped.

"No no. You’ll live. I'll make sure of it," he chuckled, hand still tormenting, switching up his rhythm just enough to keep you on edge. "... I'll make sure you feel every second of this."

You were shrieking now, helpless, because any movement sent you right back into him, his hands, his body, his laughter. The cold of his fingers under your shirt.

His touch stayed with you, devilish and steady and clawing at the softest part of your belly. And his grin only widened, his lips ducking to your neck. "You like my metal hand now, sweetheart?" he cooed, lips and stubble grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.

You arched between the bed and his body, crying out in a half-sob of laughter. "NO- NO- not my nnn- not there-!"

"You still wanna tell me what you're gonna do?"

"Oka- OKAY! You proved your point! You WIN!"

Blessedly - he stopped, watching as the air flooded your lungs, chuckling as you squeaked when he pressed a brief kiss to the side of your neck.

His metal hand stayed on your skin but slid to rest on your waist, idle and strong and now docile.

And you? You were completely undone, breathless, runner's high, chest rising fast under his hand still holding your wrists. And your dazed eyes met his.

His face had softened. That teasing glow still lingered behind his smile - but now it came with something gentler. Something warm.

"Y'alright?" he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking to your lips for a brief second.

You took in a big breath. "I think my lungs collapsed."

He snorted. "Yeah. You're fine."

You tried to glare, but there was no sharpness behind it, only relief. Only fun. Only something heating up a little more. So you slipped one hand out of his hold, and hooked a finger around the chain poking out just above the side of his collar.

Thin metal slid against itself, and fabric. Your eyes locked on the shape of it beneath his shirt.

You pulled, gently, and watched the shape move. Up, towards his collar. More chain free. Then, his dog tags peaked out. Tipped free.

They tinked softly as they landed in your open palm.

Then your eyes flicked back up to his, winding the chain once more around your finger. Insistent.

He let you pull him down to meet you.

And he let you kiss him senseless.

And after all that... all of this really became a thing. A part of your rhythm, threading itself into your days like muscle memory.

Because it wasn’t just tickling. Or roughhousing. It was you.

Your laugh. Your joy.

The way he coaxed it free.

The sound of it.

The way your body shook against him when it hit, wild and unrestrained and helpless. The way your smile went crooked when you tried to talk through it. The way you always fought back and never won. The way you let him have that side of you.

All of it. He loved it.

And he got very good at it.

One time, you were curled up on the couch watching something dumb, your legs draped across his lap, tank top riding up slightly from how you'd twisted onto your side. You were deep into some half-witty analysis about the movie when Bucky’s hand slid, slowly and deliberately, beneath the hem of your top.

You barely registered the motion - just a subtle movement along your back, near your ribs, his thumb brushing soft skin.

Then he pinched right under your shoulder blade, and your whole spine jolted like you’d been shocked.

"Hey!"

He smirked, leaned back like the smug bastard he was, and repeated the quick, precise motion.

You tried to grab his hand, but he caught your wrist, chuckling low as you tried to twist away - only for him to push his hand in deeper, fingertips seeking that little pocket just under your back ribs.

"You didn’t tell me about this one," he murmured, with the gall to feign offence.

"I didn’t know!" you wheezed, giggling helpless, kicking at him. "You must've found a- a new spot, you- jerk!"

He hummed with faux-thoughtfulness, easing his touch there, drawing slow and light circles that made you shiver and curl your toes. "Hmm. It's on the list now."

Another time, he caught you in the kitchen, reaching for a bowl in a higher cabinet, stretched out in your sweats and socks, tank top riding up in the back. He came up behind you, bracing your hips between his hands.

You stilled. Warm. Neck heating. You turned your head slightly.

"Well are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help me reach?"

And then-

He ducked, leaned in, and blew a raspberry against your lower back - right where your spine dipped and your skin was exposed.

You half-yelped, half-laughed, knees buckling, arms shooting down to brace yourself on the counter.

Too quickly, he stood, arms looping around your waist as you tried to stumble away, and he smiled against your neck. "I'll never get tired of that."

"Hmph," you tried, but couldn't feign annoyance. Especially when he reached up and brought the bowl down without another word.

But he didn't always have great timing. Like the one singular time he got you while you were brushing your teeth.

You were standing at the sink in your little black sleep shorts, thin-strapped tank, mouth full of minty foam, groggy, half-awake, and apparently something about you screamed: ah yes - this is the perfect target.

Because Bucky walked up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed the curve of your shoulder... and then tickled your ribs. Not soft. Not gentle. Ruthless. Firm, deft, digs of his fingers.

Toothpaste foam erupted from your mouth, splattering the sink and mirror, toothbrush clicking against the floor as you doubled over and shrieked and squirmed, whacking your knees against vanity.

That time - you really did scowl at him. And he apologised. Profusely. Through his laughter, through his chuckling as you threw a towel at him to clean the place up.

You only eased your glare ten minutes when he placed a coffee in your hands and kissed you, slow and deep and languid, one hand still on the mug to make sure it didn't spill.

Apart from the one Toothpaste Incident, he was wise about it; he never played when you were upset. When you were anxious, closed off, in pain. When it was clear you only wanted to be touched carefully. Wanted to be grounded.

So it was when you were present. Close enough for him to read you, to feel it was okay. Only when he was sure you’d let yourself go for him.

Because your laughter - your real, wild laughter - wasn’t something everyone got. Not your deep kind. Not your body-shaking, wheezing kind that made your cheeks hurt and your voice go hoarse. Not the kind that made your body weak and vulnerable.

But he got it. Over and over again.

And every time you caught him grinning down at you while you gasped and laughed and shrieked for mercy - his hair falling into his face, eyes gleaming, voice rich with affection...

You could see it that same flash of joy. Like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like this was the sound he’d been waiting to hear on the other side of the ice.

So you gave it, played it, da capo, over and over, and over again.

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

“More Than Just A Doctor”

Leonard "Bones" McCoy x Reader

Summary : Bones hears you laughing with another man, and he doesn't like it at all.

Tags : filled with tension, pining, jealousy, and a long-overdue confession.

Space was vast. Cold. Silent. And yet somehow, the most infuriating, frustrating thing about being aboard the Enterprise… wasn’t the vacuum of space.

It was Leonard McCoy.

You'd never met anyone more exasperating. Gruff, sarcastic, biting with his words — and yet, underneath all that bark was someone who made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t quite explain. He was kind in subtle ways: shoving extra hyposprays into your kit when you were heading planetside, walking you back to your quarters when shifts ran late (muttering the whole time that it was “just in case”), and making sure you never skipped meals even when he did.

But if he ever felt something more… well, he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit it.

And honestly? You were starting to think it was all in your head.

That afternoon, you found yourself laughing — genuinely laughing — at a joke from one of the engineering ensigns, a charming young officer with a crooked smile and a knack for terrible puns. His stories about a malfunctioning transporter were ridiculous, and the warmth of the conversation was a rare comfort in the endless routine of starship life.

"And then the damn thing duplicated my left boot. Only the left one!"

You snorted. "Oh my God. What did Scotty say?"

"He said I should be grateful it wasn’t my head."

Your laughter echoed down the corridor.

You didn’t notice the footsteps behind you. Heavy. Clipped. Slowing the moment they rounded the corner and caught sight of the two of you.

Leonard McCoy froze mid-step.

There you were — smiling. Leaning in slightly. Laughing in a way that felt like someone had sucker-punched him right in the chest. His fingers tightened where they hung by his sides, jaw clenching so hard it ached.

He hadn’t seen you smile like that at him in… hell, maybe ever.

Rationally, he knew it was ridiculous. You were free to talk to whoever you wanted. Free to laugh, free to—

The ensign touched your arm.

Something in McCoy snapped.

"Y/N." His voice cut through the air, sharper than a scalpel. "I need you. Medbay. Now."

You blinked, startled by his tone. The smile faded as you turned. "Uh... Doctor—?"

"Now." His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his tone brooked no argument.

The ensign stepped back quickly, sensing the sudden shift. "Uh… I’ll, uh… catch you later," he mumbled before practically fleeing.

You stared at McCoy, arms crossed. "Was that necessary?"

"Don’t question me, darlin'. Medbay. Let’s go."

The walk was tense. Silent. His boots hit the floor harder than normal. You kept pace, confusion turning to irritation.

"You could’ve just said you needed help," you muttered.

"Didn’t realize I had to schedule time between your little… social calls."

You stopped dead. "Excuse me?"

He turned — faster than you expected — eyes stormy, hands braced on his hips.

"You heard me."

"What is your problem, Leonard?" you snapped. "If you’ve got something to say, say it."

His mouth opened — then closed. His gaze darted away, jaw working like he was trying to chew through a decision.

"Dammit." His hand scrubbed over his face. "You don’t get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"That I—" His voice broke. Then softer. "That I can’t stand seeing you with someone else."

Silence.

Your breath hitched. "…what?"

"Yeah. Hell, I probably should’ve said it months ago." He paced, hands gesturing wildly now, words spilling faster. "Every damn time you smile like that, every time you walk into medbay with that ridiculous look in your eyes, acting like you don’t even realize what you do to me—" He dragged a hand through his hair. "I’m a doctor, not a poet. I don’t know how to do this right, but... I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t tear me up seeing you with someone else."

His gaze finally met yours, bare, vulnerable.

"I’m hopelessly in love with you, alright? And I have been. For longer than I care to admit."

The air between you stretched, tense as a drawn wire.

Then you stepped forward. Slow. Careful. Reached out — fingertips brushing his hand where it trembled.

"Leonard…" you breathed. "You idiot. I’ve been waiting for you to say that for so long."

His head snapped up, stunned.

"You... you have?"

"Yeah." A smile tugged at your lips. "And for the record? I wasn’t flirting. We were talking about his malfunctioning boot."

His face went crimson. "…Dammit."

You laughed — soft, breathless — and before you could lose the courage, cupped his face between your hands.

"I love you, too."

And then you kissed him. It wasn’t perfect. A little messy. His nose bumped yours. His hands were tentative at first, then surging to hold you tight like he was terrified you’d vanish.

But it was real.

And it was everything.

When you finally pulled back, he let out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against yours.

"God... I should’ve done that ages ago."

"Yeah," you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek. "You really should’ve."

-XOO

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Haymitch Abernathy X F!Reader: Echoes of the Arena

a/n: just finished Sunrise on the reaping and ohhhhhh boy. I already loved Haymitch before it's just gotten worse.

Warnings: angst (i mean it's not too bad but still), fluff, mentions of the games, sotr spoilers, no use of y/n, happy ending, reader is a tribute turned mentor

Word count: 1.4K

You and Haymitch weren’t close. You didn’t hate each other, but you weren’t friends either. If anything, you were two people bound by shared trauma — and the heavy burden of mentoring District Twelve’s tributes.

You had been the fourth set of tributes he’d mentored, and the first from District Twelve to win under his guidance. Seven kids had died under his watch — at least, in his mind. You were the only one who survived.

It wasn’t a privilege. Not entirely. Because it meant you now helped him lead other kids to slaughter.

You both loathed the Games. You both felt the loss of your tributes deeply. But you each managed it in your own way. Haymitch drank. You cried.

Even with all that pain, you hadn’t grown close over the years. You stayed in your house in the Victor’s Village, only bothering Haymitch when absolutely necessary. It wasn’t because you didn’t want his company. It was because you knew he didn’t want yours.

He’d kept you alive because it was his job. He wasn’t obligated to like you. You understood that. But it didn’t make it any easier — living so close, yet being so far from each other.

And then, one day, things started to shift.

You were in the stands, waiting for the carriages to parade your newest tributes. Haymitch was beside you, looking as miserable as ever, eyes glued to the floor. He never watched the carriages. You always did. 

This year’s tributes had been particularly hard. So young. A boy and a girl — one eight, one ten. When they’d been reaped, when you saw them up on that stage, something inside you had broken. And when Haymitch threw a bottle at the wall — the sound echoing through the village — you didn’t cry. You screamed.

When the carriages finally started to come into view, your breath caught in your throat. And when your tributes appeared — so small, so fragile, so very afraid — your hand snapped out before you could stop yourself.

Haymitch’s palm was sweaty and cold against yours. His eyes shifted from the ground to his lap for a moment, then flicked up to your face. Your gaze stayed glued to the parade of tributes, your body rigid, silent tears slipping down your cheeks.

He could’ve pulled his hand away. Could’ve grunted in disapproval. You wouldn’t have been surprised — he’d done worse over the years.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his hand, letting you hold it completely, his fingers lacing through yours. You didn’t turn to look at him. But your brow furrowed in recognition, and you gave his hand a soft squeeze. A silent thank you.

Things started to change between the two of you after that moment.

Haymitch was still guarded, but he seemed to let you linger around him more. He allowed himself to grow accustomed to your proximity.

And when the deaths of your tributes were announced, and you stumbled out of your house — collapsing to your knees with a terrible scream before the tears took over your face — Haymitch was out of his house and at your side in seconds. 

He pulled you off the ground and into his arms. Even as you clawed at him and choked out, “We failed them. We always fail them,” again and again, he didn’t let go. Not until the exhaustion finally overtook you, and your body sagged against his.

And then there were Peeta and Katniss.

Both of them so dear. Both of them at the mercy of the Gamemakers.

But they made it out — and with them, they carried the work you and Haymitch had spent years desperately trying to do.

They brought the rebellion. They brought the end of the Games.

For the first time in years, you felt like you could finally breathe again. Your house no longer felt like a prison. Your body no longer felt like it was made of stone.

You were free.

You’d never known that feeling before, but you cherished it all the same.

You and Haymitch weren’t friends — because the word friends couldn’t begin to describe what you were to each other. You weren’t even sure there were words that could. Your bond had been forged through pain and misery. It was proof that even in the depths of despair, love would find a way to prevail.

Haymitch sat on a patch of grass, his eyes trained on the horizon. Somewhere to his left, geese grazed softly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew you were near without opening them, and when he heard the dull thud of your body settling beside him, he let out a soft smile.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to face you. Your head rested on your knees, arms wrapped around your legs. The wind blew, causing goosebumps to rise on Haymitch’s arms and the tall grass to ripple around you both. He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You continued to gaze at the woods while Haymitch watched you.

His heart felt warm. It had been a very long time since he’d felt this way — and the thought immediately brought him shame.

“I’ll have none of that.”

It wasn’t your voice that spoke. It wasn’t said at all — not in a way you could hear, anyway. The voice was meant only for him. He turned his head to look at her.

Lenore Dove sat beside him, as she usually did when he came here. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but worried you might hear.

 “Don’t worry about her. It’s just you and me in here.”

“What were you talking about just now?”

Lenore stopped picking at the grass and looked Haymitch in the eye. She gave him a soft smile, her hand moving to rest on his cheek.

“It’s been a long time, Hay. You’ve kept your promise. Now it’s time you live.”

 “I don’t know how to do that alone.”

 Lenore’s smile deepened.

“You don’t have to.”

Haymitch understood what she meant. This was her way of telling him it was okay to let himself fall again. He didn’t have to feel guilty for what he felt for you. He closed his eyes, allowing his forehead to rest against Lenore’s.

“I love you like all fire,” he whispered.

“I know you do.” And then she was gone. As if she’d never been there. Because maybe she never had.

A soft quack pulled Haymitch’s attention. He watched as one of the geese made its way toward him. His eyes flicked to you, a twinge of worry filling him. Lenore’s geese had never been very fond of him, and his own geese had never been around anyone other than him. He worried how they’d react to you.

He prepared himself to warn you.

But then something strange happened. The goose walked right up to you, stopping at your feet. You looked at the animal for a moment before shifting one of your hands toward it. Haymitch braced himself for the animal to snap at your finger.

But it didn’t. Instead, it watched you with wide eyes before moving to rest its head on your hand. You let out a soft sound of surprise, and Haymitch’s gaze moved to your face. The girlish smile you wore made his heart flutter.

He watched the two of you for a moment, the warmth spreading in his chest. The memory of Lenore’s words echoed softly in his mind: “I love you like all fire.” Haymitch blinked slowly, a quiet understanding washing over him. It felt like a message — Lenore’s silent way of telling him it was alright, that this was a sign he could let go of his guilt and open his heart.

After a moment, the goose removed its head from your palm and began making its way back to where the others were. You watched it waddle away.

 “I think he likes me.”

“He’s not the only one.”

You turned to look at Haymitch with wide eyes — not startled, not scared, just surprised. And then you saw the look on his face — the worried, shy, tender expression — and your eyes softened.

You gave him a smile of understanding before shifting closer to him. You leaned your head on his shoulder, your hands moving to grab his in the same way you had so many years ago. And just like that day, Haymitch intertwined his fingers with yours.

You both sat there, watching the grass move with the wind, listening to the mockingjays sing in the sky.

And all was right in the world.

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Not Hers, Not His

- Summary: Married to Daemon as a second choice, Princess Y/N Targaryen fled across the sea to reclaim her freedom. Years later, her return reignites old wounds—and when she leaves again without goodbye, Daemon finally gives chase to the one woman he never meant to lose.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @idenyimimdenial @oxymakestheworldgoround @sachaa-ff @barnes70stark

The sun hung low over the Stepstones, swollen and red like a festering wound in the sky, its light breaking across the jagged horizon of splintered rock and rusting weapons left from too many forgotten skirmishes. Salt clung to the air like a second skin, seeping into armor, rusting blades, and settling in the joints of weary men. Daemon Targaryen stood upon the rise overlooking Bloodstone, the sea wind pulling at his dark cloak, streaked with ash and blood. The clamor of the men-at-arms echoed below—Velaryon sailors shouting orders as more siege engines were hauled into place, ballistae primed to fire again at the fortified Myrish encampments to the south.

Corlys Velaryon approached from behind, his gait slower than usual but not diminished. His armor was etched with sea-worn patterns, and though he had aged, there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes—the same fire Daemon had once seen when the Sea Snake first brought his fleet to these cursed waters.

“They’re digging in again,” Corlys said, his voice low, gravelly, and unmistakably irritated. “They know the tides better than most—wait out our thirst, our rot, and they’ll win without lifting a blade.”

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. His eyes traced the coastline like a hunter watching a wounded animal, calculating. “Let them rot in their holes,” he said finally. “If they’ve taken to burrowing like crabs, then we burn them out. Let their gods sort what’s left.”

Corlys snorted, but the sound carried little humor. “Easy to say when you’ve wings and flame.”

A slow smirk twitched across Daemon’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked thinner these days, lean and sharper around the edges. War had stripped him of the easy arrogance he once wore in court like a second crown. His silver hair was longer now, tangled and unkempt, curling around the base of his throat. Dark crescents lived beneath his eyes, and though Caraxes waited just beyond the cliffs, the dragon’s presence did little to lighten his mood.

The rider came at dusk.

He was young, pale with windburnt cheeks and a red cloak heavy with dust. The Velaryon guards let him through with mild disinterest, but the boy dismounted fast and bowed deep before Daemon and Corlys without waiting for breath.

“My lord, my prince,” he gasped, fishing out a sealed parchment bearing the sigil of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon pressed into black wax. “Raven came from the capital. Urgent word.”

Daemon took the parchment with gloved fingers and cracked the seal immediately. His eyes scanned the contents in silence, the tension drawing tighter in his jaw with each line.

Corlys stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “What is it? Not Viserys again?”

“No.” Daemon’s voice was flat. He read the letter again slower, quieter. Then he folded it once, twice, and handed it to Corlys without ceremony.

The Sea Snake read it, eyes narrowing. “The Triarchy stirs again,” he muttered. “More ships spotted gathering off the southern coast—typical.” Then his voice shifted tone, like his tongue caught on something unexpected. “And...your lady wife has returned?”

Daemon said nothing.

“She’s returned to King’s Landing,” Corlys pressed, flicking his gaze toward him. “From Lys, it says. Without fanfare. No dragon. No escort. Just walked through the gates like she never left.”

The silence that followed hung like iron between them. The crash of waves against the cliffs became louder, crueler, more mocking.

Daemon exhaled through his nose. “Did Viserys send for her?”

“No mention of that. Just that she’s taken up residence again in the Red Keep. Your old quarters.”

Daemon’s expression didn’t flicker, but something in him bristled. He turned back toward the sea, fingers twitching at his side. “So she returns now.”

“She’s your wife,” Corlys said carefully. “You should be glad she’s come home.”

Daemon’s laugh came bitter and short. “She left because it was home. Because Viserys made her feel like a concession. Like I’d been thrown scraps after asking for the crown jewel.”

“You asked for Rhaenyra,” Corlys reminded, blunt. “And you married her sister.”

“Not by my choice,” Daemon snapped. “Nor hers. He married us out of spite, thinking he could bend us both into obedience.” He looked again to the sea, as if her face might form in the water. “And I let her go. Thought time would harden her. Temper her pride.”

Corlys crossed his arms. “Maybe it has.”

Daemon turned then, finally meeting his eyes. “Or maybe she returns only because she’s finished running.”

Corlys held his gaze. “Then what will you do?”

A gust of wind tore across the cliffside, salt and sand whipping around them like whispers. Caraxes stirred below, the deep rumble in his throat rising like thunder from the pit of his belly.

Daemon didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The gods had already taken too much from him—his pride, his brother’s trust, the crown he once reached for with bloodied hands. But this? This woman Viserys gave him as punishment? She had clawed her way free of that insult, turned her back, and flown east like a storm waiting to be reborn.

And now she was back. In his city. In his rooms.

His queen of ash and fire.

“Prepare the sails,” Daemon said coldly. “We return to King’s Landing.”

The morning broke over King’s Landing with a brooding stillness, the kind that made even the gulls go quiet. The fog had rolled in off Blackwater Bay in a low, wet blanket, smothering the towers of the Red Keep and casting the harbor in a murky gray gloom. The city was only beginning to stir—fishmongers dragging their carts through the mud, the gold cloaks yawning at their posts, whores slipping out of back alley doors before the sun could shame them. No horns. No banners. No fanfare.

Just the sound of leathery wings splitting the clouds.

Daemon Targaryen had returned.

The sails of the Sea Snake’s swiftest longship had been furled before the ship could even dock, and Daemon, armor still clinging with the scent of Stepstones ash and blood, stepped ashore like a storm in the flesh. Caraxes was nowhere to be seen—left to circle above the cliffs beyond, for now—but that absence was no comfort to the city. Word spread fast. The Rogue Prince, the exile-turned-commander, had come back unannounced, and with no small measure of fury in his stride.

It was the sound of another dragon that truly sent the court into a frenzy.

A screech—high, furious, unmistakably female—split the sky as Daemon crossed the courtyard of the Red Keep. He paused, head tilting up toward the misted clouds. Through the fog he saw her—she—wings vast and violet-hued, like the dusk over Valyria before the Doom. A she-dragon of unnatural grace and fury, cutting across the sky with her jaws open and fire threatening at her throat. Not a docile beast kept to the Dragonpit. Not a creature of men’s cages. She was free.

“Vaelora,” Daemon murmured, lips parting as his eyes tracked the shape, awestruck despite himself.

She wheeled once above the Red Keep, a defiant cry echoing down into the capital, sending birds fleeing and hounds howling across the city. Then she turned, vast wings beating down against the fog, and flew out toward the open sea—chasing wind and freedom like the wild thing she had always been.

Daemon watched until she disappeared beyond the mists.

His jaw tightened. She had let her dragon fly unchained. Or perhaps, no one here had dared try to bind it.

He moved through the gates of the Red Keep like a blade being drawn, fast and direct, ignoring the startled gasps of the court ladies, the hushed whispers of the pages and handmaidens, the hurried bowing of stewards who scrambled aside with clumsy reverence. His boots echoed against the stone floors, dragging half the Keep into alert before he even reached the throne room. Ser Harrold Westerling was the first to meet him at the base of the steps, face drawn in disbelief.

“Prince Daemon—your return was not announced.”

“I was not inclined to send ravens,” Daemon said, brushing past him.

“His Grace is indisposed—”

“I doubt that,” he snapped. “He’ll be quite disposed once he learns I’ve come.”

The door to the throne room groaned open. Inside, the great chamber was quieter than usual—less bustling with sycophants and flatterers than in years past. But the man on the throne was unmistakable: King Viserys I, aged more than Daemon remembered, thinner, paler, with lines of grief etched deeper into his once-noble face. His crown sat heavy on his brow, and he turned slowly when he heard the approaching steps.

His eyes went wide.

“Daemon.”

The name fell from his lips like a dropped goblet.

“Brother,” Daemon said with a thin smile, stopping at the foot of the Iron Throne. “You look well. Older. But not altogether dead. A miracle.”

Viserys didn’t rise, but his fingers gripped the arms of his seat as if the iron beneath him might suddenly melt. “You were in the Stepstones.”

“I was.” He removed his gloves one finger at a time, each movement deliberate. “But I heard a curious bit of news. A raven spoke of things I could not ignore.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, but kept his tone composed. “We received no word you intended to return.”

“I didn’t intend to. But imagine my surprise when I learn that my wife is nesting again in the Red Keep—without so much as a word to me.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed. “Imagine how that might feel.”

The silence that followed was thick as oil. Viserys looked away, his expression unreadable. “She was free to return. This is her home.”

“Oh, now it is?” Daemon said coldly. “Strange, I remember you treating her more like a mistake. A punishment to be bound around my neck.”

“That is not what I intended,” Viserys muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

“You intended to wound me. You succeeded. But you wounded her worse.”

A muscle jumped in Viserys’s jaw. “Daemon, do not twist my words.”

Daemon stepped closer. “I’m not here for your words. I saw Vaelora in the sky. She flies like she hasn’t tasted chains in years. Which makes me wonder—has anyone even tried to leash her since Y/N returned?”

Viserys’s silence was telling.

Daemon’s gaze narrowed. “Good. Let them be afraid of something. If they won’t fear you… they’ll fear what you brought back into your gates.”

And with that, he turned and walked from the throne room, his black cloak flaring behind him like wings.

The Red Keep’s lower halls were strangely silent as Daemon passed through them, his boots soft against the stone. The corridors were still familiar, despite the years—tapestries unchanged, the same dust gathering in corners no one dared sweep. He moved like a shadow beneath the high-arched ceilings, keen-eyed and silent, ignoring the stares of courtiers too cowardly to do more than whisper behind their hands.

It wasn’t until he passed through the royal cloister and emerged onto the outer terraces that he was stopped—by none other than the Hand himself.

Otto Hightower stood like a crow in his fine green robes, that insufferable pin gleaming against his chest. His face was drawn tight with suspicion, not fear—Otto did not fear Daemon, but despised him, and Daemon had always found that far more entertaining.

“My prince,” Otto said, his voice low, disdain barely masked. “I trust your arrival was sanctioned. Or shall I presume you’ve simply decided the laws of courtesy no longer apply to you?”

Daemon didn’t pause, didn’t slow. “They never did.”

Otto moved to intercept him, jaw tightening. “She has returned here in peace. Do not disturb that peace with your temper.”

Daemon smiled, razor-sharp and false. “My temper? Seven Hells, Otto, don’t strain yourself pretending to care for her well-being. You’d have seen her shipped to Oldtown and wed to one of your milksop cousins if Viserys hadn’t bound her to me instead.”

Otto’s lips thinned to a cold line. “You are not the only dragon in this castle, Prince Daemon. Tread carefully.”

“And you are not the only snake,” Daemon murmured, brushing past him like smoke. “But unlike yours, my bite leaves fire.”

He didn’t wait for the response—there was none worthy of hearing.

The gardens were heavy with the scent of late summer roses and damp soil, a tangle of green and gold overgrown in the absence of a queenly hand to tend them. The sun pierced through high boughs and latticed leaves in shifting rays, casting light like bars upon the stone paths. Somewhere a fountain murmured, drowned under the chirp of sparrows and the low hum of bees. And there—among the foliage, beneath the arching canopy of flowering myrtle—was she.

You.

You sat perched along the curved lip of the dry fountain, legs crossed beneath flowing violet skirts, hair pinned carelessly with silver combs that caught the sun. Your dragon’s colors were echoed in your eyes—those unmistakable lilac irises that had haunted Daemon across battlefields and fever dreams alike. You didn’t look at him as he approached. Not as a wife would. Not as a woman who had once shared a wedding bed, or crossed oceans to escape the shadow of a throne.

Daemon stopped a few paces away, folding his arms. “No kiss? No welcome? I thought I might at least earn a glare.”

You exhaled through your nose, expression unreadable. “If you came for performance, go to the mummers on the Street of Silk.”

“You were always better than any mummer,” Daemon said dryly. “Even when you weren’t trying.”

Still, you didn’t look at him. Your gaze remained fixed on a cluster of wilting irises near the edge of the fountain, as if they held more meaning than his entire existence.

“I didn’t come back for you,” you said finally, voice flat. “If that’s what you think.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, quieter. “I thought you were content hiding behind the sea. Or have the brothels in Lys lost their charm?”

You turned to him now—sharp, beautiful, wild-eyed. “I came because mother’s ashes are being moved to the crypts. No one thought to tell me. Grand Maester Mellos sent a letter two months late. Apparently they assumed I wouldn’t care. They were half-right.”

Daemon blinked. “I didn’t know.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know much about me, husband.”

He studied you—how your jaw clenched, how your fingers toyed with the edge of your sleeve like you were reining something in. “You could have told me. You could have sent word.”

“And you could have let me go when I asked.” You stood now, straightening, letting your words slice clean. “You could have refused Viserys. You could have chosen no one, but you asked for Rhaenyra and got me instead. So don’t act wounded now, Daemon. I spared us both the farce. You should be grateful.”

He took a step toward you. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I was never going to want you?”

You gave a bitter smile, eyes like wildfire just before the burn. “Wanting me would’ve meant wanting something you didn’t ask for. That’s not in your nature. You take what you want. And you didn’t take me.”

There was a pause. The air hung thick with too many unsaid things.

“I’ll be gone again soon,” you added before he could answer, tone clipped. “Vaelora hates the city. I don’t care for it either. Just a few more days. You’ll be free of me again.”

Daemon’s expression twisted, but he said nothing as you turned from him, violet silk trailing like smoke as you walked back through the myrtle arches and away toward the upper steps of the garden path.

And as your silhouette vanished between the flowering trees, another figure entered the clearing from the opposite side—graceful, silver-haired, and wearing a smile too warm to be unknowing.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra said, approaching, her eyes bright. “I heard you’d returned.”

Daemon didn’t turn to her yet. He was still watching the spot where you had stood. His silence said more than he wished.

“I see you found her first,” Rhaenyra added softly.

Finally, he turned to greet her, though the smile he gave her was strained, and far less triumphant than it once might’ve been.

Rhaenyra watched Daemon closely as she descended the final steps into the clearing, her skirts whispering over the flagstones, hands folded before her like the proper lady she was meant to be. But there was nothing proper about the way she looked at him—eyes drinking him in, searching for something familiar beneath the soot-stained armor and war-worn scowl. Daemon Targaryen had always walked like he owned the world, chin high, gaze bright, daring the gods to strike him. But now there was something quieter in him, something pulled taut behind the eyes, like a blade too long unsheathed.

“Uncle,” she said again, gently this time.

He turned to face her, and for the first time in her life, Rhaenyra didn’t feel the spark of mischief or the teasing heat that always lingered in his presence. There was no sly smile tugging at his lips, no mocking tilt of his head. His eyes were shadowed, unfocused, still caught somewhere in the wake of your voice—still haunted by it.

“Rhaenyra,” he answered, and even his voice was different—rougher, hollow around the edges.

She frowned, stepping closer, her brow furrowing with cautious familiarity. “You’ve changed.”

Daemon scoffed lightly but didn’t deny it. “War tends to do that. Stepstones are not courtly games.”

“And yet you’ve always loved war.”

“I loved winning.” His eyes flicked to her at last, and the look in them made her still. “But some battles aren’t worth the cost.”

She studied him—truly studied him. The Daemon she remembered from before had always danced along the edge of madness and charm. Now he seemed like a man who’d seen something in himself he didn’t want to recognize. A dragon that had flown too close to fire not his own.

“You came back for her.” The words left Rhaenyra before she could second-guess them. They were not accusatory, nor soft. They simply were.

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. He looked past her, toward the empty garden path you had vanished down. The silence stretched between them, weighted with more than time.

“She didn’t even look at me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like I was a ghost.”

“You are, to her,” Rhaenyra said plainly. “She was never what you wanted. And she knew it.”

“She’s everything Viserys didn’t want for me,” he muttered, dark amusement flashing for a breath. “Too wild. Too proud. Too much fire, not enough obedience.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “And now?”

“Now I see he was right to fear her.” His eyes sharpened. “And I was a fool to let her go.”

Rhaenyra's lips parted, then shut again. The look on her face flickered, an old wound rising beneath polished calm. “You asked for me,” she said softly. “You stood before our father and asked for me.”

“I thought I was making a move,” Daemon said. “I thought claiming you was how I’d force Viserys’s hand. I didn’t care how much damage I caused. But marrying her wasn’t punishment, Rhaenyra. It just took me too long to see that.”

She looked away, chin tightening. “She bled for you. You never looked back.”

“I look now,” he said. “And she doesn’t want to be seen.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a long moment. When she finally looked at him again, her expression had settled into something older than her years, something that reminded Daemon—painfully—of Aemma. “She’s not like the rest of us. We were raised to twist, to kneel when it served, to hide the worst of ourselves behind courtesy and titles.”

“She never hid a fucking thing,” Daemon muttered.

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “She never did. That was the first thing you loved about her. And the first thing you tried to break.”

Daemon flinched—just slightly.

Rhaenyra stepped past him then, her fingers brushing his arm in quiet parting. “Don’t chase her unless you’re willing to burn. She’s not waiting to be claimed. Not anymore.”

She left him there in the gardens, surrounded by sunlight and the scent of dying flowers, while your ghost lingered in every breath he took.

The skies above King’s Landing wept ash and sun the morning you left.

The city stirred beneath a bleary haze, thick with the scent of brine and hot stone. From the high terrace of Maegor’s Holdfast, Daemon stood still as a statue carved in blackened steel, one hand resting on the stone balustrade, the other clenched so tightly at his side the knuckles blanched white. Beside him, King Viserys leaned heavily on his cane, the weight of years and regret pressing down into his hunched frame. His breath came slower now, more labored than even Daemon remembered, but it was not illness that sickened him this morning—it was sorrow.

Above the rooftops, you rose into the sky atop your dragon, the she-dragon Vaelora screaming with pride as her wings cracked the wind. Her violet-hued scales shimmered like a living bruise against the dawn, silver light catching the ridges of her spine as she beat a wide circle over the Red Keep. Below, smallfolk gathered in awe, the guards paused mid-march, and even the ravens quieted in their cages. No fanfare. No escort. No farewell.

Just you, flying alone—again.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Viserys said, his voice thick and wavering as he followed the dragon’s ascent with dulled eyes. “Not to me. Not to her brothers and sister. Not to her king.”

Daemon’s jaw flexed. He didn’t speak.

“She was always too proud,” Viserys murmured. “Too wild. Like her grandmother. I tried to make it right, binding her to you—” His tone faltered as if he heard the foolishness of it in real time. “I thought it might calm her. Anchor her here, with family. She was so young then. And you…”

Daemon turned his head, slowly.

Viserys trailed off.

Your dragon banked toward the open sea, wings carving through mist, then surged forward, vanishing into cloud and light.

Daemon’s breath left him in a sharp exhale.

“Daemon,” Viserys said behind him, quietly now, almost pleading. “Don’t.”

But Daemon was already walking.

“Daemon—”

He didn’t answer. His cloak snapped behind him as he descended the tower steps in quick, precise strides. Servants scattered in his path, startled by the look in his eyes. He moved like a man possessed—lean muscle coiled beneath the layers of black and crimson, expression locked in something between fury and desperation. The Red Keep blurred past him. He crossed the yard in silence, reached the stables without a word, and threw the reins off the nearest saddled horse without waiting for assistance.

The beast neighed at the sudden command, but Daemon mounted in one motion and dug in his heels.

Hooves cracked against the stone as he tore down the hill road, out past the Gate of the Dragon and toward the black maw of the Dragonpit.

The city’s morning song grew faint behind him. The wind roared in his ears. His heart pounded like war drums, each beat echoing one name—Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

By the time the Dragonpit gates loomed, the keepers had barely thrown them open wide enough for his passage. The great domed structure rose like a mausoleum, the bones of old stones etched into the very foundation, but Daemon did not slow. He dismounted while the horse was still moving, letting it stumble to a halt as he strode forward.

Caraxes waited in the shadowed inner court, crouched low, his crimson wings curled like a sleeping serpent.

The dragon raised his head before Daemon spoke a word.

Daemon reached him, one hand on the scarred flank, and the old wyrm huffed smoke from his nostrils in greeting—ready, always ready.

“You saw her,” Daemon said softly, stepping closer. His voice was different now. “You felt her go.”

Caraxes snarled in answer, wings twitching.

Daemon climbed the saddle. The stirrups were cold iron, the grips worn smooth by war and wind. He settled himself like a man returning to his throne, then leaned forward, whispering through clenched teeth.

“We’re going after her.”

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Masterlist

Behind Closed Doors:

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part10, part11, part12, part13, part14, part15, part 16, part17, part 18, part 19 part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27

The Wrap Party:

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part5, part6, part7,

One Shots: In you car

I just can’t

All of my fics include smut!

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Phantom's Tide.

pairings: finnick odair x capitol!reader

summary: finnick odair is the capitol’s golden boy—polished, paraded, and drowning beneath the weight of everything he’s forced to be. the last place he expects to find a moment of quiet is in phantom’s tide, a dimly lit capitol bar tucked away from the usual spectacle.

warnings: the usual hunger games (deaths, violence, trauma, prostitution), they're both exploited.

word count: 16.7k

author's note: it's a rewrite of my old (unpublished) work "where the current hesitates" and also incorporated details from a specific request because it shared the same plot

Finnick Odair doesn’t like the Capitol–no, he despises it. He loathes it with every inch of his being.

If Finnick were to choose between his house in the Victor’s Village and the Capitol, he would choose that house anytime. It may be empty and lifeless, void of any colors but he’d rather be back at District 4, his home, than be in the streets of the city that was the root of his despair. 

If he could hide forever in his little victor house back in District 4, he would. Oh dear god he would. He’d rather rot in that cold lonely mansion of his rather than to step a foot out on these godforsaken streets filled with people that view him only as an object to fulfill their desires.

The smell of the streets makes him gag. It’s full of excess–of overpriced perfumes, sickly sweet and synthetic that covers the rotting smell underneath it. The scent is so thick that he can practically taste it on his tongue. The streets are never quiet. Always buzzing with laughter, hollow music, and the forced cheerfulness in the voices. Every sound echoes with his footsteps, crawling under his skin. The neon lights blind him–too bright, too eager to mask the darkness that lurks underneath it. Everything in this place glitters, from buildings to people, and it’s all a front. A façade to fit with the cruelty and artificiality of the people that live here.

Finnick walks through the city, passing the grand fountains and towering structures that are designed to impress, but all he sees are ghosts trapped in the cracks. The survivors who walked through these streets shared the same fate as him–victors, yet never truly free. The big screen flickers to life, flashing the smiling faces of tributes paraded like champions, but he knows the truth. Right now, they are fighting for their lives in the arena, clawing their way out of it. A small, shameful part of him is relieved. That most of them won’t have to walk these streets the way he has. 

The Capitol calls it entertainment. He calls it a graveyard.

Finnick remembers why he’s here, walking through the dead of the night, with the wind howling past him. He needed an escape from everything and the overwhelmness of it. His tributes are alive. Barely. One clings to life with the nasty gash on her side and the other running around the arena like a headless chicken with nothing but pure adrenaline and luck. It won’t be long until he’s sent back home again– to mourn, to loathe himself and return again to be paraded by the people of its city. As if he’s the grand prize.

He shivers at the cold breeze, his shoulders slumping and his bare hands moving inside the pockets of his trousers. He remembers the conversation he had with the mentor from District 12 earlier. Haymitch had leaned in close, a glass of some expensive beer in his hand, his breath reek with liquor. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

“Go to that bar,” he murmured to him. “Trust me.”

Finnick doesn’t trust Haymitch, but he does trust that the old man understands misery, so here he is.

The bar is small and unassuming compared from the gaudy establishments around it. The neon lights doesn’t scream for attention, in fact it barely flickers to light, as if to remind the world that the bar still exists, and there aren’t much Capitol citizens in ridiculous outfits clamoring at the door. It’s tucked into the quieter side of the Capitol like a hidden precious treasure chest lost in a cave.

Phantom’s Tide. Finnick reads the name under his breath, the words unfamiliar yet heavy on his tongue. An odd name, he thinks, as his gaze drifts to the neon signage; dim, flickering, barely calling for attention.

His eyes lower to the metallic doors, dull and weathered, yet polished in places by time and touch. Above them, a lone lamp buzzes softly, casting a pale glow that shimmers against the surface. He stands there for a moment, the weight of the night pressing against his back. Then, he exhales and pushes the door open.

The first thing Finnick notices when he steps inside Phantom’s Tide is the quiet. Not the forced, artificial silence of the Capitol’s wealthier establishments, but something heavier, deeper. Like the hush before a storm, or the sea just before it swallows a ship whole.

The air is thick with salt and aged wood, a scent so familiar it tugs at something in his chest. The dim lighting casts shifting shadows over the dark-planked floor, the glow from low-hanging lanterns swaying just slightly–almost like rippling water. The murmur of voices is low, intimate, but they don’t carry the same hollow cheer he’s used to in the Capitol.

Then, his gaze lands on the bar itself. Made of dark, repurposed shipwood, its surface worn smooth by time but marked with something else. Names, initials, small carvings etched into the wood’s surface. Finnick knows what they are before he even has to think about it. Remnants of those who have passed through. Some still alive. Some not.

And just past the bar, hanging in the corner, sits a rusted ship bell–silent, untouched. Yet something about it feels like a warning. Or a promise.

A glassed sliding door was placed between him and the bar– as if it’s separating him from a whole new world. The faint glow of dimmed lights emits an otherworldly vibes from the other side and the faint humming becomes much more prominent with each step he takes as he dives deeper into the bar.

His fingers reach out to the door, sliding it to the side and step inside and he hears it clearly. A voice. A low, smooth, yet laced with something dangerous. Not loud, not demanding, but impossible to ignore. It slips through the air like silk and hooks onto something inside him, dragging him forward before he even realizes he's moving.

It isn’t just a song, it’s a call.

His head twists to the side, eyes falling on multiple booths, chairs, tables and odd decorations. Each decoration is a different aesthetic from the other yet blends well together with the plainness of the wooden furniture and the bland colors of the place. He sees familiar faces sitting around–fellow victors and some faces that he isn’t familiar with. He finds it hard to believe but could it be possible that there’s a Capitol citizen that lives under normalcy?

It feels like his eyes deceive him but when he catches sight of something extravagant from the corner of his eye, he realizes this place isn’t a haven for the tributes as much as Haymitch made it out to be.

Then his gaze shifts on the small stage at front. Crimson curtains tied to the sides with gold-like colored ropes, an auburn light shone above a performer. You.

You sit at the front of the bar, fingers gliding over worn ivory keys, your body half-turned toward the audience but distant, as if you belong to the music rather than the room itself. The melody is slow and aching but your voice carries it with an ease that makes it feel dangerous. Like the pull of a tide. Like drowning but not fighting it.

It's not the kind of voice that begs to be heard. It's the kind that demands surrender. It wraps around the room, curling under skin and sinking into marrow, luring people in, making them forget why they even came. Finnick swallows hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

For a moment, he doesn't think about the arena, or his tributes, or the Capitol's sickening grip around his throat. For a moment, there is only your voice.

Finnick can’t tear his eyes away from you. He tells himself to look away, to shake off the weight pressing into his chest, but it’s like he’s caught in a tide—helpless against the pull. When your song slowly comes to an end, he finally wrenches himself back to reality. The motion is abrupt, almost violent. His body jerks as he turns away from the stage, feet dragging toward the bar like they’re weighted down.

The bartender is already watching him when he arrives. Not with curiosity, not with disinterest—but with a look that makes Finnick’s skin prickle. Knowing. Understanding. Like the man can see something buried deep beneath his surface, something Finnick isn’t ready to acknowledge. His jaw tightens, a scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He sinks onto a barstool, exhaling through his nose as the bartender wordlessly slides a menu in front of him. The movement is smooth, practiced, effortless. Unlike Finnick, who still feels unsteady, like the floor isn’t as solid as it should be.

“Welcome to Phantom’s Tide, gentleman. I am Marcellus and I will be accompanying you with your every journey with the Missus.”

Finnick’s brow arched at the odd name. Missus? Was it the singer at the front? Or the owner of the bar? He doesn’t dwell on it much longer as his mind drifts off again when your voice echoes through the speakers, filling in not only his hearing but his senses too. A shiver runs down his spine.

His eyes flicker at Marcellus and the menu, eyes aimlessly scanning through the variety of drinks, his fingers tapping on the wooden counter.

“What would you recommend for me, Mar-cel-lus?” Finnick tests the name on his tongue, feeling it foreign but wary. His sea-green eyes shift back to the bartender who only chuckles at him.

Marcellus grabs a towel and a glass before he speaks. “Well, there are a few fan favourites of our customers– the Golden Gale is a shimmering, honey-gold cocktail with a sweet and dangerous kick to it.

Nightlock Kiss, a deep purple drink with a tart, almost poisonous berry flavor.” He pauses, looking back up at Finnick. “But safe to drink, of course.”

“Sounds Capitol-ish.” Finnick comments, clicking his tongue.

Marcellus grins, “each districts has their own type of drinks too, Mr. Odair. Salt & Storm is a briny, dark rum cocktail with hints of lime and smoke, like a drink meant for sailors riding out a tempest while High Tide is a crisp, refreshing drink with coconut, pineapple, and a touch of sea salt, evoking the feeling of a calm ocean breeze.

If you would like to forget everything tonight and not remember it when you wake up, I would recommend The Leviathan. A deep, almost black cocktail with blackberry, dark rum, and a smoky finish– bold, mysterious, and a little… dangerous.” 

Marcellus smirks, staring deep into Finnick’s soul that he feels disgustingly naked right now. It’s like the man understands the scars carved onto him than he does himself and Finnick hates it.

Finnick swallows again, his eyes moving to the wall mirror behind the bartender. The music has come to an end and you were getting up from your seat.

“What does the Missus likes?”

Marcellus tilts his head to the side, feigning speculation on what his boss would like before he replies.

“The Siren’s call is based on the Missus’ taste and voice. Would you like to try that, sir?”

Finnick curtly nods and the bartender is on his feet, disappearing from his sight to work at the side on the special drink. A sigh, that he doesn’t know he’s holding, is released and he feels his shoulder relax for the first time he has stepped a foot in this secluded bar.

“Make it two please.”

You slip into the seat beside him, effortless and unassuming that it makes Finnick flinch. A sharp, barely noticeable movement, but enough to betray him. Your voice is in his ear again, curling around his senses like a plague. He didn’t hear you approach; not the sound of your footsteps, not even the shift in the air beside him until you were already there. Until your presence was impossible to ignore.

His wide eyes lock onto you. Up close, you’re even more striking. The white light overhead casts a soft glow on your skin, highlighting its smoothness— he bets it would feel as light as a feather beneath his fingertips. Your hair curls at the edges, cascading over your back and brushing against your bare shoulder. Your cheeks, round and rosy, make him wonder how they’d feel cradled in his palm. But it’s your eyes that hold him still, that quiet twinkle drawing him in like a tide he doesn’t know how to resist.

Then, you smile. Small and gracious towards Marcellus who winks at your way. “Two Siren’s Call coming right up, Missus.”

Something tightens in Finnick’s chest. It’s ridiculous, but it’s there. A sharp, unwanted twist of irritation curling in his gut. His fingers tap once against the counter, a slow, deliberate movement, as if grounding himself. He’s not sure what unsettles him more–the fact that you haven’t even looked at him yet, or the fact that it bothers him.

Either way, he hates it.

“I believe this is the first time I’ve met the Capitol’s Darling.” You spoke, voice sweet and smooth. 

Not as low as when you sang, but just the right pitch to send a slow, deliberate shiver down Finnick’s spine. His heart picks up its pace before he even realizes it.

Finnick flashes a smile—one he’s perfected over the years, sculpted into something effortless since the day he won his Games. It’s charming, polished, and calculated. But there’s no joy in it.

Beneath the golden boy’s grin, there’s a child trapped in a man’s body, bound by the ropes Snow wove around him, forcing him to perform. To please those around him. Marking him the golden prize.

You’ve heard the whispers—what Snow forces him to do, what the Capitol takes from him. You know his scars run deep, deeper than the trenches of the sea, carved into him like waves eroding stone. The Capitol has turned him into a myth—Finnick Odair, the Darling of the Capitol, a siren draped in gold, a trident polished to gleam under their lights. But you see what they do not.

You see the wreckage beneath the surface.

Finnick has been drowning for years, caught in a current he never asked for. They threw him into the water when he was fourteen and called it victory, but victory should not taste like salt in the lungs, like water filling the mouth until there’s no room left to breathe. They tied chains around his ankles, heavier than any anchor, and dressed them up as laurels, parading him through the streets like a trophy salvaged from the deep. And every time they called his name, every time they demanded he perform, the weight only dragged him further down.

Because that’s the thing about drowning—no one sees it happening. Not at first.

The Capitol adores the way he shines, the way he shimmers like sunlight on the surface of the sea. But they do not see the struggle beneath, the frantic kicking, the aching lungs. They do not notice that Finnick Odair has not been breathing for a long, long time.

But here, in this place, the water is different.

Your bar is not a lifeboat. You do not claim to be a savior, nor do you offer salvation. You cannot stop the tide, cannot undo the years he has spent beneath its mercy. But this place? It is a cove, a place where the waves quiet, where the pull of the ocean loosens just enough to let him remember what it feels like to float. Here, the water does not demand, does not crush, does not steal the breath from his lungs.

Here, for a moment, Finnick Odair does not have to drown.

And that is why you built this place. Not for the lost, but for those who have been cast adrift for too long, waiting for even the smallest glimpse of shore.

"Careful. Sing like that too often, and the Capitol might start fighting over you next." Finnick quips, a teasing smile settling easily on his face, but his eyes tell a different story. He plays it off as a joke, effortless as ever, but there’s truth buried in the words. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for all the wrong reasons.

You study him, watching the way he delivers the words like they’re light, weightless—meant to slip past without a second thought. But they don’t. Not with the way his fingers tap against the wood, not with the way something flickers behind that easy smile.

Marcellus sweeps in, large, rough hands setting down the drinks you ordered. He takes a cinematic bow before slipping away, leaving you and Finnick to yourselves.

"And what if I don’t want to be fought over?" you murmur, lifting your drink to your lips. You don’t look at him when you say it, but you can feel the way his attention sharpens, the way the air shifts.

For a brief second, he doesn’t answer.

Then, softer than before, like the tide pulling back, he says, "Then I hope you know how to swim.”

The words linger between you, dissolving into the dim hum of the bar. Then I hope you know how to swim. It should be playful, should slip away like the rest of his easy quips, but it doesn’t. It clings to the air, heavy, pulling at something deep beneath the surface.

Your fingers trace the rim of your glass, thoughtful. "And if I don’t?" The question is quiet, but deliberate. A test. A truth you aren’t sure you want the answer to.

Finnick’s lips part like he might say something, but instead, he exhales, tipping his head back slightly. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his gaze flicking toward the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, he isn’t here. He’s somewhere else, lost in waters neither of you can see.

Then, with the kind of ease that feels too practiced, he smirks. "Then you’ll learn. Sink or swim, sweetheart."

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and you watch the way the amber liquid coats the glass when he sets it down again. His fingers remain curled around it, knuckles taut despite his casual posture.

"And you?" you press, tilting your head. "Did you have to learn?"

The question lands. You see it in the way his smirk falters– not fully, not noticeably to anyone who isn’t paying attention. But you are.

Finnick doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, regarding you with something between amusement and caution. Then, finally, he chuckles, low and quiet. "I don’t think I ever had a choice.”His voice is light, almost dismissive. But the weight beneath it is unmistakable.

The ice in your glass shifts, cracking softly under the heat of the room. You lift it again, letting the burn of the alcohol coat your throat before you set it down, gaze steady on him.

"Neither did I."

A beat of silence stretches between you. Neither of you break it. The bar hums around you—glasses clinking, low laughter, the distant hum of another song beginning—but here, in this small pocket of space, it’s just you and him.

Finnick’s fingers drum lightly against his glass, his smirk still in place but softer now, as if he's weighing something. Then, as quickly as a wave pulling back to sea, he exhales sharply and leans in just a little, head tilting toward you.

"Well, that’s enough brooding for one night, don’t you think?" he says, voice slipping back into something smoother, more practiced. He gestures toward your drink with an easy grin. "Tell me, sweetheart—does the Missus usually drink her own creations, or is the Siren’s Call only meant to lure others in?”

The shift is seamless. Too seamless. A lifeline he throws himself to swim back to familiar waters, away from the depths he almost let himself sink into. You can see it for what it is—an attempt to slip the mask back on, to retreat to safer ground where he’s the one steering the current.

Still, you allow it. For now.

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the way the liquid catches the light. "Depends," you say, playing along. "Do you think I’d drink something that’s meant to drown others?"

Finnick lets out a small chuckle, something quiet but genuine. "I think," he muses, lifting his glass and tipping it slightly toward you, "you’re the type to make sure they enjoy it before they go under.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s speaking about more than just the drink—that makes your breath hitch for just a second.

You raise your glass to his in a small, knowing toast. "Then you should tell me if it’s working."

Finnick holds your gaze, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before he clinks his glass softly against yours and takes a slow sip.

"I’ll let you know when I’m drowning.”

Finnick’s words settle between you, lighter than before but still carrying that familiar weight. You watch the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass, the way his fingers remain loose around it even as his grip tightens, just barely. He plays it well—this game of pretending—but you’ve been around enough people who wear masks to know when someone’s holding theirs just a little too tightly.

You take a slow sip of your drink, letting the warmth coat your throat before you finally speak. “Well, Finnick Odair, I have to say, I didn’t take you for the kind of man who enjoys drowning.”

He chuckles, low and smooth, as if he expected the remark. "That’s the thing about water, sweetheart. It can kill you just as easily as it can keep you afloat. The trick is knowing which way the current’s pulling."

"And which way is it pulling you now?"

Finnick hums, thoughtful, before flashing a grin. "That depends. Are you planning to throw me a lifeline, or let me drift?"

You tilt your head, feigning consideration. "I guess that depends on whether or not you deserve saving."

His smile twitches—so quick, so small, but you catch it. It’s there and gone in a blink, replaced by something unreadable. Finnick leans in slightly, resting his elbow against the bar, studying you in return. "That’s an awfully dangerous game to play, Missus.”

"And here I thought you liked danger."

Finnick exhales a laugh, shaking his head. "I like winning."

"Funny," you muse, setting your glass down. "You don’t seem like you’re winning right now."

He stills for just a fraction of a second, the mask slipping again before he forces it back into place. But you saw it.

Finnick leans back, stretching his arms as if shaking off the moment. "You wound me, truly." His smirk is back, practiced and sharp, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something that says he knows you see through him.

You shift in your seat, mirroring his earlier playfulness. "Then I’ll buy your next drink. Consider it an apology.”

Finnick raises a brow, amusement flickering across his face. "Oh? And what if I ask for something expensive?"

"Then I suppose you’ll owe me."

A slow grin spreads across his lips. "That almost sounds like a trap."

"And if it is?"

Finnick studies you for a moment longer before shaking his head, laughing under his breath. He lifts his glass, clinking it against yours once more.

"Then I guess I’ll have to see how deep the water goes.”

Finnick’s words settle between you, light on the surface but dragging something deeper beneath. The moment lingers, charged, but before either of you can push it further, an interruption slices through.

A sharp whistle. A voice that grates like nails on glass.

"Well, well. Isn’t this a sight?"

Finnick’s body tenses, the shift barely perceptible, but you feel it. His fingers tighten around his glass, his shoulders straightening as he exhales through his nose. Then, with a practiced ease that only someone like him could manage, he schools his expression and turns.

A Capitol man stands a few feet away, draped in silk and arrogance. His rings catch the bar’s dim light as he gestures grandly, smirking as his gaze flicks between the two of you.

"Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy these little hideaways, Odair." He leans against the bar, all effortless confidence, before his sharp eyes settle on you. "And I certainly didn’t expect to see you keeping such fine company."

You don’t react. You’ve been around these types before—the ones who think their names hold more weight than their actions, the ones who believe they’re untouchable because of their status.

Finnick, ever the performer, leans back against the bar, a smirk sliding into place. "Even I need a break from the grander scenes sometimes."

The man chuckles, low and knowing. "Oh, come now. You and I both know the Capitol doesn’t give breaks.”

His words slither between you, calculated. Finnick’s expression doesn’t falter, but there’s something cold behind his eyes. A flicker of something you can’t name—not quite fear, not quite rage, but something caught between.

"Speaking of which," the man continues, tilting his head. "Are you taking requests tonight, or should I find my entertainment elsewhere?"

You inhale slowly. You know what he means. Finnick’s aware of it too. The air shifts, tightens, and for a moment, you wonder if Finnick will say something sharp, something reckless or he’ll play it smoothly like always. He takes a measured sip of his drink, then exhales through his nose.

"As much as I’d love to entertain you," he drawls, voice like silk stretched too thin, "I’m afraid my evening is already spoken for.”

His fingers drum against the bar once—subtle, but close enough to you that it feels like a tether. Like an anchor.

The man hums, clearly amused. His gaze lingers on you, speculative.

"And what about you, my dear? Surely, you can’t keep him all to yourself."

You finally lift your eyes to him. Hold his gaze.

Then, with a slow sip of your drink, you reply, "I can. And I will."

Finnick stills for half a second. Barely noticeable, but you catch it. The words surprise him.

The man studies you, lips curling slightly like he’s considering how far he can push. But something in your stare gives him pause. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he raises his hands in mock surrender.

"A shame." He glances at Finnick. "Don’t stray too far, Odair. You know how we get when our favorites go missing."

Finnick doesn’t respond. Just lifts his glass in a wordless toast, a smirk barely holding together at the seams.

The man lingers a moment longer before finally retreating into the crowd, his presence leaving a stain in the air.

A long silence follows.

Finnick exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. Then, almost too casual, he mutters, "I hate that guy.”

You huff a laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. "Didn’t notice."

"Really? I thought I was being subtle."

Another stretch of quiet. Then, softer, you say, "You don’t have to do that, you know."

Finnick tilts his head, playing innocent. "Do what?"

"Perform."

Something flickers in his expression. A crack in the mask.

It vanishes just as quickly.

Finnick leans back, turning the conversation on its head before it can go any deeper. You lifts your glass, nodding toward his. "So, what do you think of the Siren’s Call? Or should I be insulted that you haven’t finished it yet?”

The shift is effortless—too smooth, too practiced. A calculated retreat dressed up as playful banter.

Finnick glances at your glass, then back at his. You study the way he masks the weight of the moment behind a teasing smile. You’re testing the waters, seeing if he’ll follow your lead.

Slowly, he lifts the drink to his lips, letting the cool burn settle on his tongue before swallowing. Then, meeting your gaze, he reply, "I was just savoring it."

For the briefest second, something flickers in his expression. Amusement? Relief? Maybe something else entirely.

Then, as if on cue, you grin. "Good."

Neither of you say anything more, but the silence feels like a conversation of its own.

Morning came faster than Finnick expected. He could’ve sworn he’d only just closed his eyes five minutes ago, but the light spilling through the window said otherwise. He never truly slept these days—never deep enough to drift, always too aware of the silence around him. By the time the alarm buzzed against the nightstand, sunlight was already casting long stripes across his face. It irritated him more than it should have.

He moved through his morning routine with a familiar heaviness, each motion dragging as his thoughts lingered on his tributes. One dead, probably. Hopefully both. As harsh as it sounded, it was kinder. Mercy, in this world, often looked like death.

When he sat down in the dining area, breakfast was already waiting for him—pancakes stacked high, crisp bacon still steaming. The smell made his stomach clench with hunger, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything the night before. Too exhausted. Too hollow to feel hunger then.

He reached for the tablet beside his plate, eyes flicking across the home screen of the Hunger Games site as he took a bite. Caesar Flickerman’s voice filled the room, smooth and falsely cheerful. Finnick paused mid-chew.

His female tribute was dead. Mauled by a mutt after separating from her allies. He swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line. The guilt didn’t even sting anymore—just settled like salt in old wounds. He shut the app with a flick of his thumb and opened the Panem national news feed instead.

The elevator chimed, sharp and sudden in the quiet morning air. Finnick barely registered the sound before the soft thud of hurried footsteps followed, echoing off the marble floor like a warning bell. He looked up just in time to see Mags emerge from the hallway, her silhouette framed by the open elevator doors as they closed behind her with a whisper.

Something was wrong.

She wasn’t moving like herself. There was a stiffness in her gait, a tension pulled tight across her small frame. Her face—usually calm, lined with that quiet sort of strength she carried like armor—was pinched with worry. And when her eyes met his, they held something heavy. Something that made the air in his lungs turn cold.

Finnick sat up straighter, heart beginning to stir with unease. The tablet in his hand buzzed softly, the screen lighting up again, but he didn’t look at it. His gaze stayed locked on Mags, tracking every wrinkle in her brow, every falter in her step.

“Mags?” he asked, rising to his feet quickly, the chair scraping back with a quiet groan. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she crossed the distance between them, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Her hands lifted—shaking slightly—and settled on his shoulders. The touch was gentle, but he could feel the tremble beneath it. The kind of tremble born of something unspoken.

His brows drew together. A deep frown carved into his face. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Still, she didn’t speak. Just gave her head a slow shake and patted his arm in that quiet way she had, like a mother steadying her child without needing to say anything at all. But her eyes said everything. They shimmered not with tears, but with something deeper. Dread, maybe. Or grief. Or both.

She hadn’t spoken much in years—not since the Capitol nearly stole her voice for defending him. He’d begged her not to ever do it again. Promised he could take the hits, promised he’d be fine. He wasn’t, but she was all he had. Her and Annie. And he needed her safe.

“Sit,” she finally whispered. The sound was gravel-soft and strained, barely there.

Finnick didn’t argue. He sank back into his chair without a word, the tablet still clutched loosely in his hand. Mags reached for it, her fingers frail but purposeful as she slid it from his grip. The light from the screen spilled across her face as she scrolled, illuminating every line of her weathered skin. But it didn’t make her look old. If anything, it highlighted her strength—the softness she still carried in a world that tried so hard to beat it out of her.

Finnick set down his fork, a piece of half-eaten pancake forgotten on his plate. He took the tablet from her with a quiet breath and looked at her one last time, the question still in his eyes.

She gave a single nod—slow, solemn—and stepped back.

His thumb brushed the screen. The brightness made him blink.

The breath caught in his throat as his eyes focused on the screen. At first, it was just a blur—black and white, grainy, distorted. But the longer he stared, the more it sharpened. Two figures sat at a bar, glasses raised in a toast. Red circles had been drawn over their faces, like targets. Arrows stretched out to the side, connecting them to high-resolution photos—clear, damning, and unmistakably real.

One of them was him.

Finnick went still, frozen in place as his gaze drank in the image. His bronzed hair was slightly tousled, like it had been run through once or twice. His eyes were squinted, caught mid-laugh, and his mouth curved into a smile that he didn’t recognize at first—because it wasn’t the Capitol’s. It wasn’t the trained, dazzling grin he wore like armor. It was genuine. Wide. Easy. The kind of smile that belonged to someone who had, if only for a moment, forgotten the weight on his shoulders.

Then there was you.

Sitting beside him, angled ever so slightly in his direction. The curve of your lips was small but sincere, a softness in your expression that felt intimate, unguarded. Your gaze was lifted to him in a way that the Capitol would twist without hesitation. They would call it affection. They would call it dangerous. And they would make it into something it was never meant to be.

Hovering above the image, loud and grotesque in bold, capitalized letters, was the headline:

“SECRET SERENADE: CAPITOL’S DARLING CAUGHT SIPPING SIN WITH PHANTOM SONGSTRESS!”

Finnick’s stomach dropped, the color draining from his face in a slow, sickening wave. The city’s noise faded into nothing—no clatter of his fork against the plate, no buzz from the street outside, not even Mags’ quiet breathing from across the table. The world shrank to the rhythmic pound of his heartbeat, thudding in his ears like waves crashing against a rocky shore.

The tablet pressed sharply into his palms, but he didn’t loosen his grip. The headline glared back at him, your face beside his in a grainy still. He needed to see you. Immediately. His tributes vanished from his thoughts, the Games forgotten entirely.

He said nothing to Mags. The chair scraped violently across the floor as he stood, slamming the tablet down on the glass table with a force that cracked through the silence. He grabbed his coat, shoved on his shoes, and bolted for the elevator.

His mind spiraled with questions as he moved. What if Snow got to you? Were you safe? Had you seen the article? You must regret spending time with him now. You had to. Or did you not? No, that couldn’t be. A scandal like this—especially with someone like him—there’s no way you hadn’t heard. Maybe paparazzi were already swarming your bar. Maybe worse.

Finnick ran through every possibility. Who could’ve leaked it? No one knew he was there—except Haymitch. But Haymitch wouldn’t. Not when he had his own ghosts, his own grudges. Could it have been one of Finnick’s Capitol admirers? Unlikely. He would’ve noticed someone following him. He always did.

The streets were mostly empty. Capitolites rarely stirred before noon, and it was just past eight. His footsteps echoed off the polished pavement as he made his way toward the poorer side of the city. Phantom’s Tide sat tucked away like a forgotten relic, half-hidden in the Capitol’s shadow.

He stopped when the bar’s sign came into view, heart hammering. The street was still clear. No cameras. No commotion. For now, the odds were in his favor. He knew the place wasn’t yours, not really—you were just the face of it. A front. The bar was tied to underground dealings, and the people who gathered there looked like they’d survived things even Finnick hadn’t imagined.

Despite spending the entire night with you, he realized how little he truly knew. You'd answered his questions with sly deflections, turned the conversation back on him before he even noticed. And he hadn’t minded. He’d been too tired, too raw, too drunk on your voice to push for more.

His jaw tightened. You were a mystery. You carried yourself like someone weighted by something invisible but impossible to ignore. There were ghosts in your eyes, in your silence. It was that silence that kept him at your side until two in the morning, half-shitfaced and unwilling to leave.

He reached the door. It was unlocked. Strange, given the "closed" sign hanging outside. He stepped through the wooden corridor with urgency but caution, his footsteps muffled by the creaking floor. The familiar scent of aged wood and salt met him again, oddly grounding.

Marcellus stood behind the bar, back turned, nursing a drink like he’d been waiting all night.

Then Finnick heard it—a piano. Soft, precise. He turned.

You were on the stage.

Your head was bowed, hands poised over the keys. The notes of Clair de Lune floated through the room, delicate and aching. You didn’t look up. You played like you weren’t alone, but you didn’t need an audience. Like the music wasn’t a performance, but a confession.

The final chord hung in the air, long after it ended. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Finnick exhaled slowly, like surf withdrawing from shore.

And only then, only after the last echo died in the wood-paneled room, did he say softly—barely above a whisper—

"That was beautiful."

He didn’t expect a thank you. He didn’t even expect you to answer.

He just needed to say it.

Because for the first time in a very long while, something had cut through the noise. And it was you.

You turn slowly in your seat, and your hair falls with the movement—soft strands slipping across your cheek, framing your face in a way that doesn't feel staged, but still impossibly perfect. The dim light glows around you, a warm amber that halos your figure against the dark wood of the bar and the stage’s heavy shadows. For a moment, Finnick doesn't see a performer or a stranger. You look like something ancient—a sea-bound deity carved from moonlight and secrets.

But it isn’t just your beauty that catches him off guard. It’s the quiet. The absolute stillness in your posture. You’re not startled by his presence. You're not rushing to explain or to ask questions. You sit there like you already know everything that’s happened, everything that will. That composure settles around you like armor. No panic. No fear. Just acceptance. And that unnerves him more than any storm ever could.

For a second too long, he watches you, and he knows he's slipping. Letting his guard down when he can't afford to. His brow pulls into a furrow, and he clenches his jaw—not in anger, but in self-preservation. This wasn’t why he came. He didn’t come to admire you, or drown in the way your eyes lift to meet his without hesitation. He came to get answers. To make sure you weren’t in danger. To fix something—if that was even possible.

He tells himself that again, like a tether: Stay on track. Don’t lose focus. Don’t let this become something else.

Then your voice cuts through the air, calm and steady, unbothered.

“I’m assuming you’re here because of the photos.”

The sound of it fills the room, echoing softly off the aged wood and quiet walls. No judgment in your tone. No panic. Just a simple, clear observation that lands with more weight than accusation ever could.

Finnick swallows once, his mouth suddenly dry. He nods, the gesture short, his voice just above a whisper when it comes. “I saw them this morning.”

You don’t respond, not immediately. Your hands remain on your lap, one thumb brushing across the other in a slow, absent rhythm. You’re entirely composed, like this isn’t the beginning of a Capitol storm you both know is inevitable. Your serenity makes his pulse tick faster, because it’s not indifference—it's something else. A kind of knowing. Like you’ve been through worse and didn’t flinch then, either.

He steps closer, his boots silent against the floorboards. “Didn’t take them long,” he says, eyes lingering on you as if trying to read beyond the still surface. “They’ve already turned it into a spectacle.”

You offer the smallest, ghost of a smile—but it’s hollow, bone-deep. “The Capitol thrives on spectacle. And fantasy. We just happened to be convenient.”

The words sting because they’re true. Because you say them with such clarity, so stripped of panic or frustration, it makes Finnick feel volatile by comparison. He wishes you would react—just a little. Raise your voice. Ask him why he came. Ask him how it happened. Be human.

But instead, you remain as you are—measured and unyielding—and it scrapes against the raw nerves he’s been carrying for years.

He wants to argue. To say that you weren’t just convenient. That what happened last night wasn’t meaningless, even if it started as a distraction. But he bites down on it, holds the words behind his teeth like they might burn on the way out. He doesn't know what the truth is, not yet—not when everything he touches seems to blur and slip between what’s real and what’s performance.

Instead, he exhales, slow and shaky, and rubs a hand down his face like it might ground him. "I didn’t know who else would’ve done it," he mutters. "Only a few people knew I was there. Haymitch wouldn’t sell me out. Not like this." He doesn’t expect you to answer that either, and you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, studying him like you're trying to decide what kind of storm he is—whether he’ll crash against your shore and retreat, or if he’s the kind that stays and carves out pieces over time.

“Someone always benefits,” you say eventually, your voice steady but distant, like you’re narrating the story from the outside. “The Capitol man from last night—he left with a bruised ego. People like him don’t take humiliation quietly. He knew who you were. He saw the opportunity. And he took it.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow slightly, jaw tight. “Then he’ll get what he wants. All of them will.”

You don’t respond with comfort. You don’t offer soft reassurances or empty platitudes. You simply nod once, as if to acknowledge that yes, he’s right. Yes, this is the cost. And no, there’s no easy escape.

The silence settles again, heavier now. Finnick’s gaze drops, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. For a man who’s mastered the art of charm, of banter and seduction and performance, he finds himself stripped bare in front of you. No script. No audience to please. Just this quiet room and your unshakable calm, and it unnerves him more than the Capitol ever could.

He looks back at you, eyes searching your face—still serene, still unreadable. “How are you not angry?”

Your eyes meet his, unflinching. “What would anger change?”

That answer makes something in his chest pull tight. It’s not defeat in your voice—it’s something else. Resignation layered with wisdom. Like you’ve been angry before. Like you learned the hard way that fury doesn’t always burn down the right walls.

Finnick shifts his weight, restless now, the silence pressing into him from all sides. “They’re going to want more,” he says, almost bitter. “Of us. Interviews. Appearances. A story.”

“They always do.”

“And you’re just… fine with that?”

You give the smallest shake of your head. “No. But I’m used to playing parts.”

Finnick flinches at that—visibly. Because he knows. Because he's one of those parts. Because last night, you let him pretend he was just a man in a quiet bar listening to a beautiful song, and he let himself believe you were someone untouched by the Capitol’s rot.

Now he sees that you’re not untouched—you’re just better at hiding it.

“You don’t have to perform with me,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of polish now. Just truth. “Not here.”

You look at him again, and for a brief second, there’s a flicker in your expression. Something that wavers—just for a heartbeat—before it seals away again beneath your cool exterior.

“I know,” you reply, and there’s something almost kind in the way you say it. Almost.

Then you stand, the piano bench creaking gently beneath you. The movement is smooth, unhurried, elegant. You straighten your dress with a quiet grace, then step down from the stage, your gaze never leaving his.

“And you don’t have to save me, Finnick Odair,” you add, voice soft but unshakeable. “That’s not why I let you in.”

And with that, you walk past him, your steps echoing through the quiet bar, leaving him standing there alone in the golden remnants of your music, unsure if he’s just been dismissed or invited deeper into something he’s not ready to name.

But he doesn’t follow you right away. Not yet.

He stands there for a beat too long, as if the ground beneath his feet has turned to water, and he can’t quite decide whether to swim or sink. Something heavy presses in his chest—something tight and raw and unfamiliar. His heart, metaphorically or not, feels like it’s resting in his hands. He debates whether to offer it, to lay it out in the open where you sit bathed in calm light. But he gets the sense you already know the answer. You’ve known from the moment you turned around.

You’re back in the same seat you’d occupied last night—only now, the weight of your presence feels different. Marcellus is there again, unbothered as ever, setting a tall glass in front of you. The drink glows with a pale pink hue, crystalline and delicate. Beside it, another glass waits, filled with dark liquid that glints like oil under the lights. Finnick recognizes it instantly: Salt & Storm.

Without thinking, his feet move forward. His body follows before his mind finishes forming the decision. Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t ask him to leave. That you didn’t turn your back on him. He takes that as a silent invitation—maybe a dangerous assumption, but he’s too tired to second-guess it.

He sinks into the seat beside you again. The chair groans slightly beneath his weight. He doesn’t look at you at first, only at the polished bar top, now cleared of everything except the drinks and a sleek, matte-black tablet resting under your fingers. He catches the way your index finger taps lightly, absently, like you’re keeping time with some rhythm only you can hear.

“Your tribute’s doing quite well,” you murmur, eyes still on the screen as it lights up your features.

Finnick blinks, the words pulling him from the haze of his own thoughts. He follows your gaze and notices the tablet is synced to something—your fingers swipe across it once, and a low hiss whispers from above.

A hidden mechanism in the ceiling responds. A flat screen slides down with mechanical grace, humming softly into place in front of them. Finnick’s lips part slightly at the sight, surprise flickering across his face. He wasn’t expecting anything like this. Not here—not in a place tucked away on the frayed edge of Capitol opulence. But then again, nothing about this place—or you—has ever fit into the mold he expected.

The screen flickers to life. The Hunger Games appear in real-time. The feed cuts to District 12’s girl—Katniss Everdeen. Finnick recognizes her from whispers and half-formed rumors: the one who got an eleven in her private session, despite showing very little during public training. She crouches in the trees now, movements quiet and deliberate, a knife clutched in her hand as she inches along the branches.

Finnick’s brows draw together, eyes narrowing slightly. His attention sharpens. He sees what she’s going for before the camera does—the subtle glint of a hive in the canopy. Then the shot cuts to the ground, revealing the sleeping forms of the Career pack. His tribute—Jace—is among them. Glimmer is nearby, too close to the base of the tree.

A voice, smooth and familiar, filters through the broadcast—Caesar Flickerman, explaining to the Capitol audience the danger of tracker jackers. The Capitol eats this up. Another moment of drama. Another inch toward bloodshed.

“Well,” you murmur, lifting your glass and taking a quiet sip, “I guess not anymore.”

Finnick turns to look at you, head tilting slightly.

“Him and Glimmer are pretty close to the nest,” you add, voice still calm, observational. Unbothered.

“You think so?” he asks, raising his glass and taking a slow sip. The rum hits his tongue first—dark and briny, just like Marcellus had described. There’s a faint smokiness that lingers in the back of his throat. It tastes like storms and regret.

You nod once, as if the outcome is already written in stone. “Yeah. Even if he survives this, he’s not going to last long.”

Finnick studies your profile, the way you speak without flinching, without sugarcoating. There’s no venom in your tone—just certainty. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. You speak about death like you’ve already made peace with it. Like you’re just waiting for the world to catch up to your truth.

“What made you think of that?” he asks, the question coming out quieter than intended. Not because he doubts you. Because he wants to understand.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you watch the screen, your expression unreadable. Like you’re seeing something deeper than just the footage. Like you’ve already calculated every move three steps ahead, and the outcome no longer surprises you.

When you do speak, your voice is quieter, but no less steady.

“He hesitates,” you say, eyes still trained on the screen. “You can see it when he’s forced to decide. His hands shake when no one’s watching. Not enough to notice unless you’re looking for it. But it’s there.”

Finnick turns his head slightly, watching you more than the screen now.

“And hesitation,” you continue, “gets people killed in the arena.”

There’s no cruelty in the way you say it. Only truth. Heavy, cold truth, spoken like someone who’s carried it for a very long time. Like someone who’s watched people die from hesitation before.

Finnick looks down at his glass, fingers tightening slightly around it.

“Guess I hoped he had more fight in him,” he says, not to argue, but because he needs to say something. Anything.

You finally glance at him. “Hope,” you say softly, “is just another name for mercy.”

He doesn’t know what you mean by that exactly. But the weight of it settles between you, pressing into the quiet space like the beginning of a storm.

The screen flickers, and the camera cuts sharply back to Katniss.

She’s bracing herself now—hands steadying against the branch, jaw set with silent resolve. Then the blade bites through wood. One cut. Two. Finnick can almost feel the hive trembling from here. The hum of danger seems to fill the bar, as if the Capitol’s spectacle is leaking through the walls, poisoning even this quiet place.

He watches your eyes as much as the screen. You don’t flinch. Not when the tracker jacker nest plummets. Not when Glimmer bolts upright and screams. Not even when Jace—his own tribute—scrambles backward, disoriented, face twisted in pain as the stingers bury themselves into his arms, his neck.

You simply sit there, glass in hand, calm and still and untouched.

But Finnick feels it. A shift—not in your posture, not in your voice, but behind your eyes. Something flickers in them. Not pity. Not horror.

Recognition.

He watches as Jace goes down. Not immediately. But the shaking starts in his limbs, the way the venom takes over too fast, too deep. Glimmer's already gone—her body spasming as she crashes into the underbrush, face contorted in something beyond pain. The others flee.

Jace’s screams get quieter.

Finnick’s chest tightens, but not in the way he expects. There’s sorrow, yes. Frustration. But more than that, his gaze is pulled toward you again.

“You already knew that was going to happen,” he says, not accusingly—but with a kind of awe. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t look at him. Your gaze remains fixed to the screen.

“I suspected,” you say, your voice low. “They camped too close to a tree that didn’t match the rest. Too high. Too quiet. If you’ve watched enough Games, you start seeing patterns.”

Finnick swallows, the salt of the rum still clinging to the back of his throat. “You sound like you’ve studied them.”

“I have,” you reply simply.

He turns to face you more fully now, curiosity tightening in his spine. “Why?”

You finally look at him, eyes cool, unblinking. “Because understanding what kills people is the only way to survive them.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. The answer is clean, polished, but not empty. It rings with something else. Something heavier. And he can’t help but wonder what exactly you’ve survived—and at what cost.

The television carries on, jumping between tributes—blood trails, hidden cameras, the eerie quiet that always follows a burst of violence. Finnick drinks slowly, but his focus never quite leaves you.

“You’re calm about this,” he says after a moment. “All of it.”

You hum softly. “Someone has to be.”

“But you talk like you know them,” he adds, glancing back to the screen. “The tributes. Like you can read them.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, fingers lightly circling your glass. “Most people don’t look closely. They watch the Games to be entertained. But if you know what to look for, you can see everything. Who hesitates. Who calculates. Who’s pretending.”

He watches you in silence for a beat, then asks, “So tell me—who do you think’s going to win?”

You’re quiet at first.

Your eyes trail back to the screen, where Katniss is now retreating through the trees, face pale, body heaving from the effort. She’s smeared with dirt and blood, a smear of death behind her. But she’s alive. Still moving.

“Katniss,” you say, voice sure.

Finnick raises a brow. “The girl from Twelve?”

You nod once. “She doesn’t play the game the way they want her to. And they hate that. But the Capitol doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t want to be loved. She survives because she’s not pretending. Because she does what she has to, even when no one’s watching.”

He studies your face—serene, composed, carefully arranged—and sees it: a crack. Just the faintest flicker. Your lips tighten, almost imperceptibly. Your gaze falters for a split second. There’s something in your eyes that doesn’t match your voice.

Sadness.

Not for Katniss, not exactly. Something older. Deeper. Like watching her reminds you of something you’ve tried very hard to forget. Or someone.

Finnick leans back slowly in his chair, his fingers tightening around his glass. The cold press of it is grounding. He watches you as if you’re the one on screen now. Like if he pays close enough attention, he’ll see the whole picture. The truth beneath the poise.

“You talk like someone who’s been in an arena,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond. You don’t smile. Don’t deflect. For the first time, you don’t immediately offer a polished reply.

You just take a slow sip of your drink, and when you set the glass down, your fingers linger at the base—just long enough to suggest you’re steadying something unseen.

Finnick doesn’t push. He lets the silence stretch between you, fragile but oddly full. It’s the closest he’s come to understanding you, and yet it only deepens the mystery.

And for the first time since the headline broke that morning, he stops thinking about the Capitol, about the cameras, about how all of this looks.

Because now he’s wondering who you really are and what it cost you to become this composed.

Without a word, you reach forward and swipe the tablet screen. The television above hisses softly as it retracts back into the ceiling, the whirring mechanism swallowing the broadcast and leaving only silence behind.

The room feels quieter without the noise of the Games bleeding through it, but not peaceful. No, the silence here is the kind that waits—full of unspoken things pressed tightly between words.

You sit still, one hand wrapped loosely around your glass, eyes on the space where the screen once hung. Something in your shoulders shifts—barely a movement, but enough for Finnick to see it. Like you’re coming back from somewhere far away. Somewhere you didn’t ask to go.

He watches you carefully, brow furrowed just slightly, thoughts still tangled in the way you’d spoken about the Games—about the tributes, about death, about Katniss. There’s too much weight in your voice to belong to someone untouched by it.

He leans in a little, voice low and careful. “Who are you?”

It’s not a threat, and it’s not a challenge. It’s something softer. A genuine attempt to understand you. To make sense of the pull he feels toward someone he still knows almost nothing about.

You don’t answer immediately. You take your time, sipping your drink with the same patience you wear like armor. When your gaze finally drifts back to him, it’s steady. Clear. You aren’t hiding—but you aren’t baring yourself either.

You give him just enough.

“Just a girl who got out of the trenches.”

The words are simple, almost casual. But they land with the weight of something heavy and real. Finnick goes still.

The trenches. That phrase wasn’t random. It’s one he’s heard whispered before—spoken quietly among those who know how deep the Capitol’s rot really goes. A codeword, of sorts. A way of referring to the worst of the districts. Not just poverty—but the underworld beneath it. The black market. The places where kids disappeared and didn’t come back. Or came back wrong.

He studies your face again. Calm. Still. But the words echo in his head now with deeper meaning.

He’s heard rumors. Of girls taken from their homes under the guise of recruitment, opportunity, "special training." Girls who vanished from forgotten corners of the districts and ended up somewhere between Capitol property and Capitol possession. Sometimes as servants. Sometimes as less. Sometimes they were never seen again.

You don’t look broken. You don’t even look angry. But that calm—that quiet composure—you wear it like a survivor. Like someone who’s spent a long time being looked at, handled, shaped, and is now very good at not being touched at all.

Finnick's voice is quieter when he speaks next. “You’re from a district.”

You don’t deny it. You just give him a faint smile—tired, and not unkind. “A long time ago.”

His throat feels tight, but he swallows it down. “How did you end up here?”

Your gaze slides away again, toward the bar’s long shadows, toward Marcellus in the corner who pretends not to listen but hasn’t missed a word. “Same way most of us end up in the Capitol,” you say softly. “Someone noticed something they wanted.”

Finnick lets out a breath. It’s not surprise that hits him—it's recognition. He knows exactly what it means to be wanted for all the wrong reasons. To have someone see you not as a person but a prize.

You look back at him, and for the first time, your composure falters—but not from weakness. It’s from the weight of truth. It’s in your eyes—something distant and aching.

“I didn’t come here by choice,” you say, and though your voice doesn’t break, there’s a shift in it—a faint hollowing at the edges. A note too quiet for the Capitol to ever notice, but clear enough for someone like Finnick, who knows what it means to live with a cage around your throat.

“But I stayed,” you continue, glancing down at the rim of your glass. “I built something from it. Not much. But enough to breathe.”

Finnick doesn’t speak. He watches the way your thumb moves along the edge of your drink, slow and methodical, grounding. There’s something reverent about the way you say it—enough to breathe—as though even that small luxury was something you had to fight for. Or steal.

After a pause, you add, quieter, “I was lucky.”

Your words don’t sound like someone boasting about luck. If anything, they sound like someone confessing survivor’s guilt.

“There was a man,” you say. “He found me when I’d run out of exits. Didn’t ask for anything. Just opened a door.”

You don’t name him. Don’t elaborate. But something in your voice tightens, almost imperceptibly, when you speak about him. A flicker of emotion that’s neither fear nor longing—more like reverence. Or debt. Whoever he was, he changed the course of your life, and you carry that change like a quiet scar.

“He’s the one who built Phantom’s Tide,” you say, and for a moment your gaze lifts, scanning the walls as if you can still see the blueprint of his presence tucked between the wood grain and flickering lanterns. “I just keep the lights on.”

Finnick leans forward slightly, elbows resting against the bar. “Is he still around?”

You shrug, but there’s something guarded about the gesture. “Sometimes. He comes and goes. He prefers the shadows.” Then, a breath of a smile. “I think he likes it that way.”

Finnick processes that slowly. There’s more you aren’t saying—he can feel it in the way you keep your posture steady, in the soft way your voice drops at certain syllables. You’ve lived in silence so long it’s become a language of its own. But he’s fluent in those silences too.

“What did he save you from?” he asks, voice gentle now.

Your eyes flick to his, but only briefly. It’s the first time you look… wary. Not afraid. Just uncertain about how much to give. But you don’t lash out. You don’t shut down.

You just say, “Someone who thought I belonged to them.”

The words are quiet. Clean. Like glass held up to the light. But Finnick feels the cut of them anyway.

He doesn’t press after that. Doesn’t need to. The meaning hangs there between you, unspoken and undeniable.

His hands curl slowly around his glass again. “Then I’m glad he found you,” he says.

You nod once, thoughtful. “So am I. I wouldn’t have survived the Capitol without him.”

Another long silence stretches between you—but this time, it feels different. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just shared.

The bar is still empty except for the two of you and Marcellus, who stands a polite distance away, polishing a glass with the patience of someone who’s heard a thousand stories and knows not to interrupt any of them.

Finnick looks back toward you, really looks at you—and he sees not just mystery, but resilience. The kind you don’t earn without bleeding first.

“You said you built something,” he says quietly. “This bar… this place... it’s more than just a job, isn’t it?”

You glance at the piano in the corner, the etchings in the bar wood, the low hum of safe quiet that wraps around the walls. Your voice is calm as ever when you reply.

“It’s a place to land,” you say. “For people who’ve forgotten what stillness feels like.”

And Finnick, with his own salt-bitter heart and years of being paraded like a living trophy, knows better than to ask for more than you’re willing to give. But still—something about the way you say it leaves a mark. A tether.

Because now he doesn’t just want to understand you. He wants to protect you, even if it seems impossible given the circumstances now.

There was something suffocating about President Snow’s office, though it wasn’t the size. The room was vast—cathedral-high ceilings, gleaming floors, floor-to-ceiling windows framed by carved stone columns. It should have felt open, airy. But it didn’t.

It felt like a tomb.

Finnick Odair stood at the center of it, hands relaxed at his sides, wearing the same careless ease the Capitol expected from him. As if he wasn’t already calculating the exact pitch of his voice, the shape of his smile, the safest way to leave this room with his soul intact.

The air smelled like white roses.

Dozens of them—arranged in vases too perfect to be handmade, lining the corners, shelves, and sills. The scent was thick and cloying, almost sweet, but Finnick could still smell what lay beneath. Decay. Blood. The rot of power that had been left unchecked for too long. Whatever Snow was hiding beneath the perfume, it was working.

The President sat behind his black-glass desk like a man holding court. Everything about the room gleamed—sleek, sterile, immaculate. No clutter. No mess. Just a gold pocket watch ticking faintly near his elbow and the illusion of control sharpened to a blade.

Snow’s fingers, thin and liver-spotted, tapped once against the armrest. It was a soft sound. But deliberate enough to make Finnick’s spine go rigid.

“Odair,” he said smoothly. “It seems you’ve found yourself in another pinch.”

He said it like they were equals. Like this wasn’t another chain being fastened around Finnick’s throat.

Finnick gave the smile they all liked. The easy one. The one that hinted at charm and mischief, even when his stomach was coiled tight. “Capitol’s been restless lately,” he said lightly. “You know how it is—can’t let me go a full week without a scandal.”

Snow returned the smile, but it was lifeless. His lips curled, but his eyes stayed cold.

“Indeed. It seems the people still fawn over you, even as you grow older.” He said it with the tone of someone admiring a relic. “I can’t blame them. You were born for this, after all. Some people have survival in their blood.”

Finnick tilted his head just slightly. “Should I take that as a compliment, President Snow?”

Snow lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Depends.”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a white envelope. Laid it on the desk and turned it toward Finnick with two fingers, precise and unhurried.

Finnick stepped forward. He didn’t hesitate—hesitation meant weakness. He slid the envelope toward him and opened it. The photographs inside were crisp, printed on thick Capitol-grade film.

The first image hit hard.

It was you—still wearing the dress from earlier, but in a different setting. A private room. Feminine touches softened the edges of the space: a messy vanity, floral wallpaper, a wooden dresser. You sat by the window, brushing your hair with one hand, a small book open on your lap. The photo had been taken from across the street. Through the glass.

Finnick’s grip on the photo tightened slightly.

The next image was from Phantom’s Tide. Older. Taken from a darkened corner of the bar. You were onstage, seated at the piano, your back to the camera. A man stood behind the curtain’s edge—older, with gray-streaked hair and a formal tuxedo. He didn’t look like a Capitol man. No shine, no cosmetic perfection. His face bore the marks of time and truth. And yet, the way he looked at you—quiet, composed, reverent—said everything. Finnick recognized him instantly.

The bar’s owner. The one who saved you.

Then came the last photo.

You, alone on a Capitol street, standing at a grave. A black trench coat wrapped around you, your hands buried deep in the pockets. Your gaze was downcast, fixed on the headstones beneath you. Finnick squinted at the lettering—Loving Husband and Loving Wife.

A pulse of something cold moved through him.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on Phantom’s Tide for some time,” Snow said, voice deceptively casual. “Their front—or should I say, your Missus—caught my attention. I haven’t heard a voice like that in years.”

Finnick lifted his head slowly, meeting Snow’s gaze. “You already had a plan,” he said, the realization landing like a stone.

Snow’s smile widened, just slightly. “Clever boy. It writes itself, doesn’t it? A victor from District Four, falling in love with a mystery woman with a siren’s voice. Oh, they’ll devour it.”

Finnick’s jaw clenched, though he kept his expression even. He’d long since learned that fury got you nowhere with Snow. Not unless it was staged. Controlled. Performed.

“A love story,” Finnick said flatly. “That’s what this is to you.”

Snow leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folding neatly over his stomach. “Not just any love story. The love story. A tortured romance. A siren and her golden boy. Mystery and scandal, tamed by adoration. It’s already taken root. And the more they believe it, the more they'll forget the unrest.”

Finnick’s chest felt tight. Not from fear. From the bitter taste of understanding.

“You leaked the photos.”

Snow’s brows lifted, mildly amused. “Oh please. I could do better than that.”

He said it with such confidence, such finality, it made Finnick sick.

“You’re going to destroy her,” he said, voice lower now.

Snow’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I disagree. If anything, I’ve given her what she never had—an audience. Access. Protection. Do you know how many Capitol elites are requesting her already? She’ll sing at every high event in the city. And you’ll be there. On her arm. Looking every inch the perfect pair.”

Finnick hated how cleanly the cage was constructed. There was no blood, no overt threat—just expectation. Just the illusion of a gift. And behind it, the same trap they’d all fallen into.

“You’re pushing her into the spotlight,” he said, jaw tight.

Snow’s smile dropped, finally. His eyes sharpened.

“I’m giving her purpose,” he corrected. “And you’re going to help her keep it. Or I’ll remind the public exactly what District Four’s favorite son did to stay alive.”

Finnick said nothing. He couldn’t speak through the burn in his throat. The shame. The fury.

“I want a public appearance,” Snow continued. “Two days from now. A benefit gala. You’ll arrive together. Smile for the cameras. Let them see what they want to see.”

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.

“And tell your little bar singer that from now on, her music serves the Capitol. If she plays the part, she’ll be safe. If she doesn’t, well. I’m sure there’s a spot still empty for the owner.”

Finnick stared at him—hated him in a way that felt carved into his bones. But he nodded once, not because he agreed.

Because that’s what you did when you were already holding someone else’s leash.

Without another word, he turned and left the room, the scent of white roses clinging to him like rot.

The Capitol gala was nothing short of obscene. The event was housed in a glass hall perched atop the city’s highest tower, the ceiling a domed projection of shifting constellations and artificial auroras. Every surface glittered—columns gilded with gold, chandeliers like falling stars, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, reflecting every guest like a cruel trick of symmetry. The music was soft and distant, more ambiance than melody, and it filled the space like perfume: heavy, lingering, and too sweet to be comforting.

The guests came adorned in layers of elegance and artificial grace—dripping with sequins, synthetic feathers, and jewels too large to be tasteful. They sipped wine laced with something numbing and laughed in rehearsed rhythms. But beneath their painted smiles was hunger. They weren’t here for art. They were here for spectacle. For the story. For you.

Finnick sat in the front row, planted in a velvet-lined chair that felt like it was built to trap its occupant in comfort. His suit, chosen by stylists hours earlier, clung to him perfectly—sleek black tailored to emphasize his shoulders and trimmed in glints of blue, like stormlight. On the outside, he looked every bit the Capitol’s darling: poised, polished, and enviably composed. But inside, his nerves were pulling taut, stretching to a fray. His hands remained locked together in his lap, not out of etiquette but to stop their tremble.

He scanned the room with quiet dread, watching sponsors and ambassadors and Capitol socialites gossip behind glittering masks and cocktail glasses. Every one of them had come because the narrative had already been spun—of course they wanted to see the bar singer with the siren’s voice, the one who’d supposedly tamed Finnick Odair’s heart. It didn’t matter if they’d heard you sing before. They didn’t care about the music. They came for blood dressed in silk.

Then, your name rang out over the speaker system.

Finnick's chest pulled tight as light applause stirred the crowd. It wasn’t warm. It was expectant. Like the opening act to a show everyone believed they’d already seen.

You stepped onto the stage, and for a breath, the room hushed. You looked otherworldly—polished, elegant, untouchable. The gown they’d put you in was silver, the kind of silver that shimmered with every step like running water under moonlight. Your hair was pinned up with cruel precision, makeup delicate but deliberate, lips painted in a quiet, tragic shade. You looked like a dream.

But Finnick didn’t see the dream.

He saw your hands.

The subtle way they hovered at your sides a moment too long before settling at your waist. The single, quick inhale that slightly lifted your shoulders. The way your gaze scanned the room—not for approval, not for admiration—but for threat. For the first crack in the ice.

It was your first time performing before a crowd like this. Not just rich, not just powerful—but watching. They didn’t want to listen to you. They wanted to possess you. And you knew that.

Finnick felt helpless. He hated every second of it. Hated that he was down here, dressed up and powerless, while you were alone on that stage, being repackaged and offered to people who didn’t know your voice wasn’t a gift—it was a shield. He’d told himself he’d protect you. He hadn’t figured out how yet.

Snow’s words echoed bitterly in his mind. She’ll sing at every high event in the city. And you’ll be there. On her arm.

You had barely spoken on the way here. No dramatic declarations, no complaints. Just a quiet nod when you passed him backstage. He wasn’t sure if it was reassurance or resignation. But whatever it was, it had hollowed him out.

Now, he watched you sit at the piano.

The room was silent, the crowd leaned forward in that poised, hungry way only Capitol elites could manage—enthralled not because they cared, but because they’d been told to.

You placed your fingers gently on the keys. There was a pause—a breath in the fabric of the evening—and then the first note rang out.

It was light. Almost too delicate to carry. Like the sound of water striking glass, sharp and fragile all at once. You followed it with another, and another, the melody building in slow, aching chords.

The crowd listened. But Finnick didn’t watch them. He watched you.

Because this wasn’t just a performance. It wasn’t a debut. This was survival.

The music began softly, slow and deliberate, weaving its way into the towering gala hall like mist curling across still water. Each note settled gently into the air, not demanding attention but gradually pulling it in, one breath at a time. The melody had no urgency, no fanfare. It moved with the weight of something old and unspoken, like a lullaby passed down from ghost to ghost. It drifted past golden chandeliers, down silk-clad backs, through the stillness of crystal glasses paused mid-sip. No one dared speak—not because they cared, but because they couldn’t look away.

You sat poised at the piano, every inch of you styled to perfection. The silver gown shimmered under the lights, delicate and regal, like something made of moonlight. Your hair was pulled away from your face, your lips painted a subtle, tragic red that matched the hush in your eyes. You looked immaculate, untouchable. But beneath all that shimmer, there was something else. Something quieter. Something only a few would see.

Then you began to sing.

Your voice was low at first, breathy and careful, as though you were coaxing the words from somewhere deep in your chest. The lyrics themselves weren’t obvious—there were no Capitol theatrics, no soaring ballads. Just a slow, ethereal story wrapped in metaphor. A woman walking barefoot across the ocean floor. Light above her but always out of reach. Stones beneath her feet that never drew blood. Creatures in the deep that whispered her name and sounded like men.

It was haunting, delicate, and strange. A spell disguised as a song.

Most of the room was enchanted, but only on the surface. The Capitol guests swayed gently, heads tilted like connoisseurs enjoying a rare delicacy. They smiled, whispered among themselves, marveled at how your voice seemed to coat the air in silk. But they didn’t hear you. Not really. They didn’t know what they were clapping for. They didn’t realize what you were giving up.

But Finnick did.

He heard everything.

He heard the way your voice lingered just a little too long on certain lines, the way you dipped lower when you sang about silence, how you faltered—so subtly it could be missed—when the lyrics touched on monsters cloaked in velvet and perfume. You never looked down at the keys, never looked away. You faced the audience with eyes that didn’t plead or ask. They warned.

Finnick watched from the front row, heart pounding quietly behind his ribs, as you laid yourself bare in a room too shallow to notice. While the Capitol applauded the illusion, he was left staring at the truth.

You weren’t just performing. You were speaking.

He saw it in you. The finality. The way your body carried the song like a weight it had already accepted. You had entered this room as the Capitol’s newest obsession, and you would leave it as something else entirely: claimed. Visible. Watched.

He saw not the songstress dressed in silver, but the girl who once sat quietly by a window, brushing her hair with no idea that a camera lens was fixed on her from across the street. He saw the figure standing behind crimson curtains, watching over you with quiet devotion. He saw the grave with two names etched in stone—lives you had once been tethered to. He saw the trench coat, the way your hands stayed deep in your pockets not because of the cold, but because they had nothing left to hold.

He saw the girl who had survived more than anyone had asked of her.

And now, she was giving herself away again—piece by piece, under the guise of performance—because she knew she had no choice.

He realized, in that moment, that you weren’t just singing to the room. You were saying goodbye.

Goodbye to Phantom’s Tide. To the peace you’d built. To the quiet life you had carved out from wreckage. That stage had become your final moment of solitude, even under the glow of chandeliers and under the gaze of hundreds.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t trembling. But the resignation was there.

You were saying goodbye to the version of yourself that had once been free.

And Finnick, watching you from the front row, understood something he hadn’t before—not just the stakes, but the cost.

Because while the Capitol clapped their manicured hands and sighed at your beauty, he was the only one mourning the girl behind the song.

Finnick found his way backstage with practiced ease, slipping from the spotlight and into the shadows while the crowd remained enthralled, still murmuring about your voice, your presence, your mystery. No one noticed him vanish. All eyes were still on the stage, still on the singer they believed belonged to them now.

His pulse thudded violently beneath his ribs, like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. His hands were clammy, and he wiped them down the sides of his tailored pants without a care for the fabric. His thoughts were a storm—scattered, sharp-edged, looping on one thing only: you.

He caught sight of movement beyond the velvet curtain—the familiar swish of silver fabric, the ghost of your silhouette—and without thinking, he moved. Pushing past staff, makeup artists, and handlers all chattering into headsets, he muttered soft apologies under his breath but didn’t stop. He didn’t slow until he was standing in front of you.

You had just stepped offstage, but it looked like you were still half-lost in the performance. Your eyes were wide, pupils still blown from the adrenaline, your breath shallow. You weren’t shaking—but you weren’t steady either. Finnick’s gaze scanned you in an instant, taking in every inch, every tremor, every unspoken thing in the quiet around you.

He didn't know what he was looking for. An injury, maybe. A sign of how deeply it had hurt. Or maybe—selfishly—some flicker of resentment. Something that would confirm what he feared most: that you hated him for dragging you into this.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words felt stuck somewhere deep in his chest, raw and unfinished, like his throat had sealed itself closed. So instead, he stared.

Give me something, he pleaded silently. A look. A word. Be angry with me. Scream. Curse. Anything.

But you just stared back at him, quiet and unreadable. Then, slowly, your fingers twitched at your sides. Your mouth parted slightly, as if tasting the moment before speaking. Your voice, when it came, was so soft it barely registered over the noise of the crowd behind the curtain.

“Was I good?”

Finnick’s heart broke a little at the sound.

There was no bravado in your voice. No Capitol polish. It wasn’t the cool, collected veneer you wore so often. It was something far more fragile. Something real. The question wasn’t about approval. It was a quiet confession—Did I survive it? Did I do what I had to? Your tone carried the weight of someone standing at the edge of a ledge, waiting to see if the fall had been worth it.

And he saw it now, clearer than ever—the cracks. The way your calm had held through the performance like silk drawn over glass, but now, up close, he could see where it had begun to fray. Your breath was just slightly uneven. Your posture, usually perfect, was a hair off-center. The tremble in your voice—barely there, but enough—felt like a splinter breaking through the surface.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Relief. Grief. Something in between. It washed over him all at once.

Maybe it was because he could finally see you—not the performer, not the Capitol’s idea of who you were. But you. The version of you who wasn’t made to be watched. The girl from Phantom’s Tide. The girl who had walked through hell and still learned how to sing.

He swallowed hard, his own voice thick with something he couldn't name.

“You were amazing,” he said, and the words came out softer than he expected. Like a prayer. Like something he’d been holding onto from the second you stepped onstage.

At first, you didn’t respond. You just looked at him for a long moment, breathing through the silence between you, your lashes low, your shoulders beginning to ease.

And then—almost like a secret—you smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile the Capitol would recognize. It was small, barely there, quiet and soft around the edges. Familiar. The kind of smile you’d given him at the bar, days ago, when the room had been dark and the conversation light—when he’d made a quiet joke about a Capitol dish trying too hard to taste like something from the sea. You’d laughed then, just under your breath, and given him that smile, like it was a gift.

You offered it again now, and it broke something in him.

Because it meant that somewhere beneath all the spectacle, beneath the eyes and the stage and the silver, you were still there. And somehow, you were offering that piece of yourself to him.

Six months later, the story was still yours—just no longer in your hands.

The Capitol had consumed it entirely, twisted it into something far shinier and far more hollow. What had started as a single performance became a routine, a brand. You and Finnick were the Capitol’s new obsession: the golden couple, the haunting songbird and her tragic victor. You were no longer people. You were a fantasy polished for screens and perfume billboards, your names stitched into gossip columns and sponsorships like decorative thread.

You performed everywhere. Not just at benefits or galas, but at state dinners, private banquets, tributes’ memorials, and once—sickeningly—at a wedding sponsored by one of Snow’s inner circle. Your voice became the sound of the Capitol’s self-congratulation. Each song stripped a little more from you, and you let them take it, piece by piece, like skin from bone. You never cracked. Not in front of them. But Finnick saw the toll in quieter ways.

He saw it in the way your posture grew straighter, sharper. The way your hands, once soft at your sides, now always rested perfectly still in your lap when the cameras were near. The way your smile came on cue. Beautiful, practiced, devastating. You had become the Capitol’s perfect painting—untouched and untouchable.

And yet, Phantom’s Tide was never emptier.

It was still open—technically. Still standing. Still glowing dimly at the edge of the city. But it wasn’t yours anymore. Not really. Not when most of the regulars had stopped coming, chased away by Capitol executives and curious elites who only visited to see “where it all began.” They snapped photos. Ordered drinks they didn’t finish. Asked to hear you play, then talked through your songs. It had become a landmark instead of a sanctuary.

Marcellus said little. He never asked questions, never made demands. But Finnick noticed how often he looked at the front door now. How long he stared at the floor after you left to attend another Capitol event. There was grief in his silence. A shared one.

As for you and Finnick—something in you had shifted.

Not in hatred. Not even in resentment. Just in distance. The more the Capitol pulled you both forward, the less you had left to hold onto.

You still smiled at him in interviews, still touched his hand when the cameras watched. But offstage, the silence between you grew longer. He started to dread the sound of your shoes on marble, the rustle of your dress as you moved past him backstage without speaking. He used to find comfort in your composure. Now it felt like a wall.

He wanted to ask what you were thinking. If you hated him. If you missed the tide, or the bar, or the version of you he met the first night—the one with bare feet, a ghost in her eyes, and a piano beneath her hands.

He wanted to ask what you were thinking. If you hated him. If you missed Phantom’s Tide, or the late hours spent at the bar, or even the version of you he met the first night—the girl with bare feet, a ghost in her eyes, and a piano beneath her hands. That girl didn’t wear polished gowns or perform for crowds that wanted to devour her. She existed in quiet, in candlelight, in places the Capitol had no access to.

Finnick often wondered if things would’ve been different if he had fought harder for you. If he had dug his heels in sooner, if he hadn’t brushed off the Capitol man that night with such defiance. If he hadn’t been so careless. Would he still be stuck here, right where Snow wanted him?

The answer, of course, was yes. Snow had already planned this long before the first photo leaked. That much had become painfully clear the moment Finnick stepped into the President’s office. Whatever illusion of choice they thought they had was just that—an illusion. Fate had already bound the two of you together, and there was no cutting through that knot.

Now, six months later, he stood silently beside you in the elevator, both of you returning to the suite you shared in the Tribute Center. You used to return to your apartment near Phantom’s Tide, but ever since the paparazzi began camping outside your building, hounding for a glimpse, Snow had “generously” offered you a place in Finnick’s Capitol suite. You resisted at first. But after a long talk with the bar owner—quiet, measured, persuasive—you’d agreed. Finnick had waited at the bar with Marcellus, while the doors were closed for the day. The excuse had been renovations. The truth was, no one could breathe.

You leaned back against the elevator rail, posture poised as ever, your eyes locked straight ahead. You didn’t so much as glance at him as he swiped his card and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The silence between you had grown familiar—quiet, civil, but hollow. You stood beside each other like distant stars locked in orbit, never quite touching.

He had asked you once before—two months ago, when he was too drunk and too tired of pretending. He’d slurred the question softly into the low light of the suite: Do you hate me? You hadn’t answered. Just helped him out of his jacket, walked him to bed, and waited for him to sleep. The next morning, when he woke up with a hangover and a throat full of regret, you had breezed past his apology and asked if he wanted breakfast. He thought that was something—progress, maybe. But the moment the next interview aired, the two of you slipped right back into the pattern. Smiling on stage. Silence off it.

Now, as the elevator doors opened and the two of you stepped into the corridor, Finnick didn’t wait.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low but certain.

You paused mid-step, turning on your heel to face him. Your expression didn’t change, but your body shifted—your weight falling back slightly, like you were bracing for something. “Sure,” you said quietly. “What is it?”

You leaned against the wall, lifting one leg slightly and reaching for the strap of your heel. The exhaustion in your posture was subtle, but he saw it. Before you could finish unfastening the clasp, Finnick stepped forward.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already kneeling down in front of you. His fingers moved carefully, undoing the strap and slipping the shoe from your foot with gentle precision. He set it aside with a soft click against the floor before reaching for your other heel.

“Us,” he murmured. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

You didn’t speak. You let him remove the second shoe and stay knelt there in front of you, like someone laying down a truth he didn’t know how to carry anymore.

“I know I’m the reason we’re in this mess,” he continued, still not quite meeting your gaze. “And I know you resent me for it. Don’t deny it.” He stood now, taller, more certain, and pointed at you with a slight shake of his hand. “I’ve spent six months beside you—I know when you’re upset.”

Your brows pulled together, arms folding defensively over your chest as your eyes narrowed. “We barely speak to each other.”

“Exactly,” he said, without missing a beat. “And you’re terrible at hiding your emotions when you think no one’s watching.” His tone sharpened, but not in anger—more like desperation. “You cry when you think you’re alone. In the kitchen. At the bar. Sometimes right here at the entrance way in this damn suite.”

Your voice dropped to a warning. “Finnick.”

But he shook his head, firm. “No. I want you to know that I see it. That we’re in this together. And that you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He reached out and took your hands.

Your skin was soft, warm. Too soft. Too clean. It made his calloused fingers feel out of place, like his hands didn’t deserve to hold yours. But still, he did.

“I don’t cry,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. Your tone was sharp, yes—but it was cracking. He could feel it in the way you squeezed his hand just slightly, as if your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Yes, you do,” he replied gently. “I hear you. And so does Marcellus. He’s two weeks away from poisoning me in my sleep if I don’t get my shit together.”

You looked up at him, stunned. Your mouth parted slightly, but no words came. They never did when it mattered most—not when the truth was too heavy to carry out loud. Finnick felt your hand twitch in his, like you were about to pull away, but something kept you still.

He could see the storm behind your eyes. The overwhelm. The exhaustion. The weight of it all pressing down until it was hard to breathe. The Capitol. The performances. The headlines. The silence. And now him, standing here, refusing to let you wear your armor in peace.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because deep down, you didn’t know how to fix any of it.

You felt like you were there again—fifteen, small, terrified. Paraded through the shadows of Panem’s underground, claimed and owned and sold by people who smiled through masks while they carved pieces of you away. And now here you were again, dressed in silver, praised for your beauty, watched by millions—and still just as powerless. Still just a girl trying not to be devoured.

“I don’t need saving,” you said, your voice low but fierce, the kind that trembled with restraint. Your hands were still locked in his, and you hated how solid his grip felt—how grounding it was when everything inside you was coming undone. “So stop looking at me like I’m some shattered thing you need to fix.”

Finnick’s brows drew together, and he didn’t let go. His hands were still around yours, warm and steady, but he didn’t move. “I don’t think you’re shattered,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his tone carried weight. “I think you’re exhausted. And you keep pretending you’re not.”

You scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. “Exhausted? I’ve been exhausted for years, Finnick. This isn’t new. This is just the price of surviving.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze locked to yours like he wasn’t going to let you turn away again. “It’s not surviving anymore. It’s drowning.”

That struck something deeper than you expected. You tried to pull your hands away, but he held on—not forcefully, just enough to make sure you didn’t slip away again like you had all these months.

“I know what drowning looks like,” he said. “Because I’ve done it. I’ve smiled through it. I’ve told the Capitol exactly what they wanted to hear while everything inside me was being torn apart. And I see that in you now. Every day. You think you’re carrying all this weight because you’re strong, but you’re not supposed to do it alone.”

You laughed, but it cracked halfway through. “Then what, Finnick? I’m just supposed to collapse in your arms and let you carry me? Is that what you want? For me to fall apart so you can feel needed again?”

His eyes didn’t flinch, even when the words hit hard. “No. I don’t want to carry you. I want you to let me stand beside you. That’s all. I’m not here to be your hero. I just want to stop pretending we’re both okay when we’re not.”

Your breath hitched at the honesty in his voice. For so long, you had convinced yourself that if you could just keep your head up, keep your spine straight, they wouldn’t win. That if you smiled when they told you to and sang when they demanded, you could keep some version of yourself intact. But the truth was, you had been crumbling slowly under the surface, piece by piece, and no one had dared to say it aloud—until now.

“You get it,” you said, but the words came out splintered, torn from your chest like they’d been waiting too long to surface. “You know exactly what it’s like—to be looked at, wanted, paraded like you’re something beautiful but never yours. To be admired and consumed and put on display, but never really seen. You know what it’s like to survive by giving them what they want until you can’t remember what you wanted anymore.”

You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked as the tears pushed closer to the surface. “That’s what I hate the most. That I did everything they asked. I smiled. I played along. I let them dress me up and rewrite me and sell me off to the highest bidder—because I thought maybe if I just cooperated, they’d leave the people I care about alone.”

Your throat tightened, the next words nearly caught in it.

“But I think somewhere along the way, I stopped protecting them and started protecting the version of me that wasn’t already gone. I don’t even know who I’m protecting anymore”

“I do,” he said quietly. “You’re protecting the version of yourself that didn’t have anyone. The girl they tried to erase. And I think you’re still fighting for her. Even if you don’t know how anymore.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes burning. Your voice cracked as you said, “I hate this. I hate all of it. I hate the dresses and the cameras and the way they pretend like they know me. I hate that Phantom’s Tide isn’t mine anymore, that I can’t even walk outside without someone following me. I hate that when I sing, I don’t feel anything. It’s just noise. It’s not mine anymore.”

Finnick stepped closer, his hands tightening around yours—not in a possessive way, but in a way that said he wasn’t letting go. “I hate it too,” he admitted. “I hate that I brought you into this, even if I didn’t mean to. I hate that I let it happen. That I smiled and stood beside you when I knew how wrong it all was. I thought I was protecting you. But I wasn’t. I was just watching you disappear.”

For a moment, the silence between you thickened, not in tension, but in the shared understanding of what had been lost. There were no easy answers. No promises of rescue or escape. Just two people too tired to keep pretending they could shoulder it alone.

“I don’t want to be saved,” you said, your voice quieter now, not defensive, not cold—just tired. “I just want to feel like I’m still me. Like someone sees that I’m still here, under all of this.”

“I do,” Finnick whispered. “And I think you see me too, even when I forget who I am.”

The weight of that admission settled between you like a steady heartbeat. There was no resolution. No perfect solution. But there was something else now. Something neither of you had allowed before.

You weren’t looking for a savior.

And neither was he.

You didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to unravel, nothing left to confess. But you didn’t let go of his hands either. You stood there in the corridor, breathing in sync, still barefoot, still raw. The world outside still roared for your names, still called you theirs, but in this space—here—you were just two people learning how to be seen again.

He didn’t try to comfort you with promises and you didn’t pretend to be fine. But for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Mistake

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Canon

Authors note: no I haven't forgotten Sihtric. I've been very distracted lately but I still love him with all my heart and needed to show it with something sweet and soft

Warnings: just fluff, a few mild smutty moments but nothing explicit

Word Count: 2,9K

Summary: You didn't meant to fall for him, he never thought he was allowed to want more until one night after yet another battle Sihtric is having nightmares and you just can't pretend any longer that you don't care

It was one of those nights when even the silence of the woods felt too loud, when the dying glow of the fire seemed blinding, and even the moon looked as though it were laughing, mocking the living. It was the night after a battle, the kind that tested even the bravest warriors. When the rage, the fury, the rush of adrenaline began to fade from aching limbs and frayed minds, and what remained was a hollow stillness – a void each soul tried to fill in their own quiet, desperate ways.

You could still feel Sihtric’s bruising grip on your hips, the scorch of his breath against your neck, the rough bite of birch bark pressed into your back as he held you there, his body driving into yours with a punishing rhythm. Thrust after thrust, wild groans spilled from his lips while your legs locked around him, letting him bounce you on his cock with desperate urgency. 

This was how you forgot, how you filled the void, this was your way to escape the screams, the clash of steel, the sickening splash of blood.

You didn’t even remember how it had started, only that you both needed it. 

No words, no promises, just bodies meeting in the dark, teeth and hands and heat. You never talked about it afterward, never lingered, just dressed in silence and walked away like nothing had happened.

That was the deal – unspoken but understood, you never touched him in daylight, he never sat too close at the fire. You were careful around the others, especially before Uhtred, Finan  and Osferth, not to look too long, careful not to slip; you never reached for his hand, and he never reached for yours.

From time to time they joked, teased Sihtric about the girls who watched him, the way women smiled when he passed. Sometimes they nudged you too, thinking they were being clever, thinking maybe there was someone in your life they hadn’t met yet. You always laughed and so did he, neither of you ever flinched.

Whatever it was between you, it didn’t exist beyond the bruises you left on each other’s skin after a rough day spent drowning in death. 

You told yourself it was just the need, the release, the forgetting. You never kissed, at least not in the way that meant anything, just a desperate drag of his mouth against your collarbone, just a fleeting press of your lips to his shoulder.

But some nights, when the fire burned low and the ache was still in your body long after he’d gone, you caught yourself thinking what it would be like if you didn’t have to pretend, and you wondered if he ever did the same.

This was exactly one of those nights, when sleep didn’t want to come, when Sihtric’s touch still clung to your skin, when your legs still trembled slightly from the way he had taken you, from the way he had moved inside you - fully, deeply, like he was afraid you might slip away. And in the silence that followed, the loneliness crept in again, so sharp and sudden, and cruel, that it almost stole your breath away. 

The fire had burned low, glowing faintly like the last breath of a dream. Around it, the camp lay quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic snoring rising from the shadows. You shifted beneath the furs, searching for a more comfortable position, willing yourself to drift off at last, when you heard it. 

Someone whined softly, the furs rustled with the restless shifting of a body caught in sleep, a sharp breath, then a low murmur, broken, almost pleading. You froze as instinct made you listen more closely.

Another sound, a choked gasp, then silence – brief, heavy, reminding you the moment before a storm breaks.

Your eyes adjusted to the dark, tracing the dim shapes around the fire, most were still, wrapped in deep slumber, but one figure moved, curled in on himself, shoulders tense beneath the furs, breath coming fast and uneven.

Then you heard it again, a whisper, hoarse and cracked: "No… please."

Your heart clenched as you recognised the voice and the silhouette in the dark. It was him – Sihtric. 

You weren’t sure what to do at first. If you moved to him now, would it break whatever fragile balance you still had? Would he wake and pull away? Would he hate you for seeing him like this? It felt like crossing a boundary neither of you had ever named, but one you both so carefully respected, even if pretending it wasn’t even there. 

You told yourself to wait, but his broken murmurs didn’t stop, if anything, they grew more pained, like something inside him was tearing open, as if his sleep had turned into another bloody battlefield. 

You rose slowly and quietly as you could and crossed the space between you, heart beating too fast and too loud in your chest. He lay on his side, caught in the grip of something dark and distant, his brow furrowed, breath shallow and quick, hand twitching, fingers curling toward something that wasn’t there.

You watched him for a moment how he fought whatever ghosts haunted him, from his past or his present, or maybe both. He looked… smaller… like the weight of his armor was gone and all that was left was the boy underneath, frightened and alone in too cruel world.

You crouched beside him, your breath shallow, hand hovering in the air as you couldn’t quite decide whether to touch him or not, but he whimpered again, his body curling tighter, fingers gripping at nothing, and that soft, broken sound cracked something open in your chest. 

Your hand found his shoulder first as slowly, cautiously, you eased yourself down beside him, pressing close against his back as you pulled the furs over you both, slipped your arm around him and drew him gently into your embrace.

He didn’t wake, he just shifted instinctively, curling into you like a child, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. His face found the hollow of your neck, and a long, shaky breath left him, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer.

And as his face twitched again in some silent plea for help, you did the only thing you could think of, you began to hum.

It was a lullaby your mother had sung to you, low and gentle, the kind that belonged to early nights and safe arms, to a time before fear and sorrow had names. You didn’t even know all the words anymore, but the melody lingered, warm and tender on your tongue.

You hummed until the last embers stopped glowing, and the song faded into the night’s silence, until Sihtric’s breathing deepened and he went still against you, soundly asleep at last.

You woke gradually with the slow realization that you were warm, unusually warm.

The furs were draped over you, the fire long gone cold, but the warmth wasn’t from that, it came from the steady weight pressed against your back, the soft, uneven rhythm of breath ghosting over your neck, and the subtle pull of an arm wrapped securely around your waist.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Sihtric was curled against you, his face tucked against your neck, his body molded along yours beneath the shared furs. One of his legs was slung over yours, and you could feel the soft tickle of his hair against your skin along with the brush of his breath, slow and deep, still lost to slumber.

You didn’t move at first, you just wanted to allow yourself to savour it even if for one brief moment, that rare peace, that weight of his body trusting yours, that warm closeness that had never belonged to you in the daylight.

And then he stirred.

It was small at first, a shift of his arm, the hitch of his breath, then a tense stillness as he realised something was… off. His hand jerked slightly, as if suddenly aware of where it rested and he blinked, lifting his head just enough to look at you.

You turned and the surprise in his eyes was immediate and unguarded as his features tightened, confusion flashing first, then discomfort, embarrassment.

His body pulled away before you could speak, as if reflex had taken over. He didn’t shift far, just enough to create space between you, but it felt like a wall slamming back into place.

He looked down at the bedding, avoiding your gaze.

“What … ehm… how … how did I… I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t,” you said softly, quickly, even too quickly. Your own face burned as you sat up halfway, adjusting the furs between you with nervously hurried hands. “It was me.”

You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, shame prickling just under your skin, though you hadn’t done anything wrong, still, you couldn’t meet his eyes either.

You swallowed and tried again, slower this time.

“You were... tense. In your sleep.” Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the fur. “Like something was chasing you or worse… It looked bad and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m sorry,” you added, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to make this... weird.”

You started to shift back, ready to get up, eager to put more space between you before the others stirred, before someone saw, but his hand suddenly reached for your wrist.

You froze.

“Sihtric?”

His thumb brushed over your skin, hesitant, it seemed he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch you like this, still, he didn’t let go.

His eyes dropped again, lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks, and then, in a voice so quiet you could barely hear it:

“Did you sing for me?”

You felt your chest tighten.

“Yes,” you said gently. “Just… a lullaby from when I was a child. I didn’t think you’d hear it or remember.”

“I do.” He shifted beside you, not quite looking at you, not quite turning away. “Not the song. But your voice. It was so soft, it reminded me of…”

Sihtric’s voice trailed off, his fingers still rested lightly against your wrist, the grip more grounding than possessive, and you could almost feel the unspoken things hovering beneath his skin, things he didn’t have words for. 

“Was it that bad?” you asked softly, your voice half-laced with a shaky smile, trying to ease the tension. “The nightmare?”

He gave a faint, mirthless laugh under his breath. “They always are.”

He finally turned his face toward you, eyes lifting, they weren’t as sharp as usual, he looked tired, but also sad, breakable even.

You didn’t reach for him, didn’t press, you just sat there beside him, close enough that your knees still touched beneath the furs, letting him speak if he wanted.

“I keep seeing them, all the people I never managed to save, starting with my mom. And I keep hearing those voices,” he said. “My father’s and others, faces from years ago, laughing at me, all of them telling me I’d never be more than a miserable mistake.”

“But Sihtric…,” you started, feeling the ache bloom behind your ribs, but he didn't let you.

“I believed it for a very long time,” he added. “Maybe I still do.”

“Sihtric…” you said, quiet and sure, the way you might speak to a frightened animal. “You’re not a mistake.”

He looked at you then like he didn’t understand how you could think that and for a moment, he didn’t move, just stared at the space between his knees.

Then, barely audible, his voice cracked:

“What… what do you mean by that?”

His eyes lifted to yours, hesitant and raw, and it hit you how much courage it had taken just to ask, like he was bracing himself for a lie, or worse – kindness he couldn’t believe was real.

You shifted closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his.

“I mean,” you said, “you aren’t what they made you believe. It doesn’t matter what your father or the people who used you or pushed you aside told you.”

His throat worked around a swallow, his brow furrowed, like he wanted to argue but didn’t quite have the strength.

“I see the way you look when you think no one’s watching,” you continued. “Like you’re waiting for someone to pull the ground out from under you, like you’re already used to being left behind.”

He blinked, but said nothing.

“Sihtric, you’re the bravest and yet the kindest man I’ve ever met. You’re loyal, you protect people, you fight like hell for those who matter to you, and when no one’s looking, you’re gentle and kind.”

He let out a shaky breath and looked down again, lips pressed tight, as if holding something back.

“That’s who you are, that’s how I see you. That’s why…,” your voice faltered, trailing off as the words slipped away. You didn’t know how to say it, how to admit that this, all of this, was why you had fallen for him, deeply and irrevocably.

Yes, you had. Even if you’d tried to deny it, even if you’d convinced yourself he was just a way to forget, a distraction, a temporary balm to soothe the ache of loneliness with pleasure, it had never been true.

You wanted more. You wanted mornings like this, waking up wrapped in his warmth, tucked into the quiet space where nothing else existed but him. You wanted to be the one to ease his pain, to hold him through the worst of his nights, to whisper again and again that he had never been a mistake, not once, and you would keep telling him it, as many times as it took, until he finally believed it.

Sihtric’s shoulders trembled, just slightly, then he wiped a hand over his face, rough and clumsy, it seemed he was angry at himself.

Then, suddenly, his voice broke the quiet.

“Then why do you always leave?”

You blinked, startled by the sharpness in his words, but when you looked at him, there was no hardness in his face, only hurt.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Why do you always leave right after?” he asked again, softer this time. “Why don’t you look at me, when I…when we…”

He trailed off, his voice catching, his jaw clenched like he was trying to swallow it all down again, like he already regretted saying anything at all.

“When I’m inside you,” he finished, barely a whisper. “When I’m giving you everything, and you look away like it doesn’t mean a damn thing and just leave afterwards without a word.”

“Sihtric…” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady as he finally looked at you again.

It hit you like being struck by an angry boar – that raw hurt in his voice, so unmistakable, so naked, it left you stunned, speechless.  You didn’t recognize the expression in his eyes, not quite hope, not quite fear, but something suspended painfully between the two, like he was waiting to be either saved or destroyed by whatever came next.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, burning quietly as you struggled to find the right words, but your silence lingered too long. Sihtric’s gaze faltered, dropped back to the ground, and his hand slipped from your wrist, as if he’d already decided what your silence meant.

Hastily you reached for him, your hand curling around his arm, not ready to let him disappear back into himself.

“I thought…” you began slowly, trying to catch up to the truth unfolding between you. “I thought you wanted it that way. No feelings, no softness, just… just something we both needed and walked away from. Something to forget with.”

Sihtric’s eyes slowly widened as he shook his head, not in disagreement, but disbelief.

“You’ve barely looked at me in front of the others,” you continued. “You’ve sat as far from me at the fire as possible. I thought I was some secret you regretted.”

“I…I didn’t think I was allowed to…,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to embarrass you or to force you to admit something you didn’t mean. I thought if I even looked at you too long… you’d see how badly I wanted it to mean something, and then you’d stop coming.”

Your heart cracked so cleanly it nearly took the breath from you.

“I didn’t look at you,” you whispered, “because I was afraid I’d fall, and I didn’t know if there’d be anybody to catch me.”

His breath hitched, slowly, he reached for your hand again, fingers closing around yours like he couldn’t believe you were still there. 

“There would’ve been,” he said. “I swear it. Every single time.”

Slowly, hesitantly Sihtric pulled you into him, still not quite believing you wouldn’t push him away, but you didn’t. You leaned in instead, resting your head against his chest, and in that quiet motion, you felt it – that subtle, irreversible shift, the crack in the walls you’d both spent so long building, widening just enough to let something real in.

He eased you both down into the bedroll again, careful and unhurried, tugging the furs back over your bodies and you curled into his warmth without hesitation, tucking your nose into the crook of his neck. Around you, the camp had begun to stir with soft voices, footsteps, the distant clang of morning steel, but neither of you moved.

From a few feet away, Finan’s voice rang out with familiar mischief: “Well, would you look at that. Our brooding little warrior finally figured out how to use his words.”

You didn’t even open your eyes.

“Shall I shut him up?” Sihtric murmured into your hair, his voice soft, amused.

“Let him talk,” you whispered back, pressing closer into him. “He’s just jealous.”There was a beat, and then Sihtric’s arm tightened around you, like your words had settled somewhere deep inside him, he lowered his head, voice barely a breath against your skin. “Then I hope I never stop dreaming badly… if it means waking up like this.”

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

>゜))彡 . . . finnick odair masterlist ! ! !

requests: closed

🍡 = fluff , 🌪 = angst

(i don't write nsfw!!!)

What I Needed Was You 🌪

summary: years of cat-and-mouse chase, finnick is done waiting.

The Sea and The Sun 🍡

summary: you love finnick the way he loves the sea.

Hold Me Steady 🌪

summary: how do you watch the person you love most break in front of you—knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it?

Nightlock 🌪

summary: you wished you and your lover stayed back in district 13.

Stacking Seashells, Falling Hard 🍡

summary: a seashell competition between you and finnick on a random saturday afternoon.

Between Your Hands and the World 🍡

summary: finnick isn't particularly fond of the gift you received from one of your sponsors.

Two Victors, One Closet 🍡

part two, part three — discontinued for now.

summary: you hid in a closet to escape from a fan—but what are the odds of ending up in the same closet with the capitol's darling?

Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have 🌪

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

You're Still The One I Run To 🌪

pt 2 of hope is a dangerous thing to have

summary: in district 13, survival is routine—but when finnick’s quiet apology breaks through the silence, you begin to wonder if something lost can still be found.

Tidebound 🌪

summary: you and finnick are drawn together like the tide to the shore—even when the odds are never in your favor.

Silver Glow of Moonlight 🍡

summary: finnick finds comfort in your arms after waking up from a nightmare. (based on a req!)

Still Here 🌪

summary: you're left wounded after a gone-wrong expedition and finnick is worried to death. (based on anon's req!)

War Is Over, Now Live With The Trauma 🌪🍡

summary: finnick is still adjusting to his new life after the war. sometimes, he's still in snow's grasp but luckily, you're there to pull him out of it and remind him that it's over. (based on a req!)

As Long As You Want 🍡

summary: in a world that never stops taking, you and finnick steal a moment where only the rain, the sea, and each other exist. (based on a req!)

Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby 🌪

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence. (based on anon's req!)

Back to Where We Began 🍡

summary: finnick's usual trip at the beach becomes something more when an old face shows up.

Crab Juice & Strawhat 🍡

summary: finnick's been haunted by lots of things—but he never expected a strawhat to be one of them.

Sweetheart of Panem 🌪

summary: finnick odair believes you somehow escaped the arena, but you're just another tribute claimed by the capitol’s game. he holds onto hope, aware that your fate was sealed long before the final blow.

Mother's Day Special 🍡

summary: you drag finnick along with you as you try to find the perfect gift for mother's day.

Like Real People Do (Honey, Just Put Your Sweet Lips On My Lips) 🌪

summary: how does the quarter quell affect between two people who love each other but can’t seem to align on how or when to admit it?

We Kissed Like Drowning Things 🌪

summary: they were each other's first love—soft, sacred, sun-warmed. then the capitol took him, and you learned that sometimes, survival means letting go of everything gentle. years later, bruised by the capitol and silence, they're trying again. but the sea doesn't always return what it takes.

Typical Tuesday Morning 🍡

summary: you got a little bored and decide to have some fun make-over with your pretty husband.

Drabbles!

golden morning 🍡

happy wife, happy life 🍡

a cat(s) between us 🍡

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

Always hoped they would give us a regeneration without telling us and without telling us who the next doctor will be. But that was a let down 🙃

Really though it would have been so much cooler seeing someone new

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

If Billie is the doctor I've truly never been as disappointed in my life.

[kiwi-peaches-blog]

I really did love Rose but her and 10 are over used. It's getting silly now 😭