#marvel reader insert

[quillsandtypos]

This absolutely melted my heart in so many ways, thank you so much for this JJ

Endorphins

synopsis: you're working yourself to the bone in preparation for a big event, unwilling to take a break or de-stress, so Loki takes matters into his own hands.

pairing: Loki x female reader

wc: ~3400

cw: mostly a whole lotta fluff! but some swearing, tickling, and mentions of stress/burnout

minors DNI: this fic does not contain smut, but includes an adult-aged character experiencing attraction towards the reader; I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: a little fluff-bomb palette-cleanser after the intensity of my last couple of Loki fics. if you'd like to read more fics like this i'd love for you to let me know!

The common room of the residential wing of the Avengers Compound wasn’t empty, but it was quiet. The kind of lived-in calm that came after half a morning’s worth of coffee and sleep-laced banter.

A newscast flickered on the television with the volume mostly down, just enough for background noise. Steve was reading something on a tablet with that technology-induced furrowed brow. Bruce sat nearest the windows, flipping through a medical journal with one socked foot tucked under the other knee, looking up only when Natasha approached, all too quietly, and wordlessly refilled his coffee with a small, satisfied smile.

Others were scattered amongst it, all were uncharacteristically peaceful.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of the sectional with a stack of reports beside you, laptop open on the coffee table, pen cap clenched between your teeth. Your eyes were sharp, shoulders high with tension, jaw visibly set. You’d been like this for days - edgy, overworked, quiet, insular. Everyone knew why.

There was a summit in two weeks. A UN delegation. An avalanche of new diplomatic threads to untangle, several of which involved countries you’d gone on missions in recently. Your name was on every page of briefing notes and draft statements, and now you’d been snowed under.

"Hey. You good over there?" Sam broke the calm, directing his attention pointedly to the way your leg was bouncing.

You didn’t look up, but some kind of awareness flashed across your face and your leg fell still.

"Yeah. Good. Just focused."

Curt. Efficient. Not unkind, but final.

Loki, from his armchair, eyes appearing focused on the book in his lap, quirked a brow.

Bruce glanced up. "You've been at it for a while. You should really take a break."

"I was at the punching bag this morning."

Steve chimed in, not looking away from his tablet. "That’s training. Not a break."

"Feels like a break; I like training."

"You need to do something that isn’t work," Sam offered gently from his couch, falling easily into counsellor mode. "Take a beat. Do you have a hobby? A creative outlet would help."

You didn't look up. Just exhaled slowly through your nose. It was the kind of breath that meant I’m trying to be polite.

"I appreciate the concern," you said, very diplomatically, "but I have a pile of actual responsibilities in front of me, and knitting or bouldering is not going to rewrite the second paragraph of this response to the Wakandan delegation. If you'll excuse me."

You stood, gathering your laptop and papers, and exited the room with a measured grace that only barely masked how tense you were.

There was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for you to be out of earshot.

"She’s gonna snap," Bruce said, setting his mug down.

Sam sighed, arms crossed. "She’s in pressure mode. Doesn’t mean she’s angry. Just means she thinks stopping will make it worse. But we let it sit too long and it’ll turn into the wrong kind of burnout."

Steve sipped his coffee. "I’m watching it."

"She has been boxing," Natasha pointed out.

"She doesn't need more cortisol," Bruce muttered, "She needs a damn serotonin drip. Or something. Or someone. Honestly, just- someone make her laugh."

Natasha shrugged. "I could try."

Bruce winced. An unspoken: maybe it's best you don't.

"Wilson," Loki said aloud, not looking up from his book.

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

"You fancy yourself a comedian."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I mean... I am funny-"

"Then for Norns’ sake," Loki said, flipping a page with precise disdain, "do your job."

Natasha choked on a laugh.

Steve chuckled under his breath.

Loki felt his chest tighten.

The discussion annoyed him more than he expected. Not because of the concern - no, that part made sense. It was how they discussed it. They were talking in circles, wringing their hands, musing about serotonin and yoga, all while you were in the next room slowly grinding yourself down to the bone doing work that, if Loki wasn’t mistaken, concerned all of them.

Yet... you wouldn't allow a single report to be taken.

"Rogers." Loki snapped the book shut and settled back into his chair, perching his elbows on the upholstered arms. "Might I ask," he drawled, "are you the leader of this team or not?"

Steve’s brow furrowed slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You," Loki said plainly. "Stars and stripes. Human embodiment of a rousing inspirational speech. Are you in charge, or do you all simply loiter in proximity to each other?"

Sam raised his brows.

Loki didn't wait for an answer. "Delegate."

Steve sighed, long and deep.

"I’ve offered. But she’s protective of it; she cares a lot about the work, and her name is all over it. I can't just take it from her."

"Then order her to accept help."

"That's not how we do things," Steve said firmly.

Loki hummed under his breath as the others went back to their own little worlds.

Fascinating.

A room full of soldiers, spies, and scientists...

And yet none of them, not one, had the teeth to intervene.

The following morning, Loki found himself happening across an tiresomely similar scene, this time in the kitchen. The room smelled like toast and bacon and freshly ground coffee and the underlying tension of one person trying very hard to pretend they didn’t have basic human needs.

You sat at the island, dressed in your running tank and leggings, one foot planted on the stool, knee tucked to your chest. The thin veil of control you were clinging to was starting to crack, but you kept working, stubborn and relentless.

Sam leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee like it was a tactical manoeuvre.

"Just saying," he offered gently, "summit’s a couple weeks out. You could afford a break."

"I'll take a break," you said without looking up. "Once this section’s clean. It’s almost there."

Sam glanced over his mug, still trying to be gentle. "You said that yesterday. And the day before that."

"And when you said it Monday, it was 'just a few more paragraphs.'" Steve was crouched by the oven, checking on the bacon.

"I finally got a response I've been waiting for just before I was about to go for a run," you muttered, tapping a line of text and deleting it without mercy. "I'll go outside once I edit this section with this new info."

"Running is training. Training is work," Sam said. "You need something that’s not work. Something for you."

You sighed, long-suffering. "Something for me - something that'll make me feel better - is having this done."

"You know this is how burnout starts, right?" Sam’s voice was calm, but not soft. The therapist was peeking through. "You run hot for too long, you crash hard. You'll think better when your brain’s had room to breathe."

You gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

"And you think a watercolour landscape will clear my head?"

"You need fun. Your body needs endorphins."

"Exercise gives me endorphins."

"And cortisol. Which you've been running high on for almost a week. You need to let loose. Laugh. Give your body a break from the tension."

"I laugh," you said, with the driest tone possible. "You’re all very funny."

"Nope," Sam shook his head. "That’s not real laughter. That’s the social ‘ha.’"

"My ha is perfectly adequate," you snapped, deadpan, looking back to the screen.

Steve snorted.

From the other side of the kitchen, as his coffee trickled through the filter, Loki’s gaze narrowed on you, his eyes sharp as he observed the exchange. It didn’t escape him - your composure had cracks in it, the way your shoulders were wound tight, the way you barely breathed between sentences. His lips curled into a faint, knowing, endeared smile.

So stubborn.

Sam leaned his elbows on the island across from you, clasping his hands together. "What can I do?"

You raised a brow. "I’m not your responsibility, Sam."

"You’re my teammate."

You looked up. And to your credit, there was no venom in your eyes. Just that same brittle exhaustion that’d been following you like a shadow for days. You blew out a breath.

"I’m fine."

"You’ll think better with food," Sam coaxed.

Your jaw tensed. "I know. I'll eat in a bit."

"C'mon," Sam pressed, his voice light but serious. "Sit with us for half an hour, eat something, then you can get back to your 'almost done' report, and we'll all leave you alone."

You looked back at your screen. "I can’t tell if that’s a bribe or a threat."

"Bruce says the stress will kill you," Sam said, half-joking.

"Your jokes might beat it to the punch," you muttered back.

"Wow."

You resumed typing. "I promise, once this summit is over, I'll watch a Netflix special of your choosing and get more than my fill of endorphins."

Loki uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. Unhurried, but with the weight of purpose behind them. He could feel the tension rolling off you, and for reasons he wouldn’t fully admit - couldn’t fully understand... he couldn’t stand it.

"Why," he began, his voice calm but with undeniable mischief laced beneath, "do you all insist on doing this the hard way?"

He rounded the island and approached you from the side, calm, not rushed, but without delay.

He had nothing to do with this - he told himself. This wasn’t about you or your exhaustion. This was just him solving a problem. A problem they were clearly too inept to fix.

Your shoulders didn’t move. You didn’t acknowledge him. You kept typing as he stood behind you.

His hands were on you before you registered the intent.

Loki’s fingers dug into your ribs, pressing and wiggling into the soft spots just beneath your arms with an expert precision.

You jerked, hands flying off the keys with a sharp sound of protest, an involuntary giggle bursting from your throat as you half-twisted, elbows snapping protectively to your sides.

Loki dropped his tickling hands, looming behind you like an impending storm, and let out a sharp and satisfied puff of air. "Thank the Norns."

And then, before you could gather your wits and react, he grabbed you around the waist and hauled you effortlessly off the stool.

You kicked and cursed in wild shock, flailing against the solid vice of his arm around your middle. "HEY!"

Loki looked to the others - their faces painted in quiet hesitance.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that," the god said with cool amusement, adjusting his grip as you writhed in his arms. “You’re all too bloody soft. Someone has to be the villain, and I rather enjoy the role." He then shot a sharp glance to Rogers. "You’re welcome."

He turned and started walking towards the living room.

"LOKI!" You snarled through gritted teeth, pushing at his forearm.

You were squirming like a snared hellcat in his arms, but your body gave you away. You were tired. Overextended. Tied in so many knots you couldn't tell where your own edges begin anymore.

"Let me go!"

"Yes, yes…" he sighed, striding into the large common room. "Once this matter is dealt with."

Bruce glanced up from his usual armchair, blinking behind his glasses. He took in the scene - you writhing in Loki’s arms, Loki’s expression impassive and focused, the faint storm in his stride.

From the threshold, Sam and Steve peered out with matching expressions of amused disbelief.

"Uh…" Bruce looked to the others, eyes wary and uncertain, coffee half-raised to his lips. "So we’re all just cool with whatever this is?"

Loki looked at the doctor briefly. "You said she needed endorphins. Laughter. Yes?"

"Well yeah but-"

"Lovely."

And then he threw you onto the couch.

It wasn't a gentle toss, but not cruel either. It was precise. Designed to disorient, and it did a hell of a job.

You landed on your side with a sharp bounce, half-seething, pushing yourself up with both murder and a giddy sort of nervousness in your eyes. You twisted and moved to scramble away, but he was already there - moving fast and smooth, settling down beside you.

He sat side-on, one knee on the cushion, the other foot braced on the floor. His hip pressed flush to yours, caging you in where you lay half-twisted against the backrest of the couch. His torso leaned across your waist, the angle perfect for blocking your every attempt to curl or wriggle away.

"You son of a-"

You reached up, maybe to push, maybe to slap, maybe to claw his face off - but it didn't matter. He caught your wrist easily, trapping it in mid-air.

"Easy," he said, voice low and warm. "Let’s not make a scene."

"Don’t you dare."

You didn't stand a chance.

He released your wrist and his hands darted fast - intentional, no wasted movement - his fingers dragging and digging into the sensitive space between your ribs and waist, thumbs pressing with precision.

You slapped at his hands, trying to hold back your giggles, still trying to fight, but he already had you.

Fingers spidered across your sides, precise and ticklish, pressing into the spaces between your ribs, the grooves of your waist. You jolted like a live wire. And then-

"Nnn-shit!"

You broke.

Giggling laughter exploded out of you, bright and helpless, like it had been waiting days to claw its way free. You bucked against him, hands slapping at his chest, knees curling up against his back.

He smirked, not even looking up at you, just watching his own hands move, thumbs circling, working the lines of your waist like a musician playing a their attuned instrument.

"Gods above," he muttered with an exhale, actually smiling. "You’re so ticklish."

"Asshole," you managed an adorable little snarl between breaths, but the laughter didn't stop. You were so consumed by the giggles that your protest didn’t sound as defiant as it should. "I ha-hate you!"

He chuckled, low and dark, his voice so teasing. "Oh, you’re going to have to try harder than that."

You let out a squeal when his fingers dug under your arms for half a second - then lower, finding the softest edge of your waist. You shrieked, bucking again, and Loki's grin deepened. His hands settled there with ominous precision.

Oh, he’d found something.

The spot just under your ribs, where nerves tangled and skin jumped at the slightest pressure. He focused there, thumbs pressing maddening circles, fingertips dragging with infuriating care.

You gasped, laughed, cursed - tried to twist, tried to curl - but it was useless. Your muscles had gone soft with the laughing. Your hands pushed at his chest, but there was no strength in them anymore. You were melting under him. And gods, he liked it.

"That’s it," he murmured, low and amused.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you started going boneless beneath him.

He tilted his head, fascinated.

So expressive, mortals. All heat and breath and sudden collapse.

You could be a fury incarnate at any waking moment - sharp-tongued, iron-willed, as comfortable with a combat knife as you were in geopolitical briefings. And just as precise.

You’d spent the last week grinding yourself into steel and silence, undereyes shadowed with exhaustion, soaked in irritation, swatting away gentle jokes and light-hearted concern.

And now - reduced to this. Caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. Giggling, shaking, flushed and boneless beneath his hands.

Adorable.

He narrowed his eyes.

When had that word started surfacing in his brain so often?

God of Mischief, he reminded himself. This was simply the application of chaos toward emotional regulation. A necessary correction. Nothing more.

And yet, he could not look away.

He was a trickster, schemer, a thousand-year-old weapon of mass destruction. He had absolutely no business finding a mortal this... this charming.

And yet, he did not want to look away.

What a ruinous little thing you were becoming.

Your slaps were weaker now, your kicks barely jostled him. Your body had given up trying to fight and was just reacting, all frantic little spasms and helpless gasps. Your hands swatted for a second more- then simply curled around his wrists.

Not to push him away.

Just… to hold.

Your knuckles pressed into his sleeves, clinging without purpose, your palms warm against his skin. You were laughing, really laughing now - wild and breathless and beautiful, the sound pouring out of you with no control, like your body had finally found a way to purge the stress.

He watched you unravel under his hands, and it did something to him. Bended something inside him.

The laughter had knocked the fight out of your limbs. You were still squirming, yes, but without aim now. Pure reflex. He could feel the tension in you - the pressure that had been building for days - finally start to release.

He slowed his fingers, letting them glide lightly now, teasing, drawing out that helpless warmth until your laughter turned soft. Sweet. Still squirming, but relaxed.

When you went completely pliant, Loki stilled.

He watched your chest rise and fall, fast but looser. He'd felt the fight seep out of your shoulders, the weight in your brow gone. Your laughter trailed off into a breathless smile, your lips parted, eyes dazed with that post-laughter glow.

"There you are," he murmured, low and quiet, brushing his thumbs gently over your sides, not tickling anymore.

Something knotted tight in his chest as he looked at you - you, who could break bones and weaponise words. You, who had glared at the others like you wanted to bite them for suggesting a break. You, who hadn’t smiled in days, eyes heavy and sleepless with the unbearable weight of caring so very much.

Now a flushed, giggling heap on the couch. Under him. His body curved over yours, his hands still warm at your waist. Your fingers still wrapped loose around his wrists like you didn’t even realise it.

He swallowed.

This had been about endorphins. About tricking your nervous system into resetting. That was all.

Just… good strategy.

Right?

He kept his weight over you, hands still in place, but his voice dipped - lower, closer, with that subtle edge.

"I think your teammates are perfectly capable of helping you finish off those reports," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

You nod without thinking, eyes unfocused. "Yeah."

Loki glanced up. Met Rogers’ gaze. Held it.

Steve was standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed, brow lifted. Loki didn't say a word - but the look was pointed.

"Captain Rogers will have Sergeant Barnes review the response to the Wakandan delegation," Loki continued, speaking to you but keeping his eyes on the one apparently in charge. "The others can proofread the rest, and deliver you notes... tomorrow."

"Yeah okay," you sniffed, still dazed, still sputtering residual giggles, but fully aware of your defeat.

Steve's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

Loki turned towards the good doctor.

Bruce was still watching from his chair, coffee in hand, one brow raised. Loki cocked his head, gesturing to your giggling form.

"Well, Bruce? What’s your diagnosis?"

Bruce watched you for a long second - your loose limbs, your lazy grin, the visible ease now where tightness had controlled your frame just minutes before. The corners of his mouth turned down in an analytical frown.

"Tension’s down. Endorphins kicked in. She looks lighter. I’d say she could use... another minute or so."

Loki’s smirk turned feral.

You didn't even protest.

You barely registered it, not until his fingers at to your sides started tickling with that same precision, but just a little gentler now, and your body danced with a squealing giggle you didn’t know you had in you.

The couch shook with your laughter again, the sound of your heels thudding against the cushion. You were completely wrecked. And you let it happen. You let him ruin you with laughter, your body betraying you, all your sharpness and strength replaced by unguarded sound and colour and heat.

And Loki...

He was half-smiling down at you like you were dangerous.

Like he was just realising you might be the only thing on this wretched planet that could bring him to heel. That could... soften him. That could make him enjoy softening.

And that, in itself, was terrifying.

But your laughter hit that beautiful, breathless pitch - and he knew he’d be doing this again.

.

.

.

end note:

i need to be clear that the tickle fluff in this fic is not meant to present as the solution to the reader's stress; the delegation of work is. tickling can be fun and sweet and help with relaxation, but it does not fix systemic issues or mental health concerns. this may seem like a weirdly intense note to end on for a fun and fluffy fic, but it wouldn't sit right with me to leave this up to interpretation. lots of love xo

[lessersole]

Scarlet Sands

Pairing: Reader x Bucky (artist AU)

Summary: Newly arrived at an artist's retreat, you have mixed feelings about your next-door neighbour.

Word count: 6.9k

A/N: This was entirely inspired by this photo of Sebastian Stan, so thanks to the photographer, Norman Jean Roy. Also everyone in this is queer. Happy Pride month!

Warnings: Mentions of an emotionally abusive ex, drinking. A few MCU cameos, but no spoilers

------------

You close your eyes against the bright sun and take a deep breath of the dry desert air. This retreat is exactly what you need - getting out of the city, into a new environment. Leaving everything behind and focusing on yourself, and your art.

After getting your key to the small studio and apartment that will be your home for the next few weeks, you unpack, leaving all your art and photography supplies in the private space, along with your much less extensive personal items, before heading outside to take in the rest of the retreat. You’ve barely left your doorway when you hear a friendly voice calling your name across the dusty ground.

“Looks like you’re settling in already,” The woman beams, her pale red hair fluttering in the warm breeze as she extends a hand in greeting. “Welcome to Scarlet Sands! I’m Wanda.”

“Oh, hi!” You shake the hand of the woman you now recognise as the owner of the retreat. “It’s great to properly meet you.”

“Same to you. Beautiful isn’t it?”

“Incredible,” you agree, looking around at the vast sienna vista extending towards the horizon, distant outcroppings of rock peppering the view.

“I hope it’ll be very inspiring for you.” Wanda says. “Most of our residents are repeat visitors, there’s nothing like the open space to get your creativity flowing. Personally, I think there’s something magical about this place.”

“I’d believe it,” you chuckle. A few minutes here and you’re already feeling refreshed. “Are there a lot of other people staying at the moment?”

“Not too many - you’ll meet most of them at dinner; we try to encourage everyone to get together for that in the evenings, exchange ideas, get to know each other. But we also have a tradition here that the most recent person to check in shows the next new arrival around, so Bucky should be along any minute now to look after you. Any questions in the meantime?”

“No, the welcome pack explained everything perfectly.” You tell her. “Thanks Wanda.”

“No problem, we’re glad to have you here! I’ll see you in the main house at dinner.”

Grabbing your paints and a sketchpad from your room, you settle into one of the chairs on your small private porch, take another deep breath and stare out at the unobstructed view of the endless wilderness, and start mixing colours. You’re so lost in capturing the feel of the environment - so different to anywhere you’ve worked in before - that it’s only when the darker blues of night start bleeding into the sky that you realise this Bucky person never showed up. Frowning, you pack up your equipment and head to the communal building, lights flickering on around you as you make your way to dinner.

The dining area is half-open to the air, facing a patio space and steps down to a sunken firepit, all with stunning views of the surrounding landscape. There are already a few people moving around the room, which is dominated by a long wooden table running the length of it, backed by a small breakfast bar and kitchenette.

You enter hesitantly, then hoping to make yourself useful, aim for the swing doors at the back of the room where others are already helping to bring food out from what must be a full-size kitchen off the dining space. You narrowly avoid slamming into a man who emerges backwards, carrying an enormous steaming pot of something that smells delicious.

“Woah, careful there,” he says with a grin, his dark eyes warm.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise, “I thought I could help.”

“You can,” he says, setting the pot down on the island, “I think the Coven has the silverware handled but there’s still other stuff to bring out.”

You introduce yourself as you follow him back through the doors to the kitchen.

“Oh yeah, the newbie,” he grins again, his energy infectious, “I’m Joaquin. Great to meet you.” He effortlessly lifts another enormous pot of rice, and you grab two smaller bowls of sour cream sitting ready to go out.

“The coven?” You question, wondering if you misheard his earlier comment.

“Over there,” he nods to two dark haired women haphazardly setting cutlery out along the table, “Agatha and Rio, they’re part of a collective out east, the Coven. They’ll probably try and recruit if you give them the chance. I’m pretty sure half the reason they keep coming back here is so they can convince Wanda to join them.”

As if summoned by her name, your host appears at your side. “Sit down, sit down! You just arrived, you should be taking it easy. Do you have a drink?”

“It’s no worry,” you assure her, “and just water’s fine.”

“You know the drinks and food are all included,” Joaquin leans in to tell you with a wink, “You should take full advantage of that.”

“And you can’t have chilli without a good red,” a British voice chips in, and you turn to see a tall blond man setting two bottles on the table before joining you, giving Wanda a kiss on the cheek as he does.

“This is Vision, my husband.” She introduces you, “And he’s right about the wine.”

Smiling at their warmth and easy affection, you agree to their suggestion. “Where do I get a glass?” You ask, looking around the room.

“This way,” Wanda shakes her head as she leads you to a cabinet at the back, “Bucky should have told you all this when he showed you around.”

“He, uh, didn’t actually turn up.”

“What?”

“Yeah, maybe he forgot, or didn’t know what room I was, or something.”

“You’re right next door to him, and I reminded him this morning.” Wanda frowns, but she’s interrupted by a loud bong before she can say more.

“Dinner is served!” Vision announces, before turning to Joaquin, who’s stood next to a shaking gong with a smile stretching from ear to ear, and pulling the beater from his hand. “Maybe a little less enthusiastically next time, eh?”

Wanda grabs a handful of wine glasses and nods you into the bustling line forming at the counter. Minutes later everyone’s seated, the smoky smell of the food dancing through the air, and a generous glass of wine in front of you.

“So what kind of art do you do?” You ask Joaquin, who’s seated opposite.

“Photography,” he tells you between bites, “I specialise in fast-moving things in motion, especially in the air. I’ve been focusing on nature photography lately, mainly birds of prey. Here, I’m looking for hawks, eagles, kestrels and my favourite, falcons.”

“Wow, that’s impressive. It must take a lot of skill to get those kind of photos.”

Joaquin shrugs off your compliment, “And a lot of great tech. You should see how huge my lens is.”

“Ugh, boys,” Agatha chips in with an eye-roll and a playful smile as she nudges your arm, “Always talking about the size of their lenses.”

You laugh as Joaquin goodnaturedly shakes his head and turns back to his food.

“So what do you do?” You ask her, taking the chance to get to know more of the other residents. “Joaquin says you’re part of a collective?”

“The Coven, yes. It’s a great bunch of powerful artists, all with different specialties, you’d love it. I’m a mixed media sculpturist, working with found objects. At least that’s the quick way to describe it.” She nods to the woman opposite her. “Rio here’s part of the gang too, but she’s more focused on destroying things.”

“Destruction is creation, darling.” Rio deadpans, wine glass in hand. “And that’s only a part of what I do, which is experimental performance art.”

“What do you do?” Joaquin asks, setting his cutlery down.

“Painting, mostly,” you tell him, looking down at your plate as you push a few grains of rice around, “Usually photorealistic landscapes, but I’m, uh, a bit out of practice lately.”

You quickly shovel food into your mouth. It’s been a long time since you talked with other artists about your work - you wanted to be in this environment, but you suddenly feel a nervous flash of imposter syndrome. What you do is so much more basic than them.

“Now that takes skill,” Joaquin tells you earnestly, “I couldn’t do anything like that.”

You smile at his generous comment before returning your attention to your meal.

The rest of the evening passes in the warm glow of good food and good company. You meet most of the other residents, even if briefly, and once everything’s been cleared away and a few early birds have disappeared off to their rooms, Wanda encourages the rest of you to take your drinks out to the fire pit - which she seems to light with not much more than a flick of her hand.

As Joaquin heads off to bed, needing to be up before dawn to catch sight of his birds, you hear him call out teasingly to a man approaching the building. “You missed the food, old man!”

Turning at his words, your heart almost stops as you see what is definitely not an old man. A tall, broad frame, a short beard emphasising a sharp jaw, thick dark hair, and eyes that gleam like ice even in the heat of the flickering firelight. An intricate tattoo runs the length of his left arm, all the way from his hand to where it disappears beneath the sleeve that strains tight over his bicep. This man has the kind of rare good looks that make you wish you did portraits, just for an excuse to stare at him longer.

“Bucky!” Wanda calls out, pouring cold water on your attraction before it has time to spark into flame. This is the guy who stood you up earlier? “There’s leftovers in the kitchen if you want to grab something. Although maybe I should be denying you since you skipped your neighbourly duty this afternoon.”

She nods in your direction and Bucky’s intense gaze falls to you. Returning it as neutrally as you can, you sip nonchalantly from your glass while he drinks you in.

“She was busy,” He answers coolly. How is even his voice devastating?

“Was she?” Wanda questions, turning to you.

“I was busy waiting for my tour guide,” you answer.

Bucky just shrugs, “She was so focused on her painting she didn’t hear me come out of my room. I figured she was in the zone. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Before either you or Wanda can reply, he disappears to get his leftovers from the kitchen.

“Then you can show her around tomorrow!” Wanda calls after him.

The conversation around the firepit resumes, but Bucky stays indoors alone to eat his food at the table. Feeling your long day of travel and chatter finally catch up with you, you decide to call it a night rather than see if he deigns to join the group after eating.

—

The next day, after a fresh breakfast and a few cups of coffee in the dining room, you’re itching to get outside and explore. Step one for you is finding a view you want to work on, and after pouring over maps of the nearby trails with Wanda, who left Vision to handle the breakfast cooking, you’ve found a promising start.

“If you set off now, you can be back before it gets too hot.” She tells you, glancing at the clock. “Remember to take lots of water, some food and mark on the sign out book where you’re going and when you’ll be back.”

“Got it,” you tell her, excited to get started.

Rushing back to your studio, you see Bucky emerge from the room next to yours.

“Morning,” he greets you, squinting in the low sun.

“Morning,” you answer brusquely, hurrying inside to pick up your camera and hiking bag. Bucky, clearly taking the door you left open as an invitation to follow you, rather than a sign that you’re turning right back around to head out again, strolls over.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” he begins, leaning casually against your door frame, blocking most of the way.

“Don’t worry about it. Do you mind?” You push past him with barely a glance, not interested in him derailing your day again, but unable to ignore the heady scent of him as you brush by - must be some kind of fancy cologne. What kind of guy wears cologne out here?

Without waiting, or seeing his confused and slightly hurt expression, you dash off to sign out at the front office.

—

The hike went well. The space and solitude gave you time to clear your mind and really focus in a way your grey life in the city never does any more. You can’t help agreeing with Wanda - it feels like there’s something not just inspirational but magical about the area; towering rock formations, hot air shimmering above the burnt hues of the ground, studded with spiny sprays of plants, all crowned by the endless deep azure sky. You can feel the creative energy unfurling inside you.

There was a particular rock formation that had caught your eye, but you felt like you could get a better angle on it from another trail - something to try once the heat of the day has died off, and you’ve refueled at the retreat with a lunch of more than the collection of nuts and protein bars in your bag.

Dusty and hot but content, you sign back in at the main lodge and make your way to your room - where once again catch sight of Bucky, still outside on the deck that abuts both your studios.

Clad in a khaki shirt, white pants rolled up above partially unlaced leather biker boots, Bucky reclines on the shaded part of the deck, one booted foot up on the table, the other propped on the pillar that’s all there is to mark your space separate from his. He’s leaning so far back he’s half falling out of his chair, head tilted back, eyes half-closed in a gentle frown of concentration. There’s an open sketchbook on his lap and the deft fingers of his raised right hand toy with a pencil as he thinks.

You take the moment before he notices you to really look at him. He truly is unfairly attractive; everything from the clean line of his jaw, to his tattooed arm just catching the sun, to the curve of his ass half-sliding out of the seat, seems like it was built to be admired. Even the soft thickness of his thick hair as it falls back from his face makes you want to run your hands through it, and something about the way his long fingers play with that pencil adds an extra heat to your sun-baked blood.

You wonder vaguely if he started out as a model before becoming an artist - he seems so different to everyone else here. But you didn’t come to this retreat to gawk over guys, and his background is irrelevant to you. Shaking yourself from your reverie, you make a beeline to the door of your room. As if woken from his thoughts, Bucky notices you with a start, quickly pulling his feet down, so like a guilty child that you almost laugh - and when the sudden action makes him drop out of the chair into an awkward squat, you can’t help snorting at him.

“Busy morning?” You tease with a broad grin.

He frowns. “In a way.”

“Good.” You unlock your door, determined to maintain the good mood from your hike. “Me too.”

You leave the door open again, planning to drop off your bag, wash up and go for lunch. Ignoring the lesson of this morning, Bucky approaches, clearing his throat to get your attention. “So, you want that tour now?”

You glance up at him silhouetted in the doorway before heading to the bathroom in the back. “Not now. I’m going for lunch and then I’m headed out again.”

“Unless you’re a very slow eater, it’ll be too hot to go out right after,” Bucky crosses his arms, confidently leaning against the door again like he owns the place. “How about I show you around and then you can eat?”

Emerging from the bathroom, you check the time and glance at the sun before nodding in agreement. “Alright.”

Bucky’s tour of the retreat is pretty quick, partly because you’ve seen most of it by now. You end in the dining room, where he explains - as you already know - that there’s no catered lunch provided, so he points out where they keep the food that’s available to use, and what’s reserved by Wanda and Vision for breakfast and dinner.

You thank him as you start assembling a sandwich. Bucky makes no move to get food for himself, just leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you intently.

You frown at him, which just makes him smile back, his eyes crinkling.

“Are you judging my sandwich making or something?” You ask. “You better not be expecting I’ll make one for you.”

“Of course not.” He says, still just staring.

“So what’s with,” you gesture at him exasperatedly with the knife you’re holding, “all this?”

“All what?”

“You’re just - looking at me.”

“I am.” He confirms with a lazy smile.

You make a noise of frustration and he laughs.

“I’m a portrait artist. You have an interesting face.”

“Interesting, wow, thanks.” Your self-esteem is still recovering from the way you were treated by your ex, and Bucky’s casual comment stings.

“It’s not a criticism.” He insists.

“Okay,” you’re still being sarcastic, not convinced.

Bucky frowns. “I mean it. I mean interesting like I like looking at you, there are all these little details-”

“Digging a hole, Bucky.”

“-that make you really attractive.” He finishes despite your interruption.

You frown at him suspiciously. He smiles back.

“Okay.” You say again, not knowing what to think of that. “Well, I’d rather not have an audience while I eat, so if you’re not having anything, I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Maybe,” he says, standing up straight. “I usually work straight through if I’m inspired.”

He leaves you alone, and as you eat, you shake off the confusion of what he said and focus again on the plans for your piece.

—

The second trail has the perfect angle you’ve been looking for, and you have time to take plenty of reference photos before the light starts fading and it’s time to head back, buzzing with inspiration. Dinner is again delicious, friendly and encouraging - and with no sign of Bucky - but you head to bed early, hoping to get an early start on the trail the next day.

Walking to your room through the dusky light, you glimpse into Bucky’s studio as you pass his uncovered French windows just as he looks up, giving you an easy smile as your eyes meet. Embarrassed to be caught nosing, you quickly look away, and scurry past to your door.

The next few days pass in a haze of creation, and the canvas in your studio fills with colour, the vivid umber of the ground and fresh blue of the sky coming to life beneath your brush.

When you’re not on the trail, you work outside on the deck as much as you can, the land in front of you inspiring your work. More often than not Bucky’s outside as well, lounging in his preferred chair, the soft scratch of his pencil the only sound passing between you.

But as good as it feels to be creating again, and as proud as you are of your piece, you can’t help but feel like it’s missing something, worrying that it could be better. It’s not grabbing and pulling at you like your best pieces have; that spark when you’re on to something truly incredible just isn’t there. Trying to sleep after talking to the other residents about it over dinner, you’re stuck tossing and turning in bed, your mind going over and over possible solutions.

With a sigh, you roll out of bed. Hoping to calm your mind before you lose an entire night of sleep, you shuffle out onto the deck for some fresh air. The desert night is peaceful, a soft glow illuminating the retreat. Closing your eyes, you tip your head back as you take a deep breath, opening your eyes on the exhale only to gasp at what you see; the sky is a masterpiece, more full of stars than you’ve ever seen it, vast bright clusters that crowd out the dark between them. Your eyes trace the arc of the milky way across the sky, a sense of wonder swelling in your chest and tingling in your fingertips.

You’ve noticed the number of stars out here before, but something about it tonight is something else.

“Wow,” you whisper as you breathe out, staring up with misty-eyes.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You start at Bucky’s quiet voice and turn to see him sat on his chair as ever, the only difference to the day the absence of his sketchpad and that he’s facing out, feet on the deck, instead of his usual relaxed sprawl towards you.

“It’s amazing.” You beam at him, and he smiles back before you both return your gazes to the stars. “And I think I just had a breakthrough with my piece.”

“Oh?”

“I was feeling stuck, but,” you move closer to Bucky, so filled with enthusiasm you want to share the inspiration that’s struck you, “now I’m thinking - what if the sky in my piece is the night sky? The ground as it is in the day, but the sky like this? It’d be a bit different to what I’ve done before, not straightforward realism, but - maybe it could work. Like, the sky as endless, majestical creative spirit or the unknown future, but grounded with the warmth and security of the red rocks, of a home base. Almost a yin and yang. Balance.”

You turn to see Bucky’s eyes on you, bright with the ambient light of the thousands of stars. “That sounds like here,” he tells you softly.

“Yes, exactly! Like a less realistic painting is the more accurate way to really represent it.” Your eyes widen in realisation. “Oh god - I’m an expressionist.”

Bucky chuckles. “There are worse things to be. And it sounds perfect. Beautiful.” He’s still watching you.

You laugh quietly. “I wasn’t expecting to solve that so quickly.”

“That’s what happens here,” he tells you, pushing out the chair next to him in invitation. “Wanda will be happy to know about it.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” you say, sinking into it. After a moment longer admiring the stars, you turn to him. “Are you out here for inspiration?”

His eye twitches as a flicker of something crosses his face. “No. I - I get nightmares sometimes. I come out here to sort of reset, before trying to sleep again.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds horrible.”

“It’s not great,” he smiles wryly. “I haven’t been waking you up or anything, have I?”

“No,” you shake your head, “not at all.”

“Good. I told Wanda it’s better not to have anyone next to my room, but she has her own plans.”

“Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?”

“Not really. But thanks.” He smiles at you, open and natural.

“Does anything help with them?” You ask gently.

“This helps.” He answers.

“The sky? Or the talking?”

“The sky. You.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, until you shiver, the chill of the night getting to you.

“You should go back to sleep,” Bucky suggests, “It sounds like you’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

You agree, standing up with a stretch, not noticing how his eyes dance over you before returning to the sky.

“Are you turning in too?” You ask, pausing with a hand on your door.

“Soon,” he assures you softly.

Bidding him a good night, you fall back into bed, full of a clear, contented energy.

You mean to sleep in a little the next day, but you’re fully awake and full of ideas first thing, so you excitedly head out to breakfast, telling Wanda about your plans. She’s enthused about your idea, but a little more hesitant about your plan to get the reference photos.

“I know you’ve been to the trail a lot, but hiking at night can be dangerous.”

“I’ve hiked at night before,” you tell her.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “In the desert? Without a guide?”

“Okay, no,” you admit, “but I’ve been on that trail nearly every day, I could walk it blindfolded!”

Wanda sighs, sensing your determination. “Fine,” her eyes drift over your shoulder, and she fails to hide a small smile, “but take someone with you.”

“Who’s going to want to-”

“I’ll go.” You turn at the sound of Bucky’s voice. This is the first time you’ve seen him at breakfast, but he strolls casually to the counter to pour himself a coffee.

“I really don’t think I need a babysitter,” you protest.

“He’s not a babysitter, he’s a partner.” Wanda insists.

Bucky simply smirks at you over his cup.

“Fine.” You relent. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

—

After spending the day making preparations and brushing up on your night-time photography skills, you’ve loaded your car with all your equipment, the resort’s loan-out camping gear, some food, water and a first-aid kit. Bucky had chucked his own pack in after it, and you drove the two of you out to the trail, parking up just as the sun grazed the horizon.

Weighed down with the extra kit, it was slower going than normal but you reach the spot you’ve been working from just as the luminous sunset burns an even deeper russet into the rocks around you. Dropping your packs to the ground you immediately pull out your camera.

You almost forget about Bucky behind you, putting his own stuff down more carefully, and it’s only when you turn to him, smiling broadly at the beauty around you that you realise he’s quietly taking a few photos of his own.

“Was I in that?” You ask, glancing at the lens aimed towards you.

He smiles back, “I do portraits, remember?”

You shake your head, unstrapping your tripod and positioning it carefully, “I don’t understand how you can focus on a person when there’s all this around you.”

“Just different forms of beauty,” he shrugs, “and it’s not like it’s a close up. It’s you in this landscape, the light of the sun on you - all of this. It’s incredible. And much more interesting than some rocks.”

“I do landscapes, remember?” You echo him. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

“I guess.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

Bucky unpacks the camping gear and his sketchpad and pencils while you kneel on the ground, focused on your set up, and you’re so absorbed in your task you don’t notice him hovering at your elbow until he speaks.

“So what’s the plan here?”

You turn, surprised to find you’re almost nose to nose when you do.

“You don’t have to watch me so closely, you know. You can do your own thing.”

“I don’t know.” He pretends to think. “I’m here to keep you safe, I think that means watching you pretty closely.”

“Hmm.” Unconvinced, you turn back to check the angle of your camera when you feel a prod on your bare ankle. “Hey!”

“See?” He tells you, “What if that was a scorpion?”

“A scorpion probably wouldn’t be poking me with a pencil.” You grumble, sensing his grin even without looking and sighing in surrender. “I’m going to take a few photos of the sky once it gets properly dark, but I want to set up a time-lapse too, to get the star trails.”

He nods. “You’ve done this before? Night time photography, long-exposure?”

“Yeah, I took a couple of courses when I was younger.” You step back, satisfied and look up at the navy sky. “I guess now we wait.”

After setting up the tent and eating a quick dinner you settle down on the most comfortable-looking rock you can find. With the sun gone, the temperature drops rapidly - you don’t want to light a fire, so the two of you are draped in blankets, sitting closer together than you would do otherwise.

With no lamps, torches or phones for fear of interfering with the light balance in the time lapse you’ve set up, the two of you have nothing to do but talk.

“Have you seen any of the other residents’ work?” You ask.

“Some,” Bucky answers. “They’re very different from each other, but I’ve not seen anything bad yet. Mostly what you’d expect from each of them, given their personalities.”

You don’t mention that Bucky keeps to himself so much you’re surprised he knows what they’re like.

“Wong’s the one I’m surprised by.” You tell him, referring to the friendly mononymous artist Wanda had introduced you to. “I mean, he used to be a monk in some mysterious Tibetan sect, and now he does typographic portraits of pop stars?”

“Have you ever seen them?” Bucky’s eyes are wide as you shake your head. “They’re crazy. Joaquin thinks they’re enchanted. They’re so lifelike, and the text is so small you can’t even see it without a magnifying glass. But somehow you know it’s all song lyrics.” He grimaces. “I had Single Ladies stuck in my head for weeks after seeing his Beyonce portrait.”

You burst out laughing at the thought.

“You clearly know a lot about technique,” Bucky tells you, “I’m guessing you went to art school?”

“Yeah, I got one of those Stark scholarships,” you pause, lost in memories, “Seems like a long time ago now.”

“Would I have seen any of your stuff? In galleries?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Years ago, maybe. I had a few things straight out of school. Then I-” you hesitate, but Bucky’s steady presence and the intimate darkness around you encourages you to open up. “I met my ex. It’s a long story, but I didn’t paint, didn’t draw, barely even took photos while we were together.”

“They stopped you?” There’s restrained anger in Bucky’s voice.

“Not stopped, just-” you bite your lip, looking up at the first stars winking to life above you, “-discouraged. There were a lot of money problems - any time I spent on art was time I could have spent making money, you know?”

You risk a look at Bucky, the concern clear in his bright eyes even under the moonless night. “It was never abusive or anything,” you rush to clarify, “Maybe if it had been I would have left earlier. I just - it felt like I was walking on eggshells a lot.”

“When did you leave?”

“Barely a year ago.” You sigh. “I was worried it would be shallow or something, leaving because of money - even if it was more the problems caused by the money problems. And everyone who knew us thought we were the perfect couple.”

“What changed?” Bucky’s gentle voice and the soft rustling of the desert soothe you enough to keep opening up.

“There were a few more slips - comments people could overhear, bad moods that took a toll on me. And I was starting to get really sick of it. Then my best friends’ wedding anniversary was coming up and I wanted to get them a gift. They’d got married in this beautiful vineyard in the mountains, so I decided to paint that for them. My ex allowed it because I said it would save us money, not having to buy a gift. And working on that - it all came back. All the joy I got from it. I was happy and calm, and felt like myself again for the first time in ages. And I loved making it - I put all these little easter eggs of their love story hidden around the landscape. By the time I’d finished the painting I knew I had to leave.”

Bucky’s shoulder brushes yours. “That must have taken a lot of courage.”

“Kind of. We’d been together a really long time. But my friends made it easier.”

“They really care about you.”

“Yeah. I’m lucky.”

“No. You deserve them.”

You turn to fully face Bucky, meeting his eyes. The light from the stars above paints the contours of his face, and he sits quietly as you admire him, before catching yourself.

“Sorry for dumping that all on you,” you laugh, embarrassed.

“Don’t apologise. I’m glad you told me.” His voice is soft, eyes still on you.

“How about you? How did you become an artist?”

“Not art school, but you probably guessed that.” Bucky fidgets. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Hey, I showed you mine,” you nudge him, smiling in a way that you hope is as supportive as the way he’s been looking at you.

Bucky holds your gaze for a long moment before looking down at his feet and taking a deep breath. “Steve. He was my best friend since we were little, as long as I can remember, and he was always really into art. He wanted to go to art school, but his family didn’t have the money so he signed up to join the army. I was worried about him - he was the kind of guy who’d go into a fight whether he could win it or not if he thought it was the right thing to do - so I signed up too. When we were deployed it went alright for a while, then we got caught in an attack. Both got head injuries, and I caught an armful of shrapnel.” Bucky’s tattoo-covered left arm twitches at the mention. “I was captured.”

You swallow a gasp, but Bucky doesn’t linger on that part of his story.

“When I eventually got back, the doctors were able to help me recover my memories. But Steve’s never fully returned, not properly. He could remember the facts, but it was like the emotions weren’t there; our whole history was next to meaningless to him. He met a woman at the army base, and when he was discharged, he moved to the UK to be with her. They’re married now.

“Then an army friend, Sam - well, he was more Steve’s friend than mine back then - he suggested art therapy, to help me deal with it all. Then when he saw my stuff he suggested I get into it properly. Said it’d give me purpose, and be a way to honour Steve, and what we lost.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, and finally turns to you with a shaky smile. “And I guess now I’m an artist.”

You breathe out his name. You don’t know what to say. You’d assumed he’d had an unorthodox path to the art world, but you hadn’t thought it would be like this.

“It’s a lot, I’m sorry.” He frowns, looking down again.

“Don’t be sorry,” you reach over and turn his face back towards you with a careful hand on his chin, “I asked you to tell me. And it’s a lot, but it’s not too much. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“You too,” he whispers.

“My story’s not really comparable,” you chuckle, absentmindedly stroking the soft beard along his jaw. “But we’re both here now.”

Bucky’s eyes darken and his arm snakes around you, pulling you into him. Your eyes drop to his mouth, your other hand lifting to wrap around his arm, your legs tangling together. The blankets fall from you both as you lean in, lips gently brushing against each other, inhaling one another, savouring this lingering before, until you close that last gap and press into him in a perfect kiss. It’s gentle at first, careful and delicate, and you separate for an instant, each searching the others eyes for any regret and finding only encouragement. Bucky’s lips claim yours, the soft brush of his kiss turning into something deeper, nipping teeth and, when you open up to him, sinuous tongues.

One of your hands sinks into his thick hair, the other skating up his chest before you wrap it around his neck, needing to be closer. You’re encircled in Bucky’s strong arms, holding you to him so firmly you’re almost lifted up, and you go with it, straddling him and gasping into his mouth as you explore each other - before misjudging the size of the rock you’re both on and half-falling off him.

Your frustrated huff at gravity breaking the kiss makes Bucky laugh, and you join in as he picks you up, seating you back down.

“Didn’t you want to take some photos?” He asks with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, shit, yeah.” You scramble off him, digging in your bag for your camera. He’s still watching you, still smiling when you straighten up.

“At least we were far enough away from your time-lapse set up that you didn’t land on it.” He teases. “Almost like you planned this.”

“Shut up,” you joke back, finally turning your attention to the sky. “You weren’t exactly keeping an eye out for scorpions and snakes.”

“I’m always aware.”

You laugh as you take your photos, not caring if your chuckling pushes the photos out of perfect alignment. You can always come back the next night.

After taking the pictures, you sit back down next to Bucky. “I guess we should probably turn in,” you admit reluctantly, aware that it’s long past the middle of the night.

“Seems a shame to leave this view.” Bucky observes. “How about we skip the tent and sleep under the stars?”

“Is that safe?” You ask him. “Since you’re my official protector and all.”

“It’s safe.” He tells you, smiling wickedly. “We’ll just have to make sure we stay alert. And probably best to zip our sleeping bags together. You know, for warmth.”

You keep each other awake for the rest of the night, only intermittently admiring the arch of the milky way painted across the night above you. You’re still lazily entwined together, the first fingers of dawn staining the sky when your alarm goes off, and Bucky grumbles, pulling you back as you try to extricate yourself from him and the sleeping bags.

“I have to stop the time-lapse,” you tell him with a sleepy laugh and he reluctantly lets you go. Crouching next to your camera, you turn with a smile once you’ve shut it off, only to see Bucky’s own camera in his hand as he snaps a photo of you.

You groan, well aware of your mussed hair and rumpled clothes. “That’s going to be a terrible photo! I’m a mess.”

“No,” Bucky’s smile is genuine, “you’re perfect.”

—

You park up back at the retreat just as the breakfast service is starting. Wanda spies you from the courtyard and waves you over. “Did it all go well? You got everything you wanted?”

“Yes,” you tell her, unable to stop smiling, “and more.”

Bucky smirks. “Yes, there was a lot of nature and - beauty and - wonder to appreciate out there.”

Hearing him chuckle at your side, you dig an elbow into his ribs, not wanting to be too obvious.

But your efforts are unnecessary as Wanda looks between the two of you, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “I’m glad. And it’s great that you two seem to have bonded, I had a feeling you’d get on.”

“Bonded?” Agatha’s voice rings out from the dining room. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

You gape at her, heat rushing to your face as practically the entire resort turns towards you and Bucky.

“Good for you!” Rio calls out, toasting you with her coffee cup. “There’s something so primal about sex out in the wilderness, everyone should try it.”

“You owe me twenty bucks, little falconer,” Agatha tells Joaquin as he sits down, grinning at you and Bucky.

“Hey, I never took that bet!”

You groan, wondering if Bucky knew the other residents had been gossiping about you both, but when you look at him he’s staring at you with such open adoration you have to laugh, burying your face in his shirt in only half-mock embarrassment.

“Don’t be shy about it.” Rio insists over Agatha and Joaquin’s bickering. “It’s practically a rite of passage here, Wanda’s always matchmaking. I mean, not everyone’s bold enough to do it out in the desert, but-”

“I’ve never hooked up with another resident.” Joaquin interrupts to point out.

“Did I say it had to be a resident?” Rio challenges.

“Yes, what was the name of that cute little kitchen boy we saw come out of his room yesterday morning?” Agatha wonders aloud.

“Bob.” Vision supplies, arriving to place a fresh tray of fruit on the table, his remark turning Joaquin the same colour as the watermelon.

As the dining room dissolves into raucous laughter and overlapping conversation, you stifle a yawn and Bucky pulls you aside.

“Do you want to have breakfast here?” He asks, “Or do you want to get some sleep and then I’ll make you pancakes?”

“Definitely the second one,” you tell him, pretty sure there are visible hearts in your eyes at his suggestion.

“Good.” He slings an arm around you and leads you away from the noise. “Now, last question - your room or mine?”

“Use protection!” Agatha shouts after you.

------------

Bucky taglist: @yesshewrites1 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @rockyeatrock @whitewolfluvr @star-yawnznn @xoxabs88xox @maydayfigment @starfly-nicole

[kiba-uwuzuka]

Bitter Sweet Café

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: five times Bucky orders a black coffee, and one time he takes your suggestion.

word count: 4.7k+

author's note: this is the first fic i've ever posted! this is also my first attempt at reader insert, so bear with me! all reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!! ‪❤︎

this has also been cross posted on my ao3!

The morning rush at Rise & Grind Coffeehouse was slower today, some merciful god looking down at you so that you might have a breather on this early Tuesday morning. Spring was here, shaking off the frost of winter, reminding people that it was okay to come outside and feel the sun. 

You wipe down the espresso machine, appreciating the lull that was soon to end. You often worked the morning shifts, it freed up your afternoons to take a walk around the city or return home and unwind with a good book or some mindless tv. 

The doorbell rang as another customer walked in. You look up, calling out a greeting. “Welcome to Rise & Grind!”

The man was someone you had never seen before; tall, broad shouldered, wearing a long black overcoat and a finely pressed suit underneath–the kind that looked allergic to color or fun. His facial hair was short but neat, his eyes tired and apprehensive as he took in the brightly colored cafe. 

“First time in?” You ask, your lips curving in a slight grin as he walks up to the counter. His posture was straight and his expression was serious, like a man on a mission for caffeine in enemy territory. He definitely looked out of place here with his monotone color palette.

“My regular place closed down recently.” His voice was quiet, measured, but not unfriendly. “This one’s on the way to work.”

You nod, understanding. Independent coffee shops in the city were a hit or a miss. “Well, what can I get you started with? Maybe a Sugar Cookie Frappe?” You suggest, giving him a playful smile. “It’s been a real hit lately.” 

He levels a stare at you like you had just personally ran over his cat. “A what?” 

“A Sugar Cookie Frappe.”

“...Why would anyone drink that?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Some people like flavor?” 

He looks apprehensive, almost offended. “Just a large black coffee. Whatever your.. Most normal medium roast is.” 

You huff a laugh as you type his order into the system. “No cream or sugar, I’m assuming?” 

“You would assume correctly.” He said dryly. 

“One large, boring coffee coming right up.” You say, and write the order on a cup. He makes a noise that could perhaps be a chuckle as you write medium roast, maximum mystery in place of a name, and he pays with a card. 

You don’t mean to look at his card, but you catch a glimpse of a name. Barnes. Familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it. 

It takes you no time to make his simple order, which is probably good for you. Questions were on the tip of your tongue, but he didn’t seem the type to give you a real answer. You hand the finished coffee back to him with the lid on tight and a sleeve on the cup, your fingers brushing a bit as he takes the hot drink from you. He looks at the cup like it might poison him, and you snort a bit. 

“Have a good day, mystery man.” You say with a wave as he walks to the door. He leaves without a word, but you're almost certain that he might have smiled.

It had been two days since that mystery man came into the cafe.

Not that you were counting. 

But you did look up ‘Barnes’ as soon as your shift ended. You told yourself it was because the name sounded familiar, vaguely historical. A quick google search confirmed what your gut had already suspected. 

James Buchanan Barnes. 

New York’s 12th Congressional District Representative. 

Mid-30s (appearance wise). War veteran (WWII, specifically). An interesting metal arm that you realized you mistook for a glove when he first arrived at the cafe. You barely remembered a historical paper you did on the Avengers in college, and wondered why it took you so long to recognize him. 

Your search only came up with headlines and boring congressional interviews, no nonsense such as social media or anything he was currently up to in his private life. No fun, no flavor. 

So when he walks in again – same time, same coat, same dry stare – you’re smiling a bit brighter than you probably should be. 

The cafe is quiet this morning, the faint whirr of the grinder blending in with the lo-fi music playing over the speakers. A few people were tucked away in the corners, tapping away at their laptop for some midterm paper, probably. When he approaches the counter, you tamper down your school-girl excitement – you don’t want to scare him off.

“Morning.” He says, almost apprehensive. 

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “You’re back.”

He regards you for a moment. “All the other coffee shops are out of the way.” He says lightly, almost like it was an excuse he just made up. 

You can’t help but grin, and tap your screen awake for his order. “May I suggest our Cotton Candy Cloud Macchiato?” You say breezily, knowing it would probably make him rethink his entire life choices. 

He narrows his eyes, most certainly offended. “Do I even want to know what that is?” 

“It has edible glitter.” You say with a sparkle of mischief in your eye. 

He scowls. “No.”

You laugh, and type in his order in the system. “Alright, alright. One large black coffee. No cream, no sugar, no joy.” 

There’s a pause as you write zero sugar, zero joy on his cup, and he exhales a short breath of a laugh. “Do people not get regular coffee anymore?” He asks, looking at you with a slight smirk on his face as he slides his card into the machine to pay.

You look over your shoulder at him with a sly grin as you brew his coffee. “There’s enjoying coffee, and then there’s drinking it like it’s a punishment.” His order is simple and done almost instantly, you place the lid and sleeve on and slide it to him. He hums, picking the cup up and inspecting it like it might bite back. 

“Tell me something, Congressman Barnes.” You say casually, wiping your hands on your apron. “Is the joyless monotone vibe a politician thing, or a personal choice?” 

His eyes narrow, but only slightly. “You looked me up.” 

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “I may have seen your name on your card.”

He glances at your apron, where a name tag might be, but your boss wasn’t a fan of such things. He looks back up at your eyes, the direct eye contact making your heart stumble a bit. “Are you always this nosy?” 

You grin, shameless. “Only with regulars.”

That gets another faint smile – barely there, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. You take that as a win.

“You planning on making fun of me every time I come in?” He asks. 

“Only if you keep denying joy and exciting flavor.” 

He takes a sip, eyes still on you over the rim of the cup. He hums, seemingly satisfied with the drink, and turns to leave. “Then I guess I’ll see you again.” He lifts a hand in a small wave as he heads to the door. 

You smile, soft and warm. “Till next time.”

It’s the middle of the lunch rush, and the cafe is buzzing. Apparently everyone in the city has decided that this is the place to get mediocre Wi-Fi and overpriced croissants. You’re practically vibrating off of three espresso shots, you’re two orders behind and you’ve already spilled mocha sauce all over your apron at least once. 

Which, of course, is exactly when you see him. 

You lift your head away from some overcomplicated almond milk situation to call out the usual greeting as the door chimes, catching sight of the tall man scowling at the sight of the line ahead of him. He lingers by the door for a moment, seeming to consider his choices, when he catches your eye. A flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes, and he joins the line with disgruntled reluctance. 

 You catch yourself smiling a bit and take over for your coworker at the counter who was getting overwhelmed with the line. When it’s his turn, he raises an eyebrow at you. “I came by the other day, you weren’t here.” He says casually with a smirk. “I didn’t know this place existed without you.” 

You laugh, feeling a bit warm and gooey inside that he looked for you. It had  been about four days since you had last seen him, and you couldn’t help but feel your pulse quicken under his intense blue-eyed gaze. “Am I hearing that you missed me?” 

“I wasn’t suggested some sugar-filled heart attack inducing drink, if that’s what you mean.” He snorts, but you notice he didn’t deny your question. 

“Speaking of,” you start with a grin, “Why don’t you try our S’more Mocha Madness? It even has mini marshmallows.” 

“Tempting.” He says in a voice that is not tempted at all. 

You shake your head almost teasingly, tapping in his order and grabbing a cup. Still bitter, with a side of coffee, you write on the cup, turning away to brew his drink. It’s simple and quick, and you turn back around just as he finishes paying, sliding him the cup. “Here you are. Large, medium roast, no joy and extra bitter – just how you like it.” 

He snorts, picking up the cup. “Are you always this aggressive with your customers?” 

“Only with people who actively reject happiness.” You say with a sly grin. The line grows behind him, but you can't find it in you to care. “You know, at some point you’re going to have to try something new.”

“I sit through six-hour budget hearings.” He says dryly. “I know how to outlast you.” 

You narrow your eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “So this is a power struggle now?” 

“I'm a congressman. This is the closest thing I get to winning a debate.” 

You laugh despite yourself, and he watches you with a hint of a smile on his lips. Not in a predatory way, not even flirtatious, just… Present. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth focusing on. It makes your heart skip a beat, and you’re sure it’s not from the excess amount of espresso in your system. 

“Well, we do have a reward system here, you know.” You say, wiping your hands with a clean rag. “You might even get a free latte one of these days, Barnes. Maybe even something with sugar in it.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” He says with a snort, but it comes out a bit softer than he meant, something more teasing and playful than that first day he came in. 

He picks up his drink and nods his thanks as he disappears behind the line and out the door; moving like a man who was well experienced moving silently and unnoticed. 

You take the next customer, giving them a smile that was much more real than your usual customer service attitude, a warmth lingering in your chest for the remainder of the day.

Rain was pouring unrelentingly outside, a storm had moved in the night before and seemed to be here to stay. You opened the coffee shop by yourself this morning–the rain made it too difficult for any of your coworkers to come in–but it also kept away the usual Monday morning rush. Only a few wet and determined loyal regulars trudged their way into Rise & Grind, leaving you behind the counter doing some idle sweeping. 

It had been a whole week since you had last seen Congressman Barnes, (James? Mr. Barnes? What do you call him?) and you couldn’t help but overthink your last encounter. Maybe you were pushing it with your teasing? You’ve only met a handful of times, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know your name. 

You were busy sweeping up fallen coffee grounds from when you emptied the grinder when the door jingled, announcing another brave soul who survived the torrential downpour outside. ”I’ll be with you in a moment!” You call over your shoulder, sweeping the pile into the waiting dustpan. 

When you turn, dustpan and broom in hand, you almost jump at the sight, nearly scattering the coffee grounds everywhere again. 

Like you summoned him from your internal lamenting, there he was. Standing before the counter like a half-drowned rat, his hair slicked back with rain and his long black overcoat dripping everywhere. Exhaustion wore heavy on his shoulders, bags under his eyes showing countless days of minimal sleep. His beard was still short but rough and in desperate need of a trim. His face softened a bit when your eyes met – not necessarily a smile but… Relieved, almost. Kinder. 

“Congressman Barnes.” You say lightly. He physically cringes at the name as you tip the dustpan into the trash, and set the dustpan and broom away. 

“Bucky.” He says. 

You lift an eyebrow. “Bucky?” 

He shrugs as you lean against the counter. “I’ve been Congressman Barnes for a very long, exhausting week.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a tired, lopsided smile. “My friends call me Bucky.” 

The familiarity in his tone throws you off a bit, but a soft smile of your own plays on your lips. “Well, my friends call me ____.”

“____.” He repeats softly, like he’s testing the name out on his tongue. You can’t deny the way your stomach flutters with butterflies at the sound of him saying your name. 

You tap the order screen awake, trying to push down the soft feelings and potential swooning you were getting just from him saying your name. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” You say lightly, curious but not outright prying. 

He sighs, the sound nearly bone deep with exhaustion. “Yeah, sorry. Its been.. A rough week.” 

“I can tell,” you say, raising both brows slightly. “I figured you were off somewhere being important, or wrestling with some government things.” You were not going to admit that you had almost convinced yourself that you had scared him away.  

He huffed, pushing his wet, rain soaked hair back, his metal fingers gleaming in the light of the cafe. “A bit of both, I guess.”

You type in his regular order, not teasing him so much about it this time. He truly did look tired, and probably needed this coffee for more than the caffeine. 

Still… You really couldn’t help yourself. 

“You know,” you say slowly, earning a playful narrow-eyed stare from Bucky as you grab a cup. “We do have this wonderful Peach Hibiscus Tea that might revive your soul a bit.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he was remembering how to smile. “I don’t think I’ve got a soul left after the way this week went.” 

“All the more reason, then.” You grin, writing soul healing caffeine on the cup. 

He snorts like he was trying not to, and pays as you turn around to make his coffee. Not a laugh, but close enough. Real. 

You turn back around and slide the warm drink towards him. He holds it, looking like he was savoring the warmth it brought to his hands, both metal and real. You lean to the side, reaching into the display cabinet next to the register, and pull out a blueberry muffin. Still soft and fresh from when they came out of the oven when you opened this morning. You place it on the counter, and push it towards him. 

He raises an eyebrow, and you shrug. “On the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He picks it up, almost carefully, and regards you for a moment. His lips pull into another crooked smile, warmer this time. Softer.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, and you can tell it wasn’t just about the muffin. You smile, glancing down at your hands as you absentmindedly wipe them on your apron.

“Just doing my job.”

“It’s not just your job.” He says softly, making you look up again. 

He lingers around for a bit. Not long, just enough time for him to finish the muffin. You two talk quietly, despite the cafe being empty and the rain still pouring. You tell him about the ridiculous orders people come up with, and he tells you what ridiculous things the old men in the Senate say nowadays. 

It’s the longest you two have talked, and the longest that he’s stayed in the cafe. When he finishes his muffin and departs, he does so slowly, like he doesn’t actually want to leave. You smile and wave him goodbye, your heart warm knowing he’ll be back sooner or later.

The air was filled with humidity the next morning, the storm finally blowing away and leaving behind wet, sticky air and puddles everywhere. You got the morning shift again, and hoped for another slow day (and maybe a certain congressman). You slipped into the rhythm of opening the cafe with practiced ease, a routine you’ve done hundreds of times in your time of working at Rise & Grind.

You had the doors unlocked for barely ten minutes when the bell jingled, the noise echoing in the silent cafe – the music had yet to be turned on. It wasn’t uncommon for an early riser or someone pulling an all-nighter to walk in as soon as you had opened, but it was still far too early to deal with customers. Regardless, you turned to the door with the regular greeting on your tongue and a smile forced on your lips before you see who stepped inside.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the door, his eyes sweeping the empty cafe in a way you’ve noticed him do before. His eyes were clear and bright when he saw you, a slight pleased expression on his face as he came up to the counter. He looked refreshed, maybe even vibrant. His coat was dry and he even looked like he got a full night of sleep. 

“We just opened.” You say with a smile that was much more genuine as he joins you at the counter. “Are you that desperate for bitter-filled punishment?” 

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging. “Desperate, yes. Bitter? The day is young, and I am a pessimist.” 

You squint at him. “Are you smiling?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You say with a beaming grin. You study him for a moment, then turn to the menu with a dramatic hum. “Hmm, let’s see. You look like you are in great need of our Unicorn Fuel Mocha Latte, I think.” 

“Unicorn fuel?” He repeats, like you just suggested committing a war crime.

You point at the menus behind you, in the latte section.

“Why is this the second drink you’ve recommended that has edible glitter?” 

You shrug. “Some people like to have fun, Bucky.” 

He looks back at you, narrowing his eyes but an amused expression on his face. “No way.” 

“Come on,” you say, grinning. “Live a little.”

“I am living. I actively choose life. That’s why I’m not ordering that.”

You laugh, shrugging in defeat as you reach for a cup, his order already typed into the system. “Alright, alright, fine. Back to the most boring coffee known to man.”  You write faithful and bitter on his cup.

“Who even names these things?” He asks in disbelief as he continues to read the menu while you make his drink. “Birthday Cake Iced Latte? Banana Cream Cold Brew?”

“My boss, actually.” You laugh. “She’s quite proud.”

When you hand the drink back to him, he makes no move to leave. He takes a sip, and leans against the counter, regarding you with those blue eyes. “So, I never did get around to asking you. Do you often google your customers?” 

You pause mid-wipe on the counter, looking up at him. “Only the ones who drink coffee like divine punishment.” You say teasingly, but truthfully you don’t quite know why you looked him up in the first place. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what did you find?” 

“Mostly congress stuff, nowadays. A piece on you in World War II. Buzzfeed did an article on you, you know. Most importantly, no social media.” You shook your head in mock shame. “You are practically impossible to stalk online. It’s tragic, really.” 

He chuckles a bit. “Social media isn’t really my thing. Too much.. Noise.” 

“Makes sense.” You nod sagely. “You seem pretty.. Old fashioned.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me old?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, 110? How’s your back feeling?” 

He laughs, a real one, the noise coming out like a surprise. “Do you treat all your regulars like this?”

You couldn’t help the small smile rising on your lips. “Not all my regulars are so interesting, after all.”

He made a small, curious noise in response, his eyes glinting a bit with amusement as he took another sip of his coffee. “Well. I'm glad that you find me… interesting.” His voice was soft and low, his eyes meeting yours over the lid of his cup. 

You fought the rising blush on your cheeks, the eye contact and sound of his voice making your heart thud in your chest. He headed to the door with a slight smirk, pausing before he exited. He turned to you, and raised his cup a bit. 

“See you later, ____.” He said, giving you a wink, and was out the door before you could stumble together your words. 

You spent the rest of the day smiling like a fool, thinking that maybe he found you just as interesting.

Saturday brought in a different type of rush – the regular 9 to 5ers usually taking the weekend to stay home or run errands – leaving a more relaxed crowd to come into the cafe. 

The cafe was buzzing with activity, people at almost every table catching up with friends or huddled in groups with laptops. The sun was bright and shining outside, making people come out to enjoy the fresh weather and a good cup of coffee. 

You wiped down one of the empty tables, sighing. You hadn’t seen Bucky since Tuesday (you had already given up on denying the fact you counted the days between his visits), but you weren’t as worried that you did something wrong this time around. 

You had only met a handful of times, but there was something about him that made your heart flutter. The way he smiled, soft and rare. The way it was so easy to talk to him, something effortless and comforting. He lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit.

Your coworkers had already caught on, teasing you about your not-so-subtle crush, but you hadn’t bothered to deny it. Why would you?

Still, part of you held back. He was a congressman, after all. A former ally to the Avengers. (Part of the Avengers? That never did get clarified, in the end.) He was a man with nearly a century of a past, and a future shaped by headlines and handshakes. 

And you were… Here. Behind the counter. Watching the door, wondering if he ever thought of you the way you found yourself thinking of him.

You finished cleaning the empty tables and walked back to the counter, pushing those thoughts out of your mind. You huffed to yourself, and glance at the clock. You had just about ten minutes left in your shift, and then you would be free to go grab some lunch and head home. Just as you got behind the counter, the door jingled with the arrival of another customer. You looked up, standing at the register, and raised your eyebrows in surprise. 

Bucky Barnes, here on a weekend. He was obviously off work, his outfit was much more casual than you had seen. He had a navy henley on with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing one muscular forearm and more of his metal arm than you had ever seen before. He wore dark jeans and sneakers, and gave you a slanted grin as he walked up to the counter. 

“I didn’t know you existed outside of the weekdays.” You say, your eyes openly taking in his relaxed appearance. “Or had any other clothes.”

Bucky chuckled, running his metal hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but admire the way the dark metal gleamed in the light. “I do actually have a life, you know.”

“Do you?” You ask with a tilted head and narrowed eyes, a small teasing smile playing on your lips. 

He gives you a dry look, making you laugh a bit. He shakes his head, a small smile rising on his face. “Alright, alright. What’s the weekend special you’re having? I’m sure it’s something equally horrifying to the abominations you’ve mentioned before.”

“Have you such little faith in me?” You muse, and glance up at the menu with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps our Honey Oatmilk Latte?” 

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.” 

You turn back to him, blinking in surprise. “What?” 

“I mean, it doesn’t sound that bad.” He shrugs. He looks at your surprised face, and grins a bit. “Just don’t send me into cardiac arrest, alright?” 

You huff a laugh, and grab a cup. “Such high standards,” you tease, shaking your head. You step away from the counter as he pays, and begin to make his drink. It was a simple latte, espresso with oatmilk, honey and a dash of vanilla and cinnamon. It wasn’t overly sweet, not too complicated, but you wanted to make sure it was perfect. 

You turn back around and slide the drink to him, an almost nervous smile tugging at your lips. He picks up the cup and gives it a look. 

“What, no passive-aggressive notes today?” He asks, amused with an eyebrow raised. You roll your eyes playfully, waving him away. 

“Positive reinforcement, and all that.” You shrug, but you don’t take your eyes away from him as he gives the drink a small sip. 

He’s quiet for a moment, considering the flavors, then raises both his brows. “This is.. Pretty good, actually.” 

“Wow, look at that.” You couldn’t help the smug grin on your face as you lean against the counter. “A compliment? And you doubted me, what a shame.” You shook your head. “You could have had so many good drinks by now.” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time now, won’t we?” His grin makes your stomach twist, and you find yourself trying not to blush. 

You glance away, at the clock, and realize it's about five minutes after your shift ends. Bucky glances that way as well, before looking back at you. “Ah, my shift is over.” You say, feeling a bit awkward now. He often came by in the mornings, or that one time you had an afternoon shift. You step back, and then shuffle awkwardly to the back to hang up your apron and clock out. 

When you come back to the front, Bucky is still there, standing a bit aways from the counter. He smiles softly at you as you come up to him, your bag slung over your shoulder. “Have you had lunch yet?” He asks, almost too casually. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this you asking me out on a date?”

He purses his lips, and takes another sip of the coffee. “I might have waited to come in when I thought your shift ended.” He shrugs. “There’s a deli shop I like, just around the corner. Why don’t you join me?”

A smile tugs at your lips, your heart practically leaping out of your chest. “My, my. You let me pick your drink, and now a date. Have I worn you down that much?” 

He chuckles, the sound rumbling softly out of his chest. “You can tell me what I should get there, too, if you’d like.”

You laugh, and he leads you out of the cafe. The bell over the door jingles as he pushes on it and holds it open for you. Your heart is light and you can’t keep the smile off your face, and it delights you to see a smile on his, something more genuine than you’ve seen in the whole time you’ve known him. He looks down at you with a gleam in his eye, and you know you’ll never be wondering for the next time he comes around.

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[writerslittlelibrary]

I will be your family

masterlist ao3 profile

summary: growing up on the streets had never been easy, but when you steal the wrong person’s wallet, your life changes forever…

pairing: Mob!Natasha x child reader

warnings: none, just pure fluff

genre: fluff, angst

words: 1763

a/n: something abnormal is going on cause I’ve written three fics this week and I am planning on writing more. the apocalypse is near…

this one is posted on ao3 at the same time, so if you prefer to read on ao3 click this link

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

When your parents died, you were only six, and it didn’t take long before you realised you would have to resort to stealing to survive. Foster care never came to pick you up, with how over full they have been since a virus three years ago. 

Many adults succumbed to the virus, and with that many children were left an orphan. 

The government took in who they could, but a large percentage of the orphans were left on the street, you included. 

You started stealing two years ago. You were against it at first, but when you got so sick from being hungry, you stole a cinnamon bun from a bakery. It was the best piece of food you had ever eaten. 

Soon, you moved up from stealing food. You learned swiping wallets wasn’t that difficult with people being distracted by their smartphones.

Stealing was easy, and while you still slept under a bridge, you did so with a full tummy. 

Now you were eight, and you spotted your best target yet.

You were sitting at a table in the mall, munching on a sandwich while scouting the best potential targets. So far, a red-headed woman caught your eye. She was on her own, and when she pulled out her wallet she was absolutely loaded. 

Seriously, who carries around that much cash? She was basically asking to get robbed.

To make it easier for you, she literally put her wallet in her back pocket. Like, be for real lady, you’re about to get robbed by an eight year old and it’s your own fault. 

You finish your sandwich quickly, abandoning the wrapper at the table while starting to follow the red haired lady around. She doesn’t stop at any of the other stores, just the one jewelry store you spotted her in. Maybe she was picking up a nice pair of earrings. 

Had you been older, or perhaps been able to follow the news, you’d known who you were following, and you’d known about the bodyguards she always had with her. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t, and when you swipe her wallet, all you can do is yelp at the strong hand that encircles your entire upper arm. 

“Hands off,” a gruff voice commands. 

Startled, you drop the wallet, staring up at the man with tears in your eyes. You’ve never been caught before. What the fuck do you do now?

You turn your head to look at the red haired lady, seeing her now staring down at you with intrigue, rather than anger. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!” the man asks meanly, his voice rough and commanding. It makes you quiver. You don’t think you’ve ever been this scared. 

“James, be gentle,” the red haired woman commands, and immediately the man loosens his grip on your arm. He doesn’t let go, however. 

The woman crouches down, now just a little lower than your eye level. You were never a tall child. 

“What’s your name?” she asks. 

You shake, tears now falling from your eyes and staining your cheeks. The woman reaches out her hand, gently running her hand along your cheek before using her thumb to wipe your tears away. 

“It’s quite alright, darling, there there. Why did you try to steal, hm?”

You can’t find it in yourself to respond, scared of what the consequences might be. Will she call the police? Will you go to prison for all the stealing you have done so far? 

The man holding you gives you a light shake. “Answer.”

“James,” the red haired lady immediately scolds. 

The man, ‘James’, lets go of your arm completely now, grunting some response to the lady who has now gently taken your hand. She’s started stroking the back of your hand with her thumb. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” the lady says. “Why don’t you tell me where your parents are?” 

You sniffle, stuttering slightly when you try to speak. 

“Dead…”

The expression of the woman turns glum. Then, she pushes that expression away, putting a pleasant smile on her face. 

“Well, we can’t have you returning to the children under the bridge now, can we? How about you come with me, and I will make sure you have a nice warm bed for tonight?”

You look at her confused. “You’re not going to call the police?”

The woman laughs. 

“Oh, no, darling. Let’s just say I’m a bit more important than the police around these parts. I can personally decide over your punishment for trying to steal, and right now that ‘punishment’ consists of a warm meal and a warm bed.”

“Why?” you ask her, voice shaky and confused as to why this woman whom you tried to steal from would want to help you. 

“Because you are quite a clever child. Had James here not caught you, I wouldn’t have noticed.” The woman reaches her hand towards your face again, gently pushing some hair behind your ear. 

“Not many people manage to sneak up on me, and an even smaller percentage manages to steal from me without me noticing. You are a very special child, my darling.” 

The stand from her crouching position, gently taking a hold of your hand and guiding you out of the mall, towards the parking lot. It’s only now you notice that large group of guys in suits that follow her. 

She leads you towards an expensive looking, black suv, opening the door for you and helping you step in. 

She climbs in after you, sitting next to you while James takes the passenger's seat. Another man in a suit takes the driver's seat. 

“Are you famous?” you then ask.

The woman looks amused, a small chuckle escaping her mouth. 

“You could say so, yes, although I am not famous in the sense you’re thinking of. I’m not a movie star, nor a famous singer.” 

“What are you then?”

“I am a business woman,” the lady says, straightening her jacket. 

“A business woman? Are business women considered famous?” you ask. The woman nods.

“Oh yes, I do so much important business, I’ve grown quite the name for myself,” she says, before she smiles kindly. 

“But those are not the things you should be concerning yourself with. How about you tell me your name now?” 

You nod, telling her your name to which she responds with her own. 

Natasha. 

After about an hour, you arrive at a very large, high building. The car drives into a garage under the building, and when it comes to a stop one of the men in suits opens the door for you and Natasha. 

Natasha helps you step out of the car, and she leads you towards the elevator. 

You stare at the buttons hopefully, not wanting to ask yet also not wanting to let this opportunity pass you by.

You don’t know if Natasha is a psychic, but after the day you’ve had you might argue that she is. She doesn’t even need for you to utter a single word before she’s motioning her head towards the buttons. 

“PH,” she says, and you’re quick to press the button that reads ‘PH’. 

What it stands for you don’t know. 

Once upstairs, Natasha leads you into what you assume is her kitchen, where an old lady is already cooking.

“Do you have any allergies?” Natasha asks, to which you shake your head. 

Natasha pulls out a chair for you, helping you climb onto the high stool before sitting in the one opposite from you.

“Do you live here alone?” you ask after a moment of silence. 

Natasha nods. “It’s quite big to be living alone, I agree. Perhaps you could help me fill up the space.”

“How?” you ask. Natasha smiles.

“Well, what do you like to play with? Do you have any favourite toys?” 

You look down at your hands, picking your skin while you fidget anxiously.

“I don’t have any toys…”

Natasha smiles again, and when you look at her, you feel… safe…

“We’ll fill it up with all the toys you want. Perhaps we’ll start with a nice drawing set. What do you think about that? Perhaps some nice crayons?” 

At the mention of crayons, your head perks up. You’ve always liked drawing. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Natasha promises. 

------------------------------

You’ve been with Natasha for a few weeks, and you’ve never been happier. Settling into a routine with her was rather easy. Natasha was very clear and direct, which you thrived on. The structure she provided you was something you never knew you needed. 

She did get you those crayons she promised, and you were currently laying on the carpet in the living room, drawing a beautiful picture for Natasha. 

You were drawing the two of you, holding hands, and you even added a big red heart in between the two of you. 

Granted, they were only stick figures, but you hadn’t had a lot of practice in your life. You’d improve, Natasha promised. 

After debating it for a few minutes, you grabbed the yellow crayon and added a crown to Natasha’s stick figure. You very quickly learned Natasha was basically the queen of the underworld, and funnily enough, that didn’t bother you. 

She provided you safety when no one else did.

She gave you a warm bed, hot meals every night, and most importantly, love. 

You finished your drawing, standing up from your spot on the floor in favour of going to Natasha’s office. She’s probably busy, like she always is, but she’s assured you that she doesn’t mind when you interrupt her. 

You knock on her door anyway, and when you hear her call out you push the door open. 

Natasha immediately closes her laptop, smiling while she pushes her chair back, patting her lap in invitation. 

You’re quick to rush over, scrambling to sit in her lap and enjoying the kisses you receive on your head. Natasha holds you tightly, the warm, strong embrace of a mother. 

“What do you have there?” she asks when she spots the paper in your hand.

Shyly, you hand her the drawing, studying her face while she observes it.

“Oh Malyshka,” she sighs happily, “this is wonderful. Truly an outstanding job you’ve done. Is this me?” 

You nod, laying your head on her shoulder.

“You have a crown because you’re a queen,” you explain. 

Natasha smiles, kissing you cheeks and forehead a million times.

“I love it, you’ve done a wonderful job. I will make sure to hang it somewhere where it can be admired every single day.”

You smile, kissing her cheek. 

“Thank you mama.”

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[marvelimaginesyesplease]

I like to imagine he’s lecturing you in this picture. Did you do something stupid?? Pull a bad move at training? Hurt yourself during a mission? Maybe he’s explaining why certain whiskeys are better than others. Possibly a cigar he prefers??? All I know is that he 110% said “Now darlin’” at some point.

[dinogoofymutated]

You asked for some smut suggestions for Logan, and I got one:

So like…I mean…Logan might be on the short side, but he’s still big! I mean, like,,,those hands 🫣 It would be nice to see a fic to do with Logan and a little manhandling. but not like in a BDSM way, more like a “I am very strong, and here’s a little reminder” type way. Might seem kinda silly but I’d enjoy a fic like that lol.

NSFW!Wolverine/AFAB!Reader Ask and you shall receive!! I've spent like the last four days working on this and atp I can't looks at it anymore lol. I'm not super happy with how the beginning is written, but I still think it's alright enough to post lol. It's a lot more tell than show compared to most of my other fics, and I was halfway tempted to reformat it into headcannons, but I didn't feel like it. Anyway, hope you like the way I included the manhandling lol! Hope it turned out okay :) Also, might or might not be tall logan. I'll leave it up to yall to assume, I'm just short af so there's not a single person in marvel who wouldn't have to look down at me lmao.

Edit:FUCK I FORGOT THE READ MORE! TWs: MDNI!!!!!! Seriously, you will be blocked. Masterbation, lil bit of a scent kink. Sexual frustration. Manhandling. Jealous Logan. Creampie. Logan calls you "sunshine" and pretty and shit. I'll add more if I can think of any.

    You had a problem. You’ve had a problem. And it really didn’t seem like it was getting any better. It didn’t help the fact that it was incredibly embarrassing, either.

    You couldn’t get off. It’s not like you ever struggled with it before, but lately, it felt like you were fighting a losing battle. At first, you didn’t realize why. Maybe it was because you moved into the X-Mansion. Nerves because you’re living somewhere new, right? So you change it up a little. You got comfortable, had a glass of wine or two, and picked up a raunchy book. Yet every time you slipped your hand between your thighs… Running circles around your own clit, trying your best to finger yourself to your finish, you just could never quite hit that peak. It was safe to say you were beyond frustrated.

    Lucky for you, most people didn’t notice. You try your best not to be too uptight or mean, but there are just some things that you can’t quite hide from certain people.

    Logan’s noticed that something is up with you. You can tell he has, seeing the looks on his face, nose scrunched up in a way he’s catching into something that he just can't quite place. You’re assuming it’s your own pheromones, but hey, as long as he doesn’t realize what it is you’ll be fine, right?

     Maybe not.

    Eventually, you finally realized why you were having so much trouble getting off. All it took was one training session with Wolverine, and you knew immediately. You weren’t sparring or anything like that, hell, you knew before you even hit the danger room floor. Logan was in a bit of a mood today, although not as grumpy as he can be- and he’s trying to be patient with you. You can tell. But you’re having trouble focusing today- and you have been for a while. He can tell you’re not at 100% just by the way you hold yourself, and spends about 5 minutes watching as you struggle to reset the Danger room panel before he’s finally fed up with it.

    “Jesus fuck. Here, let me do it.” Logan grabs you by the waist, pulling you to his chest with one arm as the other reaches around you to reset the panel. It’s not like you didn’t find him attractive before, but the close contact? The smell of his aftershave and the sound of his voice growling in your ear? 

    oh.

    Oh. 

    You were having trouble getting off because you had a thing for Logan.

    You’re practically stunned when he pulls away, standing there with a flushed face and something rather embarrassing pooling in your underwear for the first time in a while. You had to quickly excuse yourself before you ran the risk of him catching onto anything coming from you. He’s a little confused for a second, but you can hear the sound of his low chuckle as you scramble away.

    First thing you do? Go to the store.

    It's not a random errand. At least, not entirely. You had meant to go out with Storm to grocery shop later this afternoon, but you told her you could really use some time out of the house by yourself, which she completely understood. You had the list and everything, it was only a coincidence that you passed by the cologne section on your way to pick up some toothpaste. The sight made you stop for a minute, the gears grinding in your skull. You spent just a few minutes curiously sampling the bottles until you found one that smelled a bit familiar… Should you? No, that's a bit strange. But really, what was the harm, right? I mean, who would know? 

    So you bought it. You felt a bit embarrassed afterward, knowing what you bought it for, and ended up letting it sit in the drawer of your side table for a good while. Until another desperate attempt at fucking your own brains out, that is. 

    You were sweaty and uncomfortable in your bed, sleep shirt sticking to your skin as you struggled to pump your fingers in and out of your tight cunt. It’s been a while, and it shows. You couldn’t even get your favorite dildo to fit inside of you, only adding to your frustration. Touching your clit hardly helped much, leaving you as unsatisfied as ever. Eventually, you give up, lying there as you sigh to yourself. You turn over in your bed in a huff, halfway temped scream your lungs out into the pillow you bury your face in. Instead, you let out something that sounds more like a whisper than a yell, letting the air in your lungs deflate as you let your feelings out. You roll over onto your side when you’re done, halfway tempted to be done with it entirely and go back to bed when you catch sight of the nightstand drawer, slightly ajar. The amber bottle of liquid stares right at you. 

    You open the drawer some more, picking up the bottle and looking at it as you wonder if you’re actually going to do this. But you’re ridiculously horny, and tired, and you know you’re gonna have trouble falling asleep in the state you’re in- so you end up spraying the smallest amount on your pillow.

    It’s…nice. The pillow is warm from where you had been laying on it, and despite how strong men’s cologne could be, this one isn’t quite so striking. At least, not in the amount that you used. You relax back into your bed, pressing your face into the pillow and laying there for a moment. You start thinking about Logan… His calloused hands running across your skin. How his lips and tongue would feel against your own, trailing down your body to your breast. Your hand trails down to your clit as you imagine it as his own. You imagine him behind you, pressing you to the bed as he growls into your ear. You think about what his happy trail would feel like against you. What his cock would look like, feel like, pressing into you. Your legs twitch and shake as you see stars underneath your eyelids, the scent of Logan hitting all the right parts in your head and going straight to your cunt.

    Holy shit. 

    Your orgasm lasts what feels like forever. Your legs are still shaking as you whimper from oversensitivity and pull your hand away, panting as you try to catch your breath. You haven’t cum that hard since… ever. Maybe the cologne was worth it, after all.

    You felt really good the morning after. You found yourself humming in the shower, more energized at breakfast and morning drills. No one had said anything, but you knew there were a few who were relieved to see you back to your usual self. If anything, the only person you noticed acting very differently around you was Logan. He was more tense than normal. He scowled a lot, spending less time in your presence. You’d strike up a conversation that would only last a few minutes before he would make an excuse and leave. It made you a little disappointed. But you knew him and knew he had good and bad days, so you brushed it off at first. But a week, two weeks- almost a month went by, and still no change. You felt scorned almost, silently rejected by the guy you had finally realized you were practically in love with, and to be honest, the only man who could get you off just by thinking about him- and boy, did you get off while thinking about him. 

    You’ve almost resigned yourself to the fact that Logan wasn’t interested when he corners you one morning. He’s leaning up against the wall of the hallway,  waiting for you when you step out of your room. It makes you jump a little, closing your door quickly behind you, knowing damn well you hadn’t washed your sheets after fucking yourself to the moon and back last night and fully not wanting the smell to hit his nose. All Logan does is narrow his eyes. Shit.

    “Who is he.” He asks you. The question completely derails your train of thought. And you furrow your brow, confused. What was that about?

    “Who is he? Your guy?” He asks again, but it does little to clear up your confusion. You’re halfway wondering if he’s being serious at this point, stepping away from your door as you cross your arms.

    “What?” You ask. Logan huffs when you respond to him, cocking his head at you in a way that's more sarcastic than curious. The way he’s looking at you is doing some things that you don’t think you’d like to admit, eyes narrow and scrutinizing as you struggle to keep eye contact with him.

    “What do you mean? What guy?” You repeat back to him, starting to get a little frustrated. He snorts, rolling his eyes as his scowl lingers. He steps closer, looking down at you from less than a foot away with that angry stare.

    “Don’t play stupid with me, sunshine. I can smell him on you.” You ignore the way the nickname makes you shiver a little bit, too busy shrinking into yourself when you process the extent of his words. Smell. He could smell someone on you. Something. Oh god, this was embarrassing. 

    “Oh! That- It’s not what you're thinking!” You say, face flushed red. You’re flustered beyond belief, doing your best to convince him to leave it be, and it’s not going so well for you.

    “Sure it’s not.” Logan huffs. He starts to take steps forward, closing in on your personal space.

    “It’s not. I can promise you that.” You’re anxiously fiddling with your fingers now, taking a step back for every step he takes. He looked predatory, unlike any time you’ve seen him before. You haven’t even seen him like this in the danger room, even less so on the battlefield. 

    “Just tell me who he is.” Logan is adamant about it, his scowl beginning to turn into a frown. Your back hits your door, kickstarting your heart in surprise. You hadn’t realized he had backed you up so far.

    “I can’t!” You say, in the beginning stages of becoming absolutely exasperated, and already incredibly embarrassed. 

    “Why not!?” Logan Snaps, stopping just inches away from you. You cover your heated face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you see shapes, wanting nothing more than to curl up and die right then and there.

    “Would you just leave it!” You shout, but Logan’s having none of it. 

    “No, I won't!” Logan grabs your wrists and moves them away from your face, holding them in front of your chest with a grip lighter than you might have thought. You groan in utter frustration and mortification, looking him dead in the eyes as your angry mouth starts speaking before your reasonable brain can fully catch up.

    “Jesus Christ Logan! Do you expect me to just whip out the silicone and show you?!” Your eyes widen as soon as you say it, slamming your mouth shut as you finally catch up with yourself. Logan is staring at you in absolute shock, jaw almost slack at the confession. 

    “...What?” He asks, slowly. You wince, looking off to the side before deciding it's a bit too late to get the cat back into the bag.

    “Its… Cologne. What you’re smelling. I use it to uh, help me…” You make a sort of gesture with your head, praying that you won’t actually have to spell it out for him. He’s still in shock as he looks at you, hands frozen with his fingers wrapped around your wrists. He clears his throat when he comes to, an unreadable expression on his face as he slowly steps forward again, close enough to press his forehead against your own as he presses you against your door.

    “You’re that pent up, you need cologne to help you get off?” He asks, and you don’t know what to say, cat catching your tongue as he leans forward. The side of his face brushes against your cheek as he leans down a little, the action making your skin prickle. One of his hands releases a wrist to slide up and across the back of your neck, tilting your head to the side as he takes a big sniff of your skin. He’s practically nuzzling you, angling his head so that he can smell the scent on the back of your head where you rest against your pillow at night. 

    He’d noticed it before, at night when most of his anger had worn off, sometime after he started to pick up the scent on you. The undertones, the top notes. But now with you this close, he can tell that it wasn’t another man he was smelling. No. It was just you. Your scent being drowned out by the smell of something that he could finally tell smelled rather suspiciously like his very own aftershave.

    “...Don’t tell me that you wanted it to smell like me.” He asks after a moment. You almost flinch at the sound of his deep rumble, turning your red face away from him. You swallow, feeling like you are absolutely burning up as you nod- right as Logan catches the unmistakable scent of arousal.

    “Fuck”

    You’re sure the sound was more animal than man as he cups your cheek rather aggressively, pressing his lips against your own in a rather desperate kiss. It takes you a second to return it, eyes wide as you process just what was happening. It didn't take long for you to melt into his desperate kisses though, every nip and brush of his teeth just like you imagined it would be. He presses his knee in between your thighs, finally releasing your other wrist to grab ahold of your hip instead. You accidentally let out a whine when he grinds your hips against him, your heart beating so fast you were sure it was going to explode. He curses again at the sound, both hands sliding around you to lift you against the door.

    You practically squeak in surprise, the noise caught by Logan’s mouth on your own one more time before he trails down to your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin. You gasp as he presses against you, his hips beginning to grind against your own. You’re having a hard time thinking, biting your lip as you do your best to stifle your sounds.

    “Logan-ah, can we… head inside, please?” He only grunts in response, shifting your weight as you both begin to fumble for the doorknob. He gets it before you do, hardly stumbling as the door behind you swings open. He’s kissing you again before the door is even closed, kicking it behind him. As preoccupied as you are, you at least have the common sense to reach over and try to lock the door before he carries you over to the bed. 

    He plops you down onto the mattress before he crawls over you, eyes half-lidded and just as lustful as your own. He pushes you down as you try to sit up. His breathing a little hard, pupils dilated to a size you had never seen.

    “Now I know why you closed the door so fast,” Logan smirks, having picked up the lingering scent of your sex on the sheets right away. You open your mouth to reply, but he cuts you off. His tongue snakes into your mouth, and you find that you can’t really remember what you were going to say anyway. He kisses you again and again, distracting you as he reaches above your head. He pulls away when he has the pillow in hand, and you know just by the look on his face that he knows exactly what he is holding.

    “Hate to break it to you, but this doesn’t exactly compare to the real thing.” He snarks. It makes you laugh, and for the first time in a while, you see a genuine smile spread across his face. 

    “Yeah.” You respond, taking the pillow from his hands and tossing it to a far-off corner. “I know.” You could revel in his smile for as long as he’d let you. Logan’s kisses start off sweeter this time, at least for a moment they did. They begin to become more and more rough as hands start to wander and clothes start to come off. His shirt is first to go, your hands running up and down the hair that spans his torso. Logan is quick to remove your shirt and bra in one go, one very small step away from cutting off your clothes entirely. He gives himself a minute to appreciate your breasts, pinching and teasing you by sliding a hand up the middle of your sternum, the back of his hand brushing the side of a tit as he watches you squirm underneath him, arching your back to push your chest out, practically begging him to finally touch you.

    “Patience is a virtue, Sunshine.” Logan says, causing you to scoff. You glare at him a little and all it does is make him chuckle a bit. 

    “Don’t be mean.” You whine. He laughs a bit harder as he finally lowers himself to your chest. He keeps his eyes locked on your own as he brushes the blunt ends of his teeth across the soft skin, but he’s never been the most patient man. It doesn't take him long to give in to you, sucking on each breast individually, massaging the soft skin of the opposite as he does so. 

    “Careful.” He growls when your own hands begin to wander, touching him over the fabric of his jeans. He releases your nipple with a pop, bearing his teeth as he presses his face back into your neck. You don't pay much mind to that, rather enjoying the grunts and sounds he makes as you slowly stroke his covered hardness from base to tip. You can't imagine how restrained he must be feeling. You can’t help but smirk a little as your hands drift up and down, before oh So slowly unbuckling his belt. Logan is agitated, practically bucking his hips into your hands to get you to just get over with it. 

    “Patience is a virtue.” You quote, only earning a restraining hold on your hands once again.

    “Fuck that.” Logan growls. He holds you by your wrists, pushing them above your head as he uses his free hand to remove his belt and frantically unbuckle his pants. You'd be complaining if it weren't for the view of his straining cock, slapping against his abdomen as he pulls his pants down. 

    You don't get to stare for too long before he flips you on your stomach like you weigh nothing. He lets your wrists go to pull down your shorts and underwear, a sticky string of your slick thinning as he pulls the items down.

    “Fuck. You're this wet from just that?” Logan asks you, taking two fingers and sliding them through your lips from behind, spreading his fingers to let himself see the mess you've made of yourself already.

    “...shut up.” You mumble, more focused on the feeling of those very same fingers sliding back and forth across your cunt, the tips just barely brushing against your clit every time. Logan chuckles, sliding one hand under your lower stomach to lift your hips with ease. Your hips buck as he slides a thick finger inside of you without warning, slowly sinking down to his knuckle with ease.

    “Might not even need foreplay at this rate.” Logan rumbles behind you, eyes set squarely on the sight of your pretty pussy spread wide open for him. You can only moan in response as he pulls it back out again, plunging a second finger into you this time. Your hands clutch the sheets as Logan begins to finger fuck you to his content, curling those thick digits to hit that one spot juuust right. You try not to buck or squirm too bad, halfway wondering if this is all just some wet dream. 

    “Logan-” You call out for him through your moans. He only hums in reply, preoccupied at the moment.

    “I- god- I need your cock, please.” You're not sure if it was the phrase or the begging, but it makes Logan groan. You feel embarrassingly empty as he pulls his fingers out. You hear the sound of him stroking his hard cock with your slick, groaning and humming to himself before he picks you up. He leans over you, adjusting to you your hands and knees as you finally feel that thick, thick cock grinding against you. You gasp at the way it feels, feeling Logan smirk against your back.

    “Having second thoughts?” The tone of his voice is teasing, but you know there's more than that behind the words. You vehemently shake your head, grinding back against him a little as you protest. Logan swears under his breath, holding onto your hips to keep them still as he sits up.

    Both of you groan each time the head of his cock catches on your clit, Logan thrusting through your lips again and again as he lubes himself with the wetness you provide for him. You gasp when his head catches on your slot, notching just right. 

    Logan pushes into you so slowly, and you feel like he's thicker than you ever imagined he would be. You're impatient, desperate. You push back onto him in an attempt to take him in more, but his hands on your hips stop you.

    “Believe me sweetheart, you don't want that yet.” Logan tells you, straining himself with how tight you feel around him. He soothingly rubs his thumbs against your skin, pressing into you until you have him completely, balls deep inside you. 

    “Please, please. Logan, Please, I need you to move.” Your begging starts to sound like nonsense to your own ears, but it makes Logan gasp all the same, his cock twitching from where it's buried inside of you. You practically cry in relief when he finally begins to thrust Inside of you.

    His hip smack against your ass with every thrust, the sound of the slap mixed with the sounds of your love and the headboard hitting the wall a lewd and filthy symphony. Even better than your own moans were Logan's himself. Each and every groan and growl above you gave you a whole new array of things to imagine while fucking yourself- if you ever had to do so again. 

    You whine and whimper with every strong thrust, Logan slow and forceful with every movement. It felt like he wanted your insides to memorize exactly how his cock feels inside of you, and you doubt you'd ever mind it. He filled you perfectly, hitting every sweet spot inside of you.

    Your arms are shaking. Struggling to hold yourself up with each and every rock of the bed. You barely start to buckle when He catches hold of you, an arm snacking under your chest and pulling you towards him. His hand spans your collarbone as he holds your back against his chest, holding you up as he continues to fuck you like no one before. You're closing in on that sweet release when his hips stutter a moment. His teeth dig into your shoulder with a sharp bite, holding you there close to him without breaking the skin.

    “Are… are you -ah- close?” You ask. Logan only responds with a short and simple - “Fuck!” - before he pulls out of you.

    You don't have time to whine about the emptiness before he's flipping you around, kissing you again as he pushes your back to the bed rather aggressively. He's quick to sling your legs over his arms, folding you in half as he sides fully into you in a single thrust. He's hitting you so much deeper in this position, chest pressed against your own as his thrusts continue to stutter. 

    Logan kisses you again, a bit differently than the last ones have been. These kisses are tender, sweet. A stark difference between his needy, frantic thrusts. There's a line of spit between you two as he pulls away, half-lidded eyes meeting your own. You’re closing in on your peak, and you can tell he is too. The pleasure is too much for you to handle at once, and you can't help but squeeze your eyes shut.

    “Look at me.” Logan grabs a hold of your chin, your eyes flying open as he thumbs at your lip and holds your head still. “Don't look away.” His hips stutter some more, the both of you groaning as you clench around him, desperately trying to keep your eyes open as you finally cum around his cock. The fluttering of your walls are more than enough to send Logan over the edge, his cum warming your insides in thick spurts. Logan buries his face into your neck, groaning as you ride out both of your orgasms.

    The two of you lay there for a moment, trying to catch your breath. Logan lets go of your sore legs, massaging your thighs as he presses sweet, comforting kisses to your cheek and temple. His hands wander up and down your sides, doing his best to soothe your aches without you even having to ask. -not that he would ever admit to having a soft side. Who would believe you if you told them that The Wolverine was a cuddler after sex anyway?

    “Why didn't you just tell me?” You ask after a long moment. Logan hums, his Face tucked into the crook of your neck.

    “Tell you what?”

    “That you were jealous.” Logan only snorts at that, playfully pinching your side.

    “Jealous of what? Your cologne?” He returns. You slap him on the shoulder as he chuckles at you, unable to stop the playful smile on your face.

    “You mean the cologne that you thought was a whole-ass guy?” Logan stops at that, instead choosing to cover your mouth with his palm as he tucks his head closer.

    “You're a lot prettier when you're quiet. You know that?”

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

Several Hundred Lives

​​Title: Several Hundred Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 10.86k

Warnings: Kissing, canonical violence, mentions of depression

Prompt: “How about a kiss before I go?” from this list

Summary: Almost 70 years after her husband’s disappearance, Y/N runs into an old friend at work, and her carefully constructed life starts to unravel.

A/N: This fic is almost entirely unedited, but it has been a labor of love since the beginning. If you notice any glaring mistakes, please send me a message. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me in all the ways you do. I hope you enjoy!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

You swallow back the lump in your throat and force a watery smile, looking up at him. Bucky has an eagle eye for when you’re even the slightest bit upset. He probably already knows that you’re upset, but you don’t want him to be able to see it on your face. Not now.

“You’ve got everything?” you ask, your voice breaking. You try to disguise it by clearing your throat and reaching out, patting down the flat collar of his uniform.

Bucky reaches up and takes your hand, then lifts it to his lips. The kiss he presses against your knuckles makes you inhale sharply. Tears flood your eyes.

“How about a kiss before I go?”

Holding in a sob, you close the distance and slot your lips against his. Your arms find your way around his neck and you cling to him, standing on your tiptoes in the cold Brooklyn street. Somewhere down the way, a shout comes from a window and a door slams. The city is waking up.

“Don’t go,” you whisper, your lips just a whisper away from his. Your breaths come out in white puffs, mingling and clouding the space between you. You duck your head, tucking it into the crook of his neck and clinging to him even tighter when his arms wind around your waist and pull you close. Heat radiates from the bare skin beneath his collar and it immediately warms your nose where it had begun to turn pink from the frigid December temperatures. If it were any other day, you and Bucky would be cozied up under the covers, but it’s not any other day. Today is the worst day.

“I have to, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear. “Someone’s got to.”

Sniffling, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the feel of him. The nightmare you’d had last night, sometime after he’d crawled into bed beside you, still lingers in your mind. Since the day you first set eyes on James Buchanan Barnes, you didn’t think you’d ever be able to imagine your life without him ever again. Apparently, you can, at least in your dreams.

Bucky gives you a squeeze and gently pries you off of him. He straightens his uniform and fixes his eyes on you. They’re just as teary as yours.

“It’s time. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble while I’m gone? And that you’ll keep an eye on Steve for me?”

“He’ll hate that you’re asking,” you croak. You aim for a smile, but it’s more of a grimace than anything. “He’ll tell me he doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“Then don’t tell him.” You get a lopsided grin out of your husband, and then he’s backing away. He takes a few steps toward the bus stop down the road. You watch him in silence as he holds your gaze, then finally turns and stuffs one hand in his pocket, the other clinging to the strap of his canvas duffel. 

You stand on the sidewalk in silence, arms dangling at your sides and coat wide open, staring at the back of his head and his broad shoulders. His figure had become blurry as he walked further away, and then he’d become a black smudge in the distance. Then, Bucky had turned the corner and disappeared completely.

Numb from both the cold and the sharp knife of loss that’s been plunged into your heart, you head back inside. You climb the three flights of stairs to Bucky’s apartment. It’s technically your apartment now as well—the courthouse wedding the afternoon of his enlistment made it so—but it’s still hard to think of it that way. The neighbors are starting to wake up now. You can hear them as you trudge down the fourth door on the left. Mrs. O’Reily will be by to check up on you soon, no doubt. Bucky had asked her and Mr. O’Reily to look out for you, just as he had you looking out for Steve.

You close yourself into the chilly apartment and try not to think about how empty it feels. He’d tried to convince you to get a pet before he left, hoping that it would make you feel less alone in his absence, but you’d brushed him off. A goldfish couldn’t fill the absence Bucky’s left in the bed at night, and not even the cutest of kittens would be able to bring him home safely. That’s all you wanted. You’re certain it will be all you want until he finally returns.

The job in historical records wasn’t one that you’d expected to find so enjoyable, but Tony Stark pays generously, and the benefits are great, too. It’s enough for you to move into a comfortable apartment in Manhattan, only a short subway ride away from Avengers Tower.

Your office is tucked away on the fourteen floor. It’s generally a quiet place, so when you hear Stark’s voice in the hallway, along with one that’s vaguely familiar, you’re a little surprised. Your supervisor had told you that Mr. Stark doesn’t visit the records department very much at all. It’s usually Pepper.

Grabbing the file you need to have signed by your supervisor, you stand up from your desk and head out into the hallway. If he’s passing by, you can get the signature and move onto the next task on your list. If you miss him, however, you’ll have to wait until he’s finished with whatever wild goose chase Tony is sending your department on. That could take hours, depending on how mundane the search topic is. It’s honestly surprising how many times he has you search the records, especially considering the Tower’s central intelligence system.

“Sir, if you have a second—” The words die on your lips and your mouth runs dry as soon as you look up. You’ve stepped out into the hallway, directly in front of Mr. Stark, but the man beside him isn’t your supervisor.

It’s Steve.

“Careful,” Steve warns as he’s pulling Tony out of your path to avoid a collision. You step backwards, into the closing door of your office, and the soft-shut door bumps you a half-step forward again.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark,” you blurt. “I didn’t think you’d be right outside, and I thought for sure I heard Mr. Conner’s voice. I just have some papers for him to sign, or I wouldn’t be out here.”

He gives you a tight smile. You force your eyes to remain on him and not drift to Steve. Does your old friend recognize you? It would be ridiculous if he didn’t—your cosmetic changes can only hide your true identity so much, and Steve’s always had a good eye.

You haven’t searched him out, even after all these years. You’ve been too afraid of what might happen if he blew your cover. Ever since you heard the news of his return, you’ve wondered what he would say if he saw you again. If he found out what you did, and how you’re still here. Of course, this was a scenario you never could have dreamed of. Never in a million years could you have predicted that Steve Rogers survived the crash into the Arctic. Never in a million years could you have predicted that you survived everything you’d been through.

“Y/N, is it?” Mr. Stark asks, and you blink, nodding after a second.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be sure to send Mr. Conner your way.” He pauses, then gestures to Steve, glancing up at him and then back at you. “Steve, this is Y/N. She’s a whiz with historical records, so if you ever need help finding something about an old flame of yours, she’ll help you out.”

There’s a note of teasing in his voice, but Steve doesn’t respond to it. His eyes are fixed hard on your face. When you meet his gaze, you can’t look away. You feel trapped, like a bug pinned under a microscope.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Steve replies. His voice is polite as he holds out his hand for you to shake. When you do, you inhale sharply. It’s as if you were dreaming until you felt his skin against yours. Some small part of you had been convinced that this wasn’t real, but it very much is. Steve is alive.

“You too.”

With a polite, somewhat shaky smile, you turn and push your door open, then hurry back into the safety of the 10-foot by 10-foot office where you spend most of your days. You stand just inside the door and listen for them to continue moving. Your heart is pounding against the inside of your ribcage.

Finally, after what feels like a suspiciously long amount of time, Mr. Stark and Steve move on. You heave a sigh and close your eyes once you feel they’re far enough away to not hear you. For several long moments, you stand in place by the door, trying to catch your breath, but your laptop chimes with a message notification and you’re pulled back into the reality of your day-to-day life. Someone probably needs a record pulled from the physical archives, so you cross the room and sit back down at your desk to see what they need.

It isn’t until four hours later, close to the end of your workday, that you make it back to your office. Your pants have dust marks from where you’d wiped your hands on them after an unfortunate incident in the lesser-used portion of the physical archives, and your stomach is audibly growling after having missed your normal lunchtime.

A knock at your door as you’re pulling your lunch from your work bag makes you sigh.

“Come in,” you call. The door opens, but your spoon slips out of your hand before you can look up. You set the container of leftovers on your desk and reach down to dig out the spoon before it can make its way all the way to the bottom of your bag, grumbling to yourself. It’s been months since you’ve cleaned it, and the thought of what you might have to clean off before eating makes you cringe a little inside.

“You’re here.”

You freeze, bent over in your chair with one hand in your bag. You hold your breath, waiting for Steve to say something more.

“Y/N.”

Your fingers wrap around your prey and you slowly sit back up, but you don’t lift your head to look at him. There’s no dirt or lint on the spoon but you carefully clean it with the front of your shirt anyway. Steve is staring at you in silence and the feeling of his eyes focused solely on you makes you want to hide. Why does it feel like you’ve done something wrong? 

“How?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice—something you can’t decipher is worming its way into his tone, but you’re too busy scrambling to figure out what to say to decide if he’s more angry or upset with you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and stare down at your lunch. With just your fingertips, you inch the container sideways until it’s perfectly centered in front of you, with its square edge lined up with the edge of the desk. The spoon goes next to it.

“Y/N, please,” Steve pleads, and you realize then that the edge isn’t anger. 

Looking up, you see the tears in his eyes. It makes your heart ache and you immediately look away again, your own eyes stinging. You stare blurry-eyed at the framed diplomas on your wall, right next to the mandatory emergency exit map.

“After…” Though it can’t change the past, you still refuse to speak of Bucky’s death. The day you found out about his death was one of the worst days of your life.

You swallow again and take a shaky breath. Your hands tremble as you open up your cold lunch and set aside the lid. Steve steps closer and you duck your head, shielding your face from his ever-prying eyes.

“Y/N.”

“I couldn’t do it,” you admit. It feels like you’re choking. “I couldn’t live without him.”

It was true. After you’d found out about Bucky’s death, you’d isolated yourself in the apartment. When you did open the front door, you never spoke to the people that came to check on you. Some of them would bring you food, but you never ate it. You’d put their dishes in the fridge until they went bad, and then you’d scrape the containers and return them after they’d been cleaned. Eventually, people stopped bringing you sympathy food, and then you didn’t even have to worry about cleaning the dishes. When you did eat, it was very little, and only out of necessity. You slept most of the day. You lost your job. You waited for yourself to waste away into nothingness.

A few months after the war ended, a woman appeared on your doorstep. She convinced you to invite her in for coffee, and you’d begrudgingly forced yourself to make two cups. It was the last of the coffee—Bucky’s favorite kind—and you’d silently loathed her for it. While she sipped hers in the armchair that hadn’t seen guests in over a year, you sat across from her on the couch, holding the cup between your hands. All you could do was try to absorb its warmth. The thought of drinking it made your stomach turn, though you hated the thought of wasting Bucky’s coffee even more.

“There was a woman that said she could help me feel better. She said she was a doctor, but that she had worked with Dr. Erskine. She said that she had known you and Bucky, and that she wanted to get to know me, too. To honor his memory.”

“Dr. Erskine didn’t have any partners,” Steve says, and you shake your head.

“She wasn’t his partner, not really. I found out later that she was one of his assistants. After he died and the war ended, she secretly wrote down all she could remember about his work. She was even able to find some of his research that he’d managed to keep hidden. She started reworking his formulas.”

You look up and Steve is staring at you in shock. The tears are gone now, and you can see him starting to connect the dots.

“They gave you a serum,” he concludes, and you nod, taking a deep breath and sighing heavily.

“Yes. I didn’t know it at the time, but they gave me a serum to help boost my… well, everything. It’s not the same as yours. It doesn’t make me faster or stronger or smarter, but it’s allowed me to age much, much slower than any person should. I heal quicker when I’m sick or injured, too.”

He nods and puts his hands on his hips, turning slightly to inspect the books on your floor-to-ceiling bookshelves as he processes the information. You wait in silence, watching him. It feels so strange to see him standing in your office in modern-day clothing. It’s like a fever dream.

“Does Stark know? Or Fury?” he finally asks.

“Nobody knows. Or at least, I haven’t told anybody. I move pretty frequently. I’ve been here about a year now, but I started drafting my resignation this morning. The past decade or so I’ve had to start moving more often than in the past. It’s getting harder to hide.”

A small smile makes the corner of Steve’s lips turn up, and he turns to face you again. “You won’t have to move this time.”

Frowning, you ask, “Why not?”

“Because I’m here. You won’t need to hide what happened.”

Steve’s a smart guy, but you stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s actually serious. When he doesn’t continue, you sigh and sit back in your seat. 

“Steve… Don’t you think they’ll notice when I’m not aging like the rest of the normal people around here? Don’t you think there’ll come a time when some sort of facial recognition software outs me? I mean, I work in the historical records department! Someone’s bound to find a photo or a record of me, especially now that you’re around. Imagine how many photos there are of you and Bucky. You don’t think I’m in some of them, too?”

He goes silent for a second, before his smile is gone and he fixes you with a serious expression. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, Y/N. I promised Buck that I’d keep an eye on his girl. I intend to keep my promise.”

A wave of fresh tears come back at the mention of Bucky and you look upward, blinking a few times before you have to wipe them away.

“You what?”

“Before the train,” clarifies Steve, “He and I promised each other to take care of the other’s family if one of us didn’t make it back. You were his family. He loved you more than anything, Y/N.”

“I loved him too,” you reply, your voice breaking, and you start to cry. Steve steps forward, but then stops himself, hesitating until you look at him. It’s only then that he comes around the side of your desk. Once he’s within reach you find yourself standing and throwing your arms around him, hugging him tightly as you cry. The reality of his presence has truly hit you.

Once your tears have dried, Steve takes your leftovers from your desk and puts them in the microwave you keep on the small table to the left of your desk. He presses one of the buttons with his thumb and the turntable inside starts rotating. Satisfied, he turns back to you with a box of tissues in hand.

“I still can’t stay,” you tell him, taking one and dabbing at your eyes. “If anyone finds out how old I am, they’ll do all kinds of experiments on me. They’ll expect me to do what you do, and I’m not a soldier. I don’t have the same abilities that you do.”

“No one will expect that from you, and I wouldn’t let anyone experiment on you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“If they tried anything, you and I would leave,” Steve argues. “I won’t let them do anything to you, Y/N. I promise.”

The microwave beeps and he opens the door, then takes your food and sets it in front of you. You stare at it for a second before he says,

“Think about it, but don’t stay away. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. I don’t sleep much.”

“I don’t either,” you quietly admit. “You’d think that I would have adjusted to all the noise and lights after all these years.”

“Come find me next time.”

You nod. “I will.” Looking back up at him, you smile and let out a quiet laugh. “It’s good to see you.”

He smiles back. “You too, Y/N.”

Later that night, you lay in bed awake, staring at the ceiling. Steve had texted you shortly after he left your office—you don't want to know how he got your cell phone number, considering you purposefully had a landline number for your job at the Tower—and you couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d sent.

I meant what I said, he’d texted. I made a promise.

You roll over in bed and grab your phone from the nightstand. It lights up obediently and you squint at it as you jab your thumb against the screen until the call connects.

“You called.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He hums and you hear rustling on the other end. As quietly as possible, you reach over and turn on the lamp beside your bed, then sit up against the headboard. You pull the blankets up to your chest, still holding the phone against your ear.

“Y/N?” Steve asks.

“I’m here,” you tell him. You take a deep breath, then let it out, bracing yourself. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come find you once they announced you were alive,” you clarify. “I’m sure it must have been terrifying to wake up in a completely different world.”

“It’s not so bad,” he replies, but his tone is sad, and you know what he’s thinking.

“But it’s not the same, and I should’ve been there. I promised Bucky I’d look out for you too, you know.”

He chuckles a little. “I gave you a run for your money.”

You grin. His laugh is infectious, and the feeling of being with a friend again is starting to settle your nerves. “Yeah, running off to enlist and then turning into a jacked-up superhero,” you tease.

“Buck chewed me out for that.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

There’s silence for a few moments and you adjust the blanket over your legs, then wiggle your feet a little until it’s back where it was.

“I miss him,” Steve finally says, and you close your eyes against the sudden tears that sting them. 

“Me too.” Sniffling, you open your eyes and smooth out the blanket, looking at the dim light outlining the blinds in your window. “I should try and sleep again.”

“Me too, but I’ve… I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think they gave the serum to anyone else? Dr. Erskine’s assistant, I mean?”

You pause. You’d thought about it a lot yourself. If she had, there could be others like you. You could have a community, even though finding them could be difficult and dangerous.

It takes you a second to formulate a response. “No,” you finally say. “I don’t think so. I think… it’s just us.”

Steve inhales deeply, then sighs. He says, “I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Two years pass, and Steve convinces you to stay. Your secret somehow stays a secret. It’s a miracle, really, and it’s one that you try not to question. There’s probably more to it than that, but for now, you enjoy being with an old friend.

Steve has an apartment in the capital. A year after he convinces you to stay, you move into the same building as him. You live down the hall, and you silently root for him when a pretty nurse named Kate moves in beside him. There’s an empty unit between you and Kate, but it never lists and it never sells. You tend to ignore it. Kate tends to ignore you.

You’re coming home from work one day when there’s a commotion in Steve’s apartment. You pause to listen at the top of the stairs, one hand on the wall and the other holding your keys.

Gunshots.

Before your fight or flight has even truly kicked in, the door to Kate’s apartment flies open and she stalks down the hall with a gun drawn. She sees you, and the gun is pointed in your direction for a split-second before she turns and heads to Steve’s apartment. She shoves open the door, revealing a dark apartment.

Steve.

Your chapstick and hand sanitizer roll down the stairs when you drop your bag, but you’re already halfway down the hallway. There’s no regard for your own personal safety as you step through the front door.

“Tell them I’m in pursuit,” you hear Steve say, and then there’s a crash of glass. Light pours in through the broken window and you gasp.

“Steve!” You run across the apartment, pushing past a crouching Kate, and stop only when the sea of broken glass threatens to poke through your thin shoes. “Steve!”

He’s long gone by the time you’re at the window. The sound of a gun cocking makes you freeze.

“Turn around slowly, Y/N,” Kate orders. Her tone makes your blood run cold and you do as she says, raising your hands as well. You still have your keys and the silver Statue of Liberty keychain Steve bought you before you followed him to D.C. swings in midair.

“Are you armed?” she questions.

You realize then that she’s crouching beside Nick Fury, who isn’t moving. You stare at him with wide eyes. You’d only seen the Director of SHIELD a few times, and only from a distance, but he’s recognizable.

“Are you armed?”

“No,” you tell her, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Is he— Is he dead?”

She glances down at him without lowering her gun. “Yes. An ambulance is on the way.” When she looks back up, she glances at the window first, then you. “I suggest you make yourself scarce. You have a go bag?”

Shocked, you nod. “How do you know my—”

“My name is Sharon Carter, SHIELD Agent 13.”

“Carter? As in—?”

“Yes.”

You stare at her for a second, dumbfounded at the realization that your neighbor isn’t the sweet, flirty nurse you’ve known her to be since she moved in. Then again, you’re not who she thinks you are, either.

“Go, Y/N,” she presses. “They’ll want to question you, and they can’t find out who you are.”

You were starting to move when she repeated the command, but now you freeze, gripping your car keys hard enough that Lady Liberty’s torch might actually break skin.

“What?” you ask, and you feel cold. Surely she can’t mean what you think she does.

“Y/N Barnes, born in 1917 in Kansas with the maiden name Smith. Married to James Buchanan Barnes on December 10th, 1943. Injected with Elizabeth Robinson’s makeshift super serum in January 1946.”

Softly, you say the only thing you can think of, which is, “You knew?”

“Only a few of us did. You’re one of SHIELD’s most carefully guarded secrets, but you won’t be for long if you don’t go,” Kate answers. “Don’t trust anyone except Steve.”

“Not even you?”

She pauses, her eyes sad. “Not after this.”

Sirens down the street make you flinch and you nod, then hurry back to your own apartment. You gather up what you can from your fallen purse on the way, but decide you’ll have to go without the chapstick and hand sanitizer. Your hands are trembling as you unlock the door, then close it behind you. Your go bag is tucked underneath the couch. It’s fully packed and stocked, and you’re clicking the chest strap when the sirens stop outside. 

Steve has drilled the emergency exit plan into your head so many times that it’s second nature to push open the window and climb out onto the fire escape. The sirens are coming from the north side of the building, so once you hit the ground, you pull up the hood of the rain jacket you’ve put on over your work clothes and start walking south. 

You manage to get on a plane out of D.C. that night, and you sleep through most of the flight. After getting out of the airport, you find a hostel and check in just long enough to shower and ditch your phone. A quick trip to the store stocks your backpack with three burners, all equipped for international texting and calling. Steve had also written a list of other things you should buy after landing, since they wouldn’t have made it through customs, and you purchase as many of those things as you can. 

When your stomach starts growling, you find a local coffee bar and settle yourself onto one of the few empty stools. The woman behind the counter gives you a polite, albeit tight, smile when you ask if she speaks English, and then she takes your order almost indifferently. Within a few minutes, you have coffee and a pastry, and someone has switched the TV behind her to an Italian newscast about the fight on the SHIELD helicarriers.

You’re getting up to leave when a familiar name catches your attention, and you freeze with one hand on the bartop. On the screen, the news station has put up a blurry photo of a man beside a photo of a young man in an army uniform. You’d recognize the photo anywhere—you’d kept it in your wallet until it was too deteriorated to carry, and then you’d printed yourself a new one once you figured out it was public record. The photo was of your husband.

“Are you okay, signorina?” asks the worker, and you force yourself to look away from the broadcast to nod at her.

“Sì, um… Can you— What are they saying on TV about that man?” you ask her.

She glances behind her when you point at the TV, then listens for a moment before she replies, “They are saying that he is a… fuggitivo? A bad person hiding?”

“He’s alive?”

She nods again. “Sì. Can I get you something else to drink?” The young Italian woman gestures to the empty cup and plate you were about to leave.

“No, grazie.”

You leave the coffee bar almost in a daze. Logically, you know you should be moving to the next step of Steve’s emergency exit plan for you—a safe house near the southern border of Hungary—but it felt wrong to go into hiding when your husband was out there.

Bucky… A fugitive? He would never do anything bad of his own volition, which means something’s wrong, you think, heading back toward the hostel. You could get a ride back to the airport, and then travel back to D.C. from there. If Bucky was in trouble, he would need your help.

Your phone chimes and you pull it from the pocket of your shorts. You’d connected a junk email account and a new message has just come in. After a brief moment of hesitation, you open it to find a series of coordinates. There’s no subject line, no greeting, and no signature. It’s from Steve.

The map app on the phone tells you that the coordinates are to a hotel in Bucharest. There are no SHIELD safe houses in Romania, but deep down, you trust Steve. If anyone knows anything about Bucky, he will, and if he’s sending you the coordinates, then he could be meeting you there. 

A quick stop back at the hostel gets you set up with a rental car, and soon you’re on your way to Romania. You’re jittery the whole way, stopping only for gas, food, and caffeine. It’s a long drive—almost a full day—so by the time you reach the coordinates, your eyelids are heavy and your whole body aches from sitting.

The coordinates lead you to an apartment building. Most of the windows are dark, but there’s a light on in the small entryway. Once inside, you find a small white envelope with your name on it tucked halfway into the mail slot for apartment five. You carefully pull it out and a key slides from the open flap into your hand. There’s a note tucked inside the envelope too, and the familiar handwriting is a sight for sore eyes.

Dorothy - Stay here until I come for you. Could be awhile.

At the bottom of the flimsy yellow paper, the author had scrawled the name “Lionheart”. It takes your addled brain a second to make the connection, but then you remember the nickname you’d given Steve shortly after meeting him and Bucky. You’d just moved to Brooklyn and Bucky had teasingly compared you to Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” once he’d learned you’d come from Kansas. You’d shot back, calling him the Tin Man that didn’t have a heart. It had stuck, and soon you started calling Steve “Lionheart”, claiming that he had more bravery than any lion ever could. It was a nickname you used less and less as you grew, and you hadn’t used it since meeting him again in this century, but it was his nickname nonetheless.

You tuck the note back into the envelope, then shove it into the pocket of your shorts. Apartment five is up two flights of stairs, which you begrudgingly climb, but once the door is open, you’re relieved to find that the studio apartment, while old and out of date, is clean and furnished. Whoever’s been keeping this place on standby for Steve is clearly paid well. You’ve heard horror stories from Steve about some of the SHIELD safehouses he’s had to stay in.

After making sure there’s nobody hiding in any of the closets or under the bed in the corner, you dump your bag on the floor beside the nightstand and lock the front door. For good measure, you shove a chair underneath the dull metal doorknob, remembering that Steve had warned you to be extra cautious if you ever had to go on the run. If Sharon Carter had known your secret, there could be plenty more people that do. You do the same for the door leading to the exterior balcony, then collapse onto the bed in search of a good night’s sleep.

Two years go by, and Steve never comes. You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that he never might, despite the fact that you know he’s still out there. He and the rest of his team have a major battle in Sokovia, which is heavily disputed in the news. You want to stand up for your friend and tell everyone you know that he would never do anything he didn’t think was the best course of action, but you keep your head down. It’s the only thing you can do to keep yourself safe.

All the while, you try to research and find Bucky’s whereabouts. When you’re not working your job at a local coffee bar or as a delivery driver for the small florist’s shop down the street from your apartment, you’re driving from town to town and listening to the gossip at the cafes and street markets. You’re not exactly sure what to listen for, but you listen anyway. You find a cheap laptop a few months after moving to Bucharest and you read through the declassified SHIELD files. There’s nothing on you, thankfully, but there’s a file on Steve and one on Bucky. You read them over and over again, combing through the information in hopes of something new that might help you find your husband.

It’s after one of these trips to a town a few hours away that you’re lingering at the bottom of the stairs, too exhausted to think. Between weird dreams, a bug that kept you up all night coughing, and pulling extra shifts at the coffee bar to fund your expeditions, you haven’t slept right in days. You’re considering plopping yourself down on the bottom step, leaning against the concrete wall, and sleeping there for as long as you can.

“Scuzați-mă,” someone says, and you turn.

Bucky stares back at you, a deer caught in the headlights, and you stare back. Your mouth feels dry and your heart is pounding, and you’re sure that you’re imagining things.

“It’s you,” he finally says. He stares at you from underneath the bill of his baseball cap. 

You try to swallow, but your mouth feels like sandpaper. “Bucky,” you croak.

He drops his head and looks at the floor. After a moment, he turns to walk up the stairs.

Panicked at the thought of him leaving, you reach out and grab his wrist. Your fingers wrap around leather. He immediately twists it from your grip and shoves you backward into the cement, hard enough that it cracks around you. Your head smacks against the wall and blinding white pain shoots through you. Your vision swims and the air is knocked from your lungs, leaving you wheezing as you try and stay upright.

He’s disappeared by the time you get your bearings, and you spend the night on the floor at the foot of the stairs, the back of your head sticky with blood. Your whole body aches. Just the thought of getting up makes you want to cry, and everything is blurry. Eventually you give in to sleep as it creeps up on you, mercifully shielding you from the pain as your head throbs.

When you open your eyes, you’re not on the floor of the apartment lobby anymore, but you’re also not at home. You’re laying on your side on an old mattress, staring at the dusty wooden floor of someone else’s home. The layout of the apartment seems similar to your own, but it's in a state of disrepair that makes your skin crawl a little bit. You lay there in silence as your brain catches up with you, and then you sit up, suddenly aware of the fact that someone has moved you while you were unconscious. The world around you spins and you shut your eyes again, gripping the bare mattress to try and keep yourself grounded. Your stomach lurches.

“Don’t sit up too fast,” Bucky says, and you feel like crying. It’s been so long since you’ve heard his voice. It sounds different now—colder, harsher, and less familiar. He sounds like he hasn’t talked in a long time, though you know that’s unlikely. People are too friendly in your little town for anyone to go too long without saying at least a hello.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. It’s the only thing you can think of to say. 

The sound of his footsteps coming closer makes you open your eyes, and it takes you a second to focus them on something. You pick the metal legs of a small table and stare at them until his boots come into view. Then, slowly, you tilt your head back to look up at him. 

Though fundamentally he’s the same, Bucky looks just different enough that you would have needed more than a glance to know it was really him if you’d been standing across the room. His upper body is bulky, but you can’t tell if it’s truly him or if it’s from the thick canvas jacket he wears. It’s worn and brown, matching his boots that are scuffed on the toes. Underneath the jacket, his red shirt is faded, but it looks clean. The baseball cap he’d been wearing earlier is gone now, revealing blue eyes that are colder than you remember. They’re not the same eyes as your husband’s, though logically you know they are.

“Your hair is long,” you tell him. “Longer than it ever was.”

He stares down at you, seemingly unshaken by your presence. “You were in the museum.”

You frown. “Museum?”

“In Washington,” Bucky answers. He sets a water bottle down on the floor beside the mattress.

“The Smithsonian? I haven’t been to the Smithsonian in years.”

“In the pictures.”

“In the pi—” You stop, remembering the exhibit. You’d gone to see it only once, shortly after Steve had been recovered from the ice. There were artifacts and photos of him with the Howling Commandos, Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, and other soldiers and officers. There was also a special section dedicated to Steve’s friendship with Bucky, and at the very end, in a small area tucked away from the main part of the exhibit, there had been a display of photos of you and Bucky. There were a few letters that you had sent him while he was overseas, too, and your stomach had soured at the thought of millions of strangers reading your private correspondence with him. They were letters that hadn’t been delivered to him for one reason or another. The thought of all those people reading things that he never got the chance to was infuriating, and yet there was nothing you could do without revealing your identity.

The photo of you that he’d kept in his uniform pocket was in a glass case, torn in half. Anyone looking at it could only see your head and neck. If the photo had been intact, they would have seen the floral dress Bucky had ruined on your wedding night. You hadn’t been able to get a proper wedding dress, not that you’d minded. He hadn’t either.

A small sign had explained that the photo had fallen out on the train before he fell, and Steve had retrieved it. He’d kept it with his personal belongings, clearly intent on keeping it safe. The army had never returned it to you since it hadn’t been with Bucky’s things. You’d thought it had been lost forever until the day you’d stepped foot into the exhibit. It was the only photo you’d had from your wedding day. After seeing it, you’d left the exhibit quickly. You’d barely made it back to your apartment before you’d broken down. 

“Yes,” you reply after a second, softer now. “I’m in the pictures with you. Do you… Do you not remember me?”

There’s a tension in the air, the kind that makes you shift uneasily on the mattress, and then Bucky shakes his head. You inhale sharply as tears sting your eyes. 

“I see.” It’s all you can manage without actually crying.

“You’re Y/N.”

You nod and sniffle, wiping at your eyes and then grabbing the water bottle with shaking hands. The cap is stuck and you twist at it until the skin of your palm is red. Frustrated, you set it back down with more force than necessary. It falls on its side and rolls away from you, stopping against Bucky’s muddied boot. 

“We were married.”

He’s only listing off facts that he’s learned, and your heart aches.

How does he not remember me?

Bucky reaches down and picks up the bottle. He twists off the cap and steps forward to hold it within reach. Gingerly, you take it from him. Your fingers brush against his glove but you don’t meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“And you were friends with Steve.”

You look up at him then. “You remember Steve?”

When he shakes his head again, you feel defeated.

Does he remember anything?

“He’s in the museum, too.” Bucky pauses. “I pulled him out of the river.”

“What?” You squint a little. You don’t remember anything about a river in the museum, and you had no memory of Bucky pulling Steve out of any rivers when you were kids.

“We fell from the plane to the river. I pulled him out.”

Your head is still throbbing and you feel a little nauseous. There’s no doubt you have a concussion. Closing your eyes, you try to make sense of what he’s telling you. It feels like your brain is full of soup.

“You and… and Steve fell into a river? What river?”

“The Potomac.”

The Potomac. Washington. The picture of him from the newscast.

Puzzle pieces are fitting together, and you start to understand. You open your eyes and look up at him, shifting slightly until your legs are in a more comfortable position.

“You fought Steve,” you prompt, “and then what? You went to the Smithsonian?”

Hesitantly, Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

“What did you do after you pulled him from the Potomac?”

He doesn’t answer, and there’s a bang in the hallway. His whole body tenses and you flinch at the noise, staring wide-eyed at the door. Water sloshes out from the bottle in your hand and onto your jeans. It feels like you’ve been caught red-handed, but when nothing happens after a few moments, you relax. Your brain catches up.

“What time is it?” you murmur, almost afraid to speak. 

“Two.”

“That was the mail carrier,” you sigh, closing your eyes. You scoot back on the mattress after a minute, leaning your back against the wall and keep your legs out in front of you. “We’re okay.”

Bucky nods, clearly still on edge, and you screw the cap back on the water.

“Before you fought Steve,” you begin, hoping that telling him some of your story will help him loosen up, “I was living in the same building as him. Someone came in and shot a man, and I went on the run. I was afraid that they would figure out who I am—how old I am.” You laugh a little at that. “I’m almost a hundred years old. So are you. We were born the same year.”

He stares at you. Some of the tension in his body is beginning to disappear, and you try not to stare.

“I got on a plane that night. Steve got me a fake passport right after he found me, and he helped me get a go bag ready. He had a whole list of things I should buy once I landed, so I did, and then he emailed me the coordinates to this apartment building. I’m assuming we’re in the same building as before?”

Bucky nods a little and you continue,

“I drove almost a whole day to get here. I was exhausted. Whoever kept this place ready for Steve put the key in an envelope for me, along with a note telling me to hunker down and stay put until he came and got me. He signed it “Lionheart” and everything, just in case anyone read it.”

There’s a flash of something in your husband’s eyes when you mention Steve’s nickname, but he doesn’t speak.

“Anyway, I moved in to apartment five—”

“Do you like it here?” asks Bucky, quiet enough that you almost keep talking over him.

“Here? Wait, are we still in my building?”

He nods and you watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll elaborate. Then, when he’s gathered that you won’t say anything more until he does, he tells you, 

“This is apartment six.”

“Six? Do you live here?” A nod. “When did you move in?”

“Six months ago.”

You scramble to your feet and he takes a defensive step back. “We’ve been neighbors for six months and I—” The lump in your throat is back and you choke on it, coughing once. “How have I never seen you? Did you know who I was?”

“Yes.”

Tears sting your eyes and you cross your arms over your chest. Now that you know it’s the same building, you recognize all the similarities to your own unit. This one isn’t in as nice of condition, but it has the door leading to the outside in addition to the hallway. Unlike yours, however, Bucky’s covered the large glass panes in the door with newspaper. You stare at the light filtering in through the thin paper while he stares at you.

“So all this time,” you choke out, “I’ve been going out in search of my husband, when he’s really been less than a few yards away?”

Bucky doesn’t answer and you bring your hands up to your face, pressing the heel of each hand against your eyes. A sob escapes, but it’s bordering on the edge of laughter—not out of humor, but out of the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

“God, I’m so stupid. If I’d just looked—”

You’re too wrapped up in your own frustration and grief to notice the edge of hurt in his voice when he asks, “Your husband?” 

You drop your hands back down to your sides with another laugh-turned-sob. “Yes! My husband! The man I’ve been married to since 1943!”

Bucky stares at you, seemingly unmoved by your display of emotion, but the way his fingers twitch at his side and the way he shuffles forward an infinitesimal amount makes you burst into tears.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you sob. You want nothing more than to reach out for him, but the fear of scaring him away has wrapped itself around your heart. It squeezes, tightening little by little the more you learn about the man your husband has become. “I saw your picture on TV and I thought that we could finally be happy together, but then when I couldn’t find you… I was so worried!”

A crease forms between Bucky’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand? Bucky, I love you! More than anything in the world, I love you!”

“How are you alive? The museum said…”

You’re sobering up quickly at the realization that you have to come clean. For decades you’ve had this conversation with an imaginary Bucky, and he leaves disappointed in you every time. Your stomach slowly deepens until there’s a gaping pit inside of it and you swipe at your eyes, wiping the tears onto the backs of your hands.

“The museum only knows what I want them to know.” 

He searches your face for further explanation and you sniffle. Your head is throbbing again, the wound exasperated by the crying.

“I was given a serum, similar to Steve’s, but—”

His fists clench and you snap your mouth shut at the sudden anger on Bucky’s face. “What did they give you?”

When you don’t immediately reply, he repeats the question, this time so insistently that you stammer,

“I don’t know, they never told me.”

He stares at you and you shrink back a little, then glance behind you before sitting down on the mattress. You sit against the wall with your legs pulled in, making yourself as small as possible in his already tiny apartment.

“What do you mean they never told you? Who?”

Softly, you answer, “Her name was Elizabeth, but I called her Liza. She was Dr. Erskine’s assistant.” You sniffle and wipe the tears from your eyes, feeling completely out of orbit. Your head is throbbing again.

“Dr. Erskine,” repeats Bucky, and you nod. You wait for a moment, wondering if he’ll place the name. He doesn’t seem to connect the dots, so you briefly explain Erskine’s connection to Steve, and therefore to him… and to you.

The sun is setting, sending golden light streaming through the paper covering apartment six’s exterior door. You stare at it as he processes the new information, and you realize after some time that you’ve watched until the light has grown impossibly dim. It’s likely that you’ve fallen asleep sitting up. Neither one of you has said anything for some time now, and yet it has been comfortable. You feel just at home around Bucky as you used to, even if he doesn’t feel the same around you.

“I should get going,” you say, climbing to your feet and looking toward where he’d been standing. Bucky’s moved without you realizing it, and he’s now seated at the small metal table, writing something in a small red journal.

He doesn’t reply and you move two steps closer. Bucky doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky?”

No response. He continues to write. The pen scratches black ink across the page in almost frantic scrawls, and you realize after a second that you can’t read it. The language is a mix of English and Russian, and the handwriting seems altogether unfamiliar. 

“James?” you hesitantly ask.

The pen slows, then stops and a blot of ink smudges on the page. He lifts his hand to look up at you.

“I should get going,” you repeat, gentler than the first time. You don’t want to startle him—he’d clearly been absorbed in whatever he’d been writing. “Home, I mean.”

He caps the pen and sets it down. Bucky stays silent as he pushes the chair back from the table and stands almost robotically. You have to force yourself to stand still and not take a step back to give him space. The only thing that keeps you from moving is a silent reminder that no matter what happened to him over the past few decades, he’s still your husband. You took a vow on your wedding day and you refuse to break it now.

“You can’t stay here,” says Bucky, so bluntly that you blink in surprise.

“What?”

“It’s not safe for you.”

You scoff a little. “What are you talking about? It’s perfectly safe.”

“It’s not safe for you to be with me,” he clarifies and you’re even more stunned.

“Bucky… What are you talking about? You’re not dangerous.” You step forward and reach for his hands, but he turns away, though he doesn’t step back. “Bucky…”

“They’ll come for me, and when they do, they’ll realize who you are. They’ll use you to get to me, and I can’t let them do that.”

“What? Who? Bucky, who are you talking about?”

His jaw is tight as he turns away, grabbing the notebook from the table. He shoves it into the pocket of his jacket, then lowers himself onto one knee a few feet away. With one deft hand, Bucky pries up a floorboard and pulls out a black backpack. It’s already packed with his supplies or belongings, or both, and he slings it over his shoulders before buckling the strap over his chest.

“You need to go,” he tells you, and you shake your head.

“Absolutely not,” you defiantly answer. “I’m not leaving you, not now that I’ve finally found you.”

“Y/N.”

It’s only the second time he’s said your name aloud since you’ve been reunited, and it stops you in your tracks. Your hand, which had been reaching out to stop him, drops back down to your side in defeat.

“Don’t go,” you plead, opting for a gentler approach.

Something flickers in his eyes and he glances at the door to the hallway. After a second, he looks back at you.

“Do you need anything?” 

You shake your head. There’s nothing of value in your apartment. The only sentimental item you have is the keychain from Steve, and your keys are still in your pocket from the night before.

“Let’s go.”

He turns and opens the exterior door, then steps out into the afternoon sunshine onto the concrete terrace. You follow him in silence. There’s a bang from behind you as you reach the edge of the terrace and the short wall separating you from the three-story drop. Turning, you spot an armed officer bursting through the door to apartment six. You hadn’t even heard them coming up the stairs.

With a gasp, you grab Bucky’s arm. He doesn’t look back when he pulls you in front of him. You’re facing him and you have just enough time to see the officer lifting their gun. It’s pointed in your direction. In an instant, Bucky lifts you off the ground. Your legs wrap around his midsection instinctively, and your arms around his neck. You grab hold of the top handle on the backpack and squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel Bucky moving, his muscles flexing and tensing, and the wind blows cold against your back as he runs. Gunshots ring out all around you and you let out a squeak as you duck your head against his chest. His hands are gripping your thighs so tightly that it hurts, but you don’t dare speak up, especially when he grunts and you open your eyes just enough to see the world sailing by.

You and Bucky land on hard concrete with a hard jolt. You release him, your entire body screaming out in pain, and you echo the cry. You don’t have any time to think about what truly hurts and why before Bucky’s grabbing your hand and yanking you up off the ground. He pulls you alongside him until you’re running too, across the roof of a neighboring building as bullets rain down.

“Where are we going?” you shout, and something whizzes past so close to your ear that you can feel the heat radiating from it. You angle your path closer to Bucky’s, your chest heaving and your lungs burning for air.

He barely seems out of breath as he yells back something you don’t understand, but he’s still gripping your hand and pulling you with him. You hear shouts from behind you, and you glance over your shoulder just long enough to see that there are more officers now, and they’ve also made it to the rooftop. Overhead, a helicopter ominously sails closer and closer.

“Here. Go!” Bucky orders, and you duck through an open door into the utility stairwell of the building. You rush down the stairs, head pounding, until he ushers you through another door and onto the fifth floor. It’s another apartment complex and you let him take the lead, following him down hall after hall. He leads you to the main stairwell, where a woman carrying a large vase of flowers sends you a scathing look, muttering something in Romanian about men taking up too much space when they walk. 

Once you’re outside the building, you can hear the chaos of the officers on rooftops and in helicopters up above. Two cop cars are blocking the road outside your building, and they spot you almost immediately. You don’t have time to think about it, however, because Bucky is pulling you onto a motorcycle. Just like before, your arms instinctively wrap around his waist, and you rest your head against his back, squeezing your eyes shut as the motorcycle roars to life, then takes off. Wind whips past you, blowing your hair back and making your cheeks sting. 

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“Someplace safe!”

You and Bucky are on the run for hours. By the time he deems you safe, you’ve long outrun the assailants, and you’re exhausted. You’ve thrown up three times, and your head is pounding. He’s relatively unscathed, and for that, you’re thankful, because he leads you across a field of tall grass, away from where you’ve left your third motorcycle on the side of the road. How he keeps finding them is a mystery. You’re pretty sure the only reason you’re not stopping in a town and looking for a new ride is because this one ran out of gas, but he seems to have a destination in mind when he says,

“Just a little further.”

It’s the first thing he’s said to you since the bike. You nod in response, then close your eyes against a wave of dizziness. Your concussion has reared its ugly head. 

Bucky grabs you when you stumble over something in the ground, and you heave a little bit, bending over at the waist. He keeps you from falling onto your knees as bile rises in your throat, but when the feeling subsides and your stomach settles again, he doesn’t let go.

“I’m okay,” you weakly tell him.

He still doesn’t release you. After a moment, you feel his arm move to the backs of your knees, and then you’re being slowly lifted into the air. Bucky cradles you against his chest and when you open your eyes, he’s watching you carefully.

“I can walk,” you protest, but it’s half-hearted. Truth be told, your legs are on fire and you’ve got blisters on both feet.

Silently, Bucky resumes walking. You let your head rest against his shoulder after a few minutes, and the swaying motion eventually lulls you to sleep.

You wake up in a bedroom. It’s clean and bright, with a blue-and-white patterned quilt over the bed and light-colored wooden furniture. White curtains flutter in the breeze coming through the open window. From the bed, you can see a three-drawer dresser, a nightstand, and a chair. The four-poster bed is warm and cozy despite the cool air, and you spy green grass and a deep green forest when one of the curtains falls back into place. 

A knock at the door makes you sit up.

“Come in,” you say, and it opens.

“You’re awake,” Steve greets. 

Your heart soars and you move to climb out of bed, but he stops you.

“You had a nasty concussion, one that would’ve taken most people months to recover from,” he says. He sits on the edge of the mattress and hugs you hard. You squeeze your eyes shut against a flood of relieved tears.

“I missed you so much,” you say as you pull away. Chuckling a little, you pat his cheek with one hand, scrunching your nose when his beard scratches your palm. “You look different.”

Steve chuckles. “So I’m told. How are you feeling?”

“Better. Good, actually. I’m hungry, and my head doesn’t hurt as much.”

He nods and reaches for a mug on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but you hadn’t seen him bring it in. That’s when you notice Bucky standing in the doorway, clearly hesitant to come in. He’s watching you and Steve with a guarded expression, and you stare at him in silence.

“He’s real,” Steve says, and you nod.

“I know. He saved me.”

Bucky takes a careful step into the room. Steve moves out of the way, shifting to sit at the end of the bed with his back against one of the wooden posts. Bucky’s dressed in clean clothes and his hair is still long, but it’s been washed and trimmed. He looks healthier than when you’d been in the apartment.

“How long have I been asleep?” you ask him.

“A week.”

You look down at the mug Steve had handed you. It’s filled with soup and you inhale deeply, feeling the steam warm you from the outside in. It smells delicious.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asks.

“Good. Better.” You pause. “Thank you.”

He nods, then goes back to staring at you in silence. After several long moments, Steve clears his throat, then stands.

“I’ve got to go check in with Nat. I’ll let you two… talk.”

Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder as he walks by. He ignores the way Bucky flinches at his touch. You take a sip of the soup, slurping a little as you lower the mug back down to your lap. 

“You can sit, you know,” you say, when Bucky stays standing a foot away from the door. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m not safe for you to be around.”

We’re cutting right to the chase, I see, you think, staring back down at your soup.

“I have no control over anything, not even myself. If they ever find me—”

“They won’t,” you interrupt. “Not if Steve and I have anything to say about it.”

He shakes his head and opens his mouth to argue, but you glare at him, hard enough that he blinks and closes his mouth. 

“Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once.”

Setting the mug back down on the nightstand, you slide out of bed and close the distance between you and Bucky. Someone has changed you into pajamas. They’re striped with buttons running up the front of the shirt, but they’re a little too big and you have to push the sleeves up so they don’t hang down and cover your hands. The pants aren’t too long that you’ll trip over them, but you know that you couldn’t run in them if it came down to it. Hopefully it won’t.

“You are my husband, and you are Steve’s best friend. You’re my best friend too, while we’re at it, and if you think for a single second that we’d let anyone take you or hurt you or harm you in any way, then you’ve got another thing coming. I have lived several hundred lives over the past seventy years because I couldn’t handle just a few of them without you, James, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take away my chance to live the rest of this life by your side.”

Bucky stares down at you, and you continue before he can jump in,

“I did not make a vow promising to be your wife for better or for worse just to give up when the going gets tough. If you wanna give up, then fine, but I’d rather die.”

When he leans in and kisses you, you’re too shocked to react. At first, you think maybe you’re imagining it and that it’s just some weird concussion-induced daydream, but the heat of his lips and the crushing grip of his metal hand on your wrist is too real for you to cling to that theory for long. You soften, kissing him back, and then so does he. Bucky releases your wrist, then slides his hand over your hip. His metal thumb is cool against the bare skin of your hip just above the elastic waistband of the pajama pants.

“I love you,” you murmur, panting slightly when he pulls away, and then he’s kissing you again. You close your eyes and reach up one hand, resting it on the back of his neck as he pulls your front against him.

“I love you a thousand times over,” you murmur again, and this time you rest your forehead against him so you can catch your breath. With eyes still closed, you add, “I will love you no matter what, James Buchanan Barnes. Nothing you say or do could ever change that.”

“Nothing?” he asks.

You pull away and open your eyes so you can look at him properly. He’s watching you with a guilt-ridden expression, his eyes so full of pain that your heart aches until there’s a twinge in your chest. You cradle his face with one hand and rub your thumb over his cheekbone. Bucky leans into the touch. 

“Nothing,” you affirm. “Absolutely nothing.”

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[swightops]

still holding the silence (2) - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - you deal with the aftermath of the gala and find an old friend asking for your help. warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), language a/n - CA 4, thunderbolts, heavy angst as you delve into old avengers stuff, mc is kinda mean at time but hey she's hurting, i promise we'll see our man next chapter LMAO, the plot thickens oooooo

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Famously retired Avenger known as Sunwraith made a surprise appearance at the "Meet the Future" gala, and an even more surprising gesture of support. Appearing alongside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the ex-hero smiled for photos and stood arm-in-arm with the New Avengers leader, prompting speculation that Sunwraith might be quietly endorsing the controversial new team.

Comments:

"Wow, I never thought I'd see Sunwraith at a gala again! This could mean big changes for the New Avengers!" "lol no way Sunwraith actually likes this new team" "The New Avenger literally don't compare to the old ones" "I'm skeptical. Sunwraith was a pure Avenger and she's not a part of this new team?" "I think Sunwraith just wants to support the new heroes. Change is always scary but we need to give them a chance!" "I'm so excited for this new team omgggg"

You groan as you toss the tablet to the side, not wanting to remember anything about last night. Your PR team had already given you an earful about the event earlier today, since your name started trending on social media, and the world wondered whether you truly supported the New Avengers. A buzz distracts your attention from the internet storm as you look down at your phone.

Sam Wilson

[Really?] [Attached: 1 link]

[She set me up] [Bitch]

[You okay?]

[Thinking about it]

Your fingers hover over the keyboard momentarily, deciding if you should send your next text. Fuck it.

[Saw Bucky]

The following minutes drag on as the typing bubbles appear and disappear on the screen.

[Have a mission. Got to go. We'll talk later.]

"Ughhh," you groan, throwing your phone away and dragging your hands down your face. The headline still burns in your head like an unwanted tattoo.

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Your head falls back against the couch as you glance around the big, sterile, expensive apartment. It's not home, never quite home. You try to make it feel like home by hanging up pictures of your family, adding little knick-knacks around the place, and adding pops of color to bring life to the apartment, but it doesn't help.

The silence returns, settling over your shoulders like fog.

There never used to be silence, not after the Avengers.

You get up, not because you have anywhere to go, but because sitting still feels like drowning. You wander to your office, where work waits. Stark Relief documents. New Light proposals. A sticky note from Pepper in her neat, decisive handwriting:

"Board meeting resched. Monday. Don't forget to breathe."

You laugh, humorless and low. Breathing feels like the hardest part lately. You sink into your chair and stare at the spreadsheet open on the monitor. Profit margins. Logistics. Some initiative sent over by the GRC.

No one trained you for this. You were trained to throw punches, to induce fear in those whom Hydra told you to, to let the shadows consume all. You weren't trained to run a company. And no matter how many zeroes are in your bank account or how many buildings bear your name (or Tony's), it still doesn't fill the space they left behind.

You push back from the desk, suddenly too restless, too full. You walk to the window and press your hand against the glass. The city blurs beneath you, all movement and meaning, and none of it belonging to you.

You're a statue in a world that keeps moving.

You flex your fingers. That soft golden glow flickers to life—your power, your legacy, but it flickers.

Dims.

And then fades.

Your stomach growls. Glancing at the desk, you know you won't get any work done. Might as well make dinner.

It’s almost muscle memory now—this recipe, this dish. The kitchen smells before you even start chopping. You pull out different ingredients: chicken thighs, onions, paprika (the Hungarian kind Wanda used to swear by), chicken stock, and sour cream. You line them up like puzzle pieces and smile faintly when you catch yourself muttering the steps under your breath.

You chop slower than usual tonight. There's no rush. No alarms. No missions. You sauté the onions in oil until they're golden, then add the chicken and let the kitchen fill with sizzle and scent. The paprika goes in next, painting the pan in warm red, and something in your chest settles.

You aren’t making this for anyone.

You let the dish simmer before setting a plate. Just one. But beside it, without thinking, you place a second and third. You don’t sit right away. You stare at the plates and wonder if you're crazy.

Then again, crazy might be the only thing keeping you human.

You finish the dish with a spoonful of sour cream, stirring gently until the sauce is velvety-soft. You taste it. It's still good, still rich, still theirs.

“Ms. L/N,” a voice says from above you. FRIDAY. “You have a guest.”

You blink. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“It's,” FRIDAY pauses. Although she's AI, a program designed by code, her voice has always been very human and compassionate. "Mr. Barnes is here."

You sigh, dusting imaginary dust from your hands. “Send him up.”

As you stand, you stare at the empty plates, hoping that magically it eases your racing heart. It doesn't.

A soft ding sounds throughout the apartment as the elevator doors open. Footsteps follow—slow, steady, too familiar. Your breath catches in your chest as you turn to look at Bucky. He stands in all black, his coat damp from the drizzle outside. Hair tied back. Eyes unreadable.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a buzzing in your head.

He shifts, hands still buried deep in his pockets. His eyes shift to the plates on the table. “Were you expecting people?”

You don’t say yes. Just shake your head no. “Why did you come, Bucky?” you ask, folding your arms. “You were perfectly fine with ignoring me before.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s funny,” you snap. 

“I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m not ready either,” you say, stepping back. “So maybe you can go.”

“Wait-” He takes a step forward, and the tension snaps, pulling tight around your chest.

“You don’t get to wait, Bucky,” you say, voice trembling. “You completely ghosted. You let me think that you were done with me. That we don't mean anything to each other anymore."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You scoff bitterly. “No clever line? No excuse? What, no backup from your flashy new team?”

“It's not what you think,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Spare me, Buck."

He sighs, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lower lip before biting it. “I didn't come here to fight,” Bucky says quietly. “I came because I need your help.”

That makes you laugh, bitter and small. His words sting. It's not about you, it's about what you can do. “Of course you do.”

“I know you met Bob.”

You blink. “What does he have to do with this?”

Bucky steps closer, his hand pulling out a small flash drive from his coat pocket. He places it on the kitchen island before slowly sliding it to you, almost scared that you might run off. "Short story, he can't control his abilities. Powers, memories, it’s all bleeding together. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. And honestly…so am I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. The buzzing intensifies. 

“I don’t know how to help him, and truthfully, there aren't many people I can trust to help him,” he says, and your heart aches. Trust. "He needs someone who understands him in the way the rest of us can't," he pauses. "And...I think you do too...Please, Sunny-"

“Don't,” you say sharply.

He flinches. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” you say again, pointing a finger at him now. “Don’t say it like I’m still her. Like I’m still that version of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing most days, Bucky. I wake up, I read headlines that praise me or, worse, pity me. I go to meetings for a company I don't think I can run. I sit in boardrooms with people who talk about Tony like he was a brand. And then I come home. And I sit. And I wonder if any of it mattered. And then I wonder if I did."

He swallows hard. “You did. You do."

"And then sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we did the right thing...bringing everyone back. That if maybe we didn't, then they would be here. Misreable, but here!" you admit, and it feels good. To finally say the salty thought out loud.

Silence.

Your watery eyes meet with Bucky's, and you then turn away. "Sorry, that was a lot. Um, if you wanna leav-"

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he cuts in. “y/n, believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Just...help Bob. Please. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go. I'll make sure none of this "New Avenger" stuff gets near you again."

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, you speak, barely audible.

“He’s staying at the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, maybe the closest thing he’s come to relief since he arrived. He moves to leave, and you're letting out a breath that you didn't know you were holding.

"I know you think you're not who you used to be. But to me, you're still Sunny. You're still you, y/n."

You don’t respond.

The elevator dings and the doors open before they close again, and you’re alone again.

You stand motionless. The air feels different now—thinner, lighter. Bucky took something with him when he left. You're not sure how long you stand there, hands curled into fists at your sides.

You're still Sunny. You're still you, Y/N.

You exhale sharply. A broken sound.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper to the empty room. Your eyes fall to the flash drive, and your fingers grab hold of it before you can really think. They dig into the sides of it as if it’s the only thing keeping you connected to Bucky. Maybe it is. 

The smell of the paprikash hits you, and you’re reminded of your dinner. Almost robotically, you’re serving yourself, and you sit at your dinner table. Just sit and look at the empty table before you. And then, your fingers dig into the flash drive, and with a flick of your wrist, shadows move from the corners of the room, and your laptop is placed in front of you. 

The blob of shadows straightens out before you, and it just stares at you like it’s trying to get deep into your mind and roll your eyes. Deciding it’s better to ignore “it”, you plug the drive in and immediately files pop up. 

SUBJECT: REYNOLDS, ROBERT. aka “The Sentry”

You scroll. Your eyes flick over O.X.E. logs, therapist reports, and medical scans. O.X.E. It rang a bell in your head. Shit, where did you hear about it?

“Extreme power mismatch. Emotional destabilization suspected. Cognitive dissonance under pressure catalyzes the emergence of what is to be described as “The Void.”

There’s a photo of a lab room. There’s a table in the middle of it, but what draws your attention are the two human-shaped shadows imprinted into the wall. Both with their hands up, almost like they were running from something or someone. Another report catches your eye.

“Patient describes the entity as a shadow of the self. A voice. A second presence. Distinct yet intimately fused. The more power he uses, the more it surfaces.”

You swallow.

Your chest tightens. Not because of what’s on the screen. But because of how familiar it feels. You open a video file.

Bob’s there. He’s in big, oversized scrubs, sitting in a doctor's room on some sort of bed. He’s curled up into him just like that night you two met. “It isn’t always cruel,” Bob says. “Sometimes it sounds like the only one who understands me. Sometimes it sounds like…me.”

A long, thin silence follows.

“He came to you because he sees it in you too.”

You jerk your head up. The voice isn’t real. You know that. But you haven’t heard it in a long time. 

“He sees that brokenness in you. Everyone can.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. Your palms burn faintly, powers curling at the edge of your control. The lights in the apartment flicker for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

You clench your fists tighter. “Shut. Up.”

But the voice only sighs—fond, tired. “Don’t you miss how good it feels?”

You slam your laptop shut. Panic clings to your skin, cold and slippery. You rise too quickly and pace around the kitchen, hands trembling. There’s nothing to fight, but your muscles are coiled like you're bracing for impact.

You grip the edge of the sink.

Breathe in.

Out.

The shadows on the floor move with you. They always do. You’ve tried to pretend you’re in control of them. But some nights, you’re not sure who’s following who.

When you catch your reflection in the microwave door, your eyes glow faintly golden, not bright, but unmistakable. A quiet reminder of what lives under your skin. What lives deep down in your core. What calls to you when no one’s around. 

You avert your gaze. You’ve spent so long keeping it in and keeping in control, and yet, it’s slipping out so easily right now. How could you possibly help Bob when you can’t even help yourself?

Another tired breath escapes you before you sit back down at the table and open your laptop. You read more files, watch more videos, and skim over medical reports before a more recent report catches your eye. 

Subject: “Nightfall” Location: New York Casualties: Proximately 4000 people affected, minor injuries reported, no deaths reported Symptoms: Rapid psychological collapse, extreme hallucination, physical shadow assimilation Origin: Unknown energy pulse originating from R. Reynolds, later confirmed to be "The Void" entity. Field Notes: Victims reported being trapped inside 'memories,' often their worst or most shameful. Reports of time dilation, possession, and an unidentifiable psychic broadcast frequency mimicking grief cycles.

You stop there.

You remember that day. You and Pepper had watched from your tablet screen in France, arguing about whether you should take off for New York to stop the madness. At the time, you didn’t know what had caused it, over just as soon as it began, only that it reminded you too much of your own power when it slips, when it pulls too hard.

You keep reading. 

Post-Incident Recovery: Public story reframed as a biological weapon scare. Following the successful suppression of the Void, Director de Fontaine initiated Phase 2 of the Avenger Initiative Reformation. Results: "The New Avengers."

Your jaw clenches.

That’s what this was. Not a victory. Not some earned rebranding. Just a cover-up. A PR move. They turned a tragedy into a stage.

You exhale sharply and look back at your screen. Unable to stop, you keep reading before another file catches your eye. It’s encrypted. “FRIDAY, unlock this one.”

“Right away, boss.”

PROJECT: SENTRY / Source Documentation Archive Authorization: LEVEL BLACK Link Chain: O.X.E. // Archive Root: (REDACTED) Initiative

You freeze.

There’s no explanation. No subject name. No reference. Just:

—secondary prototype derived from archived data. Subject parallels stable. Cognitive divergence unstable. Full severance from original subject history approved. PROJECT CONTINUED UNDER CODE: SENTRY.

You sit back slowly, like any movement might disturb what you’ve just read. O.X.E., no Valentia Allerga de Fontaine, gave Bob his powers.

They built The Sentry. Created The Void. 

You stare blankly at your reflection in the dark screen. Your golden eyes catch faintly again, just for a second, before fading. Deep inside you, the pit stirs again, quiet and knowing, feeding off your unease. 

Bob Reynolds had a darkness within him. Something that matched the one deep within you. And tomorrow, you were going to see it up close.

[yourmcu]

Ace

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Gamer!Stark!Reader, Avengers x Reader

Summary:

Your girlfriend, your dad, along with the rest of the Avengers, support you during a VALORANT tournament.

Word count: 4.6k+

Warnings: too much VALORANT descriptions, you can google stuff about it if you want to get a good visual of this story, basically an avengers fic as a whole but i love supportive gf nat >:(

A/n: one of the drafts I left a long time ago! I miss writing for the avengers, so I decided to finish this one.

(completely italic dialogues - casters commentating)

All the hollering from the lounge died down when Natasha practically shoved both Sam and Bucky off the couch, stealing the TV remote in the process. Their basketball game can wait, her girlfriend’s tournament is more important.

“Oh, shoot. Y/N/N's tournament is today?” Sam suddenly remembered and Bucky made a quick detour out of the lounge to fetch Steve and possibly the others. They kind of promised you they'd support your game this time around, with the knowledge that they had free time on the dates of your tournament. Sam snapped his fingers, “Snacks. I'll be right back.”

No, you weren’t a professional athlete; if anything, you’re the opposite. Your wrists move more than your whole body most of the time, you only stay an hour or less in the gym, and you prioritize getting better in Aim Lab than a shooting range.

Ever since women playing in VALORANT E-Sports were normalized, you were one of the anticipated gamers to compete, of course you were on board and signed on to an esports organization and team roster. You’ve made a name for yourself in the gaming industry because of your high IQ and big brain plays. You used your head in every match, every round unlike the majority of the players mindlessly aiming and not landing shots. Because of your career, you’re known for something else and not just Iron Man’s daughter.

Natasha didn’t like the fact that you were glued to your computer most of the time at first. She thought Tony spoiled you too much even as an adult, but she later on realized that you graduated with a degree before settling into gaming. You worked for the Avengers, sometimes as an IT for a big company which paid more than you needed. You were basically set. All of this while you were still pretty young, a little younger than Natasha.

It’s safe to say all of Natasha’s doubts went away. She felt rather impressed and took a liking to you, which developed into something more over time.

From her phone, you chuckled when you heard Sam and Bucky’s shuffling. “We’re not up for another thirty minutes, babe.” On your end, you and your team were with the event's coordinators backstage of the actual place the tourney was held. Natasha always called you before and after your events, just because she was the best supportive girlfriend ever.

“I know, I wanted to set everything up before anything else,” Natasha put you on speaker while she dealt with the TV’s settings. You smiled to yourself, absolutely adoring your girlfriend even more when she was eager and supporting your games. “Are you guys still at the hotel?”

You had to travel out of the country for the tournament. As much as Natasha wanted to go with you (Clint wanted to go too because he ‘needed a break’, you just rolled your eyes at him and laughed), being a full time hero and an Avenger doesn’t mean you get to travel 24/7. She has to be with the team in case something terribly wrong happens, which doesn’t come with a warning. “Backstage, actually. Cloud9 and Misfits are wrapping up their last match right now,” You replied. “I've already warmed up at the hotel earlier. It's crazy how our room fits all of our PCs.”

“Ah, c'mon, you don't need no warm-ups!” Sam teased, hearing you on speaker as he walked back with refreshments and an assortment of chip bags.

You giggled, rolling your eyes at the Falcon’s words. “Stop it, Sam. You know me; I always get tilted when I play too much before the actual competition.”

Sometimes you get anxious and it affects your performance, same goes for when you warm-up too much; you lose focus the more games you play, leaving nothing for the tournament.

Despite Natasha's excitement to watch your team play, she’s not too vocal about it. She wouldn’t squeal when it starts or bombard you with loud encouragement through the call, because one, she doesn’t want to be the embarrassing girlfriend, and two, she’s the Black Widow. She’s naturally subtle about everything. You knew her more than anyone else though, so even if that was the case, you still felt her support.

Thirty minutes went by quicker than you’d hope, you were so caught up in watching the game of the other rivaling teams and commenting on everything that happened whilst still in the call with Natasha. You also answered Bucky’s queries when he came back; he’s only ever heard of e-sports since you started competing in it. He couldn’t imagine how hard switching point of views and the player’s face cameras must be. Bucky has only watched, what, actual live game tournaments, basketball or chess or whatever. It was confusing to him at times, but you told him he’d get used to it eventually just by taking note of the red and blue colors.

You were cut off by one of your teammates placing a hand on your shoulder, signaling you that it was time to go. “Alright. Nat, I have to go, I’ll call you when I get back?”

The two men were the first ones you heard react, Sam shifted in his seat excitedly while Bucky wondered out loud if he should call Tony, Peter, and Bruce, who were all unnecessarily working overtime at the lab.

You felt yourself smile again when she spoke. “Okay,” Natasha bit her lip, feeling anxious about the tournament, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Good luck!” Sam shouted before you hung up.

Natasha almost snorted when she heard loud footsteps coming towards the lounge entrance. Her sister had the worst timings ever.

“Someone decided to take a long shit while we were heading back. Has Y/N’s game started yet?” Yelena walked in as fast as she could with Fanny, looking at Natasha expectantly as she shrugged off her thick coat and got out of her boots. Fanny ran to where the couches were as soon as Yelena removed her leash, wagging her tail happily without a clue in the world.

“About to, but you did miss her on the phone.”

“Ah, fuck.”

Soon, Bruce, Tony, Peter, Wanda and Vision came down to watch as well. Your tournaments were one of the occasions the team had the chance to bond and get together in one room, it definitely helped with the morale as Steve would think, and they have you to thank for that.

Everyone was just in time to see you walk out to the stage with your team and the opposing one. You were in your team jersey and arm sleeves with your teammates behind you in a straight line.

Tony woot-ed, plopping down next to Natasha. “Heard Y/N/N's team is going up against a brand new team roster. This should be a piece of cake for her, eh?”

Peter sat down beside him, looking at the said rival team with yours, all lined up on stage. “I don't know about that, Mr. Stark. One of them recently went viral after getting five aces on a ranked game. She's radiant, too.”

Admittedly, he also played VALORANT with you and Ned, but often miscalculates his strength as he frequently breaks his keyboard or mouse because of freaking out whenever he sees an enemy. His reflexes and fighting skills were better off used in real time.

“And Y/N/N's been on the top ten leaderboard for, what, six months?” Tony challenged, evidently confident in your skills.

The chatter on who's better than who died down when both teams sat down on their respective computers. Though it wasn’t that noticeable to most people, Natasha noticed it right away: you were wearing the necklace she gave you. You considered it your lucky charm.

After both teams chose the maps they wanted to ban and maps they wanted to play, the game started.

You mostly play the character - or agent - Killjoy. The agent reminded you so much of yourself from her overall vibe and game mechanic: she had utility to aid the whole team, from turrets to alarm bots, and an ultimate that conducts lockdowns on any part of the map. You were so used to that character that you even played her on maps she’s not very helpful at because you mastered everything about her, which made you stand out from other players as no one would dare use characters on maps they weren't good in. Gears were practically turning in your head as the game loaded.

Then, the first game commenced.

The Avengers always made noise whenever you got a kill, or whenever the casters praised you for outsmarting the opposing team, which Steve and Bucky appreciated because it was hard for them to distinguish whether or not you did something good.

Your team easily won the first game. The Avengers were now watching your tournament on the flat screen TV like a bunch of teenagers watching a romcom, all giddy and filled with anticipation.

“Look at that, 13-1? She’s insane." Bruce shook his head. A team needed to win at least 13 rounds to win, if it's neck and neck, 14, or they may choose to go into overtime.

“I’ve never seen Y/N play with that kind of aggression before; they don’t stand a chance.” Wanda pointed out. She liked to spectate from the side whenever you played at the compound, whenever she could.

Natasha’s lips turned upright when they replayed your team’s best moments. One included your one versus three clutch, in which you threw a taunting, questioning look at the opposing roster across the stage after you effortlessly took out three enemies on your own. It was like their heads weren’t in the game at all.

The team laughed when they showed the exact clip of your face camera mocking the other team across the room. Natasha liked that about you; sure you were reserved and shy in general, but she loved it when all your confidence just comes out while you’re out there.

Another clip was when you had a problem with communication, so you weren’t aware that there were enemies around. Your character didn’t stop running because of that and you were exposed to two enemies. You reacted fast and jumped, pulled out your vandal to shoot both of them in the face.

Tony clapped his hands together at that moment. “Let’s go. Let’s fucking go, Y/N/N.”

Natasha, not all that phased on your brilliant play, could still not contain the smile on her face as she plopped back down on the couch.

“What? Wait, hold on, how did she even-” Sam looked back at everyone while they reacted to the highlight. He didn’t exactly process what happened because you moved too fast.

“God reflexes,” Yelena shrugs, not looking away from the screen. Wanda laughs in agreement.

After a bit of commentary and commercials, it was on to the next match on a new map.

Now, Natasha did not know the difference between the multiple maps at all, but she did remember you mentioning that your weakest one had to do with ice.

The next match was on a map called Icebox.

So, she watched intently as your team took a little while during the agent selection. But in the end, you decided to go for Killjoy again. Natasha could only guess what you had in mind to pull off another win.

“This is highly unusual for [Team Name] Y/N, isn’t it? Right now she’s watching the flanks when we usually expect her to be out there with a duelist to try and take picks!” The caster exclaimed, looking at their partner caster. “She’s one of the strong sentinels who you would trust to be by your side - and look at that, she takes out two already, they did not expect anyone to be holding the flank!”

“But she's using Killjoy again - couldn't she have gone for Cypher or Sage? Then again, they already have Skye on their team.”

Even though you were trying to play smart in this map, you still hated it, it was your weakest one. Still good, but not all that great. The opposing team seemed to know the typical Killjoy strategy on the Icebox map. You got sniped every round and your setups were way too predictable to the opposing team.

Soon, the score was 4-10. It was definitely not good to be on the end of only winning four rounds. Your team had to win the remaining rounds or hope for the best and go to overtime, or you lose this game and go onto the third one which would be way nerve racking and increase the odds of losing.

“Intense match so far we've got here. With [Team Name] Y/N at the bottom of the leaderboard this just has to be a miracle for [Team Name] to get a second win and move on to the next round.”

“There's also a bit of a setback with her shots in the last few rounds. I guess this is when we get to see if she's learned a thing or two from her girlfriend, right?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “They honestly did not have to bring that up.”

The other commentator expressed confusion at their partner's comment.

“The Black Widow! [Team Name] Y/N's been dating her for the last couple years. Honestly, where have you been?”

Everyone groaned as they started bringing your dating life to the conversation when they should be sticking to the game. Tony chose to laugh it off to and ignore the annoyance, whereas Yelena mumbled, “Did they just turn into a morning show now?”

After everyone in your team died, you all decided to ask for a timeout to talk things out. While that was going on, the Avengers had their own timeout and were trying to talk about the game, or at least what they thought was happening.

“Okay, assuming we've all seen how this Killjoy character works, her character would make most sense if her utility was in Site A." Bruce said, in thought.

Vision, one of the smartest of the bunch, had not grasped the game mechanics that well over the hour and half of the tournament. "But why is that, Dr. Banner?"

“Site A is pretty cramped, while site B has a lot of space. Of course the opposing team would always go to B since Y/N’s character's utility can't place utilities in both sites, they only have limited range," Peter points to the map as soon as it's shown up close, the casters having their own separate conversation about it.

Bucky turned to a confused Steve and Sam, “I have no idea what they're talking about.”

“Where else would she put her chicken gun on site B, then?” Tony joined the conversation, talking about your character's utility placement.

“It’s,” Natasha sighed. “It’s not a chicken gun...”

“Well, that chicken gun slows down enemies, right? It would make sense if Y/N places those bomb thingies to instantly kill them.” Yelena said.

“Lena, I think Y/N is fairly capable of playing the game right,” Wanda chuckled.

“Then she should be winning.” Yelena said jokingly, chugging on her drink.

It was astonishing how a group of heroes are knowledgeable about a video game, just so they could follow what you enjoy doing. That's how much they adored you.

Clint entered the room and looked at the source of ruckus, absolutely sick of the discourse. He was aware of your tournament and has been probably spectating on different means. “They still get another match if they lose this one. It’s the best out of three.”

“I’m starting to think someone’s cheating, has anyone noticed that some of the opponent team instantly kill them with only one bullet?” Steve squinted.

Tony scoffed. “That’s ridiculous, it’s a tournament.”

“It’s because they hit them precisely on the head, Steve. Who wouldn’t die if they got shot in the head?” Sam crossed his arms.

“Me,” that came from Vision.

“You don’t count.”

They all turned back to the screen once the timeout timer ran out. Natasha could sense the tension in your team, just from the way you glanced across the stage… she could tell you were gonna have a different way of playing the remaining rounds. The screen turned to you stretching your neck from both sides, seriousness evident in your face as you clutched your mouse, ready for the game to resume.

“And we're back, and it seems that [Team Name] had enough time to come up with a different game plan. We've got one duelist camping B, one on mid, and look at [Team Name] Y/N's utility. She's got her alarm bot and nano-swarms over on A, but her turret is on B as she's over by tunnel to keep it active.”

“Again, I have no idea what he's talking about.” Bucky shrugged, crossed his arms and kept his eyes on the screen.

After fixing your team's strategy, all that was left was to deliver with accurate shots and stay alive as much as possible. By the end of a few rounds, with your team’s communication and teamwork flawless than ever, the score was 12-11. Your team only had to win one more time to officially win.

At this point, Yelena and Wanda were loudly reacting to the gameplay, Sam and Tony were howling, rooting for you. Clint ended up setting himself on one of the sofa's arms, invested in the match.

Natasha was on the edge of her seat, clutching the couch cushions. She couldn’t help but chuckle when they showed your reaction momentarily, clearly breathless and eyes wide, fist bumping your teammates seated beside you.

“Oh, what a comeback! The most intense so far, am I right?” The caster exclaimed.

“[Team Name] only has to win one more round before moving on to the next part of this tournament!”

The last round wasn’t exactly in your team’s favor in the half. Three of your team got killed already, only two of you remaining and the five of the enemy team. The rival team obviously did not want to hand over the win that easily.

After the call of another successful kill by the opposing team, you were the last one standing against a full set of players. You would either have to clutch up the round or go into overtime.

Clint perked up, pulling out his wallet. “Alright, who wants to get the bets started?” He asked, placing down a crisp fifty dollar bill on the coffee table. “Y/N wins the game.”

They all stopped to look at him as if he was a madman.

“C’mon, Barton, it’s one versus five.” Sam pointed out.

“So what? Am I the only one who believes in Y/N here? Oh, Nat, you better start placing fifties.”

Natasha merely rolled her eyes, not once wanting to bet on or against her girl. Her eyes glued to the screen in which your character is cautiously checking if the area is clear to plant the bomb.

But Tony pulled out the same type of bill from his wallet, placing it on top of the archer's money.

“Mr. Stark, you do realize you're betting against-” Peter started.

“Hush, spiderling. Watch the game.” Tony brushed him off and watched the screen intently.

Tony was proud of you, truly. But it would also be funny to tease you lovingly when you go home as a loser.

You set up your utility, kind of surprised the whole enemy team went to the other site in which they thought you were heading. They did not leave anyone behind to make sure, as per your cautious scan of the area before settling. After checking all angles again, with thirty seconds to spare, you planted the spike.

“This is a dangerous game to play. She has to hold a lot of angles by herself, they could come in from anywhere.”

The spike continued to beep, which added a lot more tension among the Avengers. Natasha alternated from looking at the actual game to your face camera, of which was the only one left colored. You kept pacing at one of the hiding places, waiting for the slightest noise or actions from the other team.

You decided to peek at one of the entrances to the site once, the Jett with an operator narrowly missed your head so you took the opportunity to blast her head off. Afterwards, your alarm bot from the other side of your hiding place went off, so you went and peeked quickly, managing to pick off another player from the opposite team. Two down, three to go.

The Avengers erupted in noise. Sam and Peter were losing their minds, Bucky and Steve had amazed grins on their faces, and Natasha was clinging on to Yelena and Fanny like a fangirl trying to contain herself.

“What was that?!”

“She's a god!”

“My god, this is way too intense for me.”

Both commentators erupted in surprised glee as well. “A double kill from [Team Name] Y/N! The others are slowly making their way into the site, what will she do?!”

A Sova fired a dart to hopefully reveal your location on the map, but you were too quick to shoot it down to cancel it. But, the Sova spotted you anyway, and was able to shoot you until you were at only 50 HP.

You hid again and recalled your turret, placing it on top of the wall in front of you before sneaking your way to the opposite side. It could watch your back while you attempt to peek on the other side to surprise your enemies.

That move managed to catch one of the other players trying to sneak in as well, and you killed them off with ease. Three down, two to go.

“Down goes [Player Name]! Sova and Yoru are still on the lookout, it's like an intense version of hide & seek up in here!”

Barely anyone was talking now, all eyes on the enormous screen.

“Y/N has her ult!” Peter pointed out.

That you did, as your third kill managed to unlock enough points for it. Aware of its availability, you hurried off to the perfect spot to plant it to cover almost the entire site, still hidden from your enemies. Killjoy's voice rang through the game, saying 'Initiated!', when you planted her ultimate.

“What's that? What's happening?” Steve asked.

“Well, it's called 'lockdown', so I'm assuming it's locking off the area within its perimeter... trapping everyone inside...” Bruce said, lost in thought because of the game.

The Yoru activated their ultimate in time with yours, and you were now twice as cautious, looking around for blue swirls of the duelist to avoid getting sniped easily. He tried to blind you, but you were quick to move your view away from the flash to avoid it. Stupidly, the Yoru's ultimate ran out while trying to destroy your lockdown, so you killed them without hesitation. Four down, one to go.

Clint cackled at the turn of events while the others continued to freak out, teasing Tony, a billionaire, on losing a fifty-dollar bet. “What did I tell you, Stark?! What did I tell you?!”

The spike's beeps started getting faster and you could finally see the finish line. But, you were still cautious as they still had more than enough time to defuse if they managed to kill you.

“You know, [Team Name] Y/N could just leave the site at this point. It's game over for [Rival Team Name].”

“Ah, don't speak too soon there! [Team Name] Y/N's now inspecting the outer corners of the site, unaware of [Rival Team Name] [Player]'s sneaky entrance - and she's placed a smoke down, ready to defuse!”

Of course you were unaware of the opponent's whereabouts. But, you did hear the defuse sound go off for a second. With that, you head back, holding a grenade to throw near the area of the spike.

“She's got this in the bag.” Sam said in content.

After a few seconds, the defusing sound started up again, but you were certain that the grenade you set off did some damage to your opponent on top of the information you got from your teammates before they died.

You started to jiggle-peek from your spot, clearly visible from your opponent's perspective, so they had no choice but to stop defusing the spike to try and shoot you.

Unfortunately, they did a number on you, so you decided to go around. Once the cooldown reset on your turret, you placed it down on one side for intel. With only 20 HP left, you snuck up to the other side of the obstacle to hopefully pull off a knife kill for the finale.

“This game is way more intense than I thought.” Bucky spoke thoughtfully amidst the suspense-filled silence.

“Shhhh!”

“Oh my god, she's got her knife out.” Natasha said in disbelief, watching your character sneak up behind your opponent whose back is facing you.

“So?”

“Just wait for it.” Natasha bit her lip, knowing fully well how you always prefer a devastating way to end a match.

The commentators were freaking out, a combination of “no's”, “don't do this”, and “not like this” rang through the Avengers' speakers. It was considered devastating in the VALORANT community to be killed in game with a knife instead of a gun or anything else. The opponent is oblivious, having already defused half of the spike, but they didn't know what would soon come.

You strike your knife at their head, killing them instantly, the spike left undefused. The game graphics became slow motion while the screen flashed green with 'VICTORY' in the middle of it all. You stood up almost immediately, proud of your savage last kill, fist-bumping all your teammates.

“AN ACE FROM [Team Name] Y/N! [Team Name] IS GOING TO THE MASTERS!”

You hugged your team as well before turning to the camera nearest to you, blowing hot air onto the lens, and tracing a heart followed by a cheeky grin and a wink.

“Yup, she's a Stark alright!”

Roars and cheers emitted from the commentators, the present audience, and the Avengers. Sam yelled and everyone followed, but the loudest one was Clint, who then swooped down to collect his cash prize for winning the bet. Tony didn't care at all, laughing along with the others; he had something new to brag about his kid. Natasha's cheeks flushed, as they always did when it came to you.

“SHE WON!”

“I'll get the booze!”

“In your face, Stark!”

“Cap, you stepped on my foot!”

Natasha unlocked her phone to take a quick picture of the livestream of the heart you drew on the camera, as well as of the stage displaying all of your team's headshots with an abundance of confetti almost covering it. All she wanted now was to call you, but she knew you probably had interviews and post-game rituals with your team, and she had champagne to drink with her own team in celebration of you.

The next morning, on a quick flight back home, the first thing that caught your attention was Natasha's Instagram story of the tournament. Your family supported and watched the tourney for you, as the following slides of her story consisted of the team chugging on champagne, Clint showing off an apparent bet that he won, and Peter and Sam posing in front of the TV when your face camera was shown up close.

Smiling, you liked her stories and replied with 'Thank you for supporting me, my love. I'll see you all soon'.

[whirlybirbs]

              —   BEYOND THE VOID    !

                             AO3     |     SPOTIFY     |     PINTEREST

a masterpost for the series by yours truly. it's thursday again. second part to the from the void, with love series. canon divergent, set during loki season 2 (2023). 

READ ME !  / in-progress

1.    the beginning of the end 2. (COMING SOON !)

SCROLL ME !

1. part 1: from the void, with love 2. prologue: the sacred timeline 3.   the variant timeline files 4.   the tag 5.   the god & the scientist 6.   fan art

[imagine-docx]

library hideaway.

Summary: You find an old, quiet corner of the library to hide from Flash to study in peace. Turns out, that’s Peter's spot. [college!au]

Warnings: none that I can remember.

A/N: new work? again? who am i? - amanda 💛

There is no such thing as being popular on this university campus. The only way to be considered ‘well-known’ was to be in the student union. And that was how you became ‘popular’. 

You were the president of the university’s student union. You advocated for academic support, mental and personal support, social belonging, and so forth. 

You had to build yourself for that role. You were an introvert at heart. You would rather shy away from the spotlight and hangout by yourself. But you always believed in advocating for other people’s rights and would put aside your introverted-ness to help those who needed it.

Your social battery was on the brink of dying, you were surrounded by so many people and you just wanted to go home and study for your bioethics midterm. You were walking with them and were focused on your phone, Flash wrapped his arm around your shoulder, “You coming with us for burgers?”

You shrugged his arm off, “No, I’ll pass.”

“Oh come on,” he whined.

“Flash, I’m good. I’m not hungry.” You said.

“Wherever you go I’ll come.” He responded.

“I’m gonna go to the library and study,” you said.

“You’re the president of the student union, why should you even study? You can dispute it.” You shot him a glare.

“It’s true,” he shrugged.

The more Flash spoke, the more you felt the urge of bashing your head into a steel door on campus. “I’m just gonna go to the washroom, I’ll meet you there.” You said, excusing yourself.

You walked into the washroom and held onto the counter and put your head down. You just wanted to be left alone and to study but Flash just wanted to annoy your soul.

You walked out and walked into the library, you noticed him at the tables in the far left corner and decided to snake around the bookstacks to avoid him. You were walking through the stacks before you found the perfect corner. You could tell it was less frequented because dust caked the pulp western books.

You dropped your bag and sat on the floor. Your eyes were starting to burn so you switched out of your contacts into your glasses. You took out the printed sheet of the midterm guide and your iPad and started reading through the lecture notes you took throughout the semester. 

You were so immersed into the lecture on Selective Memory in Aging Populations, until the faint sound of ABBA broke your train of thought. You looked up, “Oh sorry, I didn’t know someone was here,” he shyly said.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, is this your study spot? I’ll move!” You said, grabbing your stuff.

“No you don’t have to move!” He said putting his arms out stopping you.

“It’s okay! This is your spot,” you said, “Wait, aren’t you in my bioethics class? You sit at the front,” you tried searching through your memory for his name, “Peter!”

“You know who I am? You’re the student union president and you know who I am?” He asked, a little shocked.

“Who doesn’t you’re like one of the smartest kids,” you said, “Take your spot, I can go get a table.”

“Wait, are you studying for the midterm, ‘cause if you’re studying for it, maybe we can study together, but you don’t have to if you want,” he babbled.

“I was studying for that midterm,” you smiled, “We can study together.”

You and Peter took a seat back on the floor, he took out his laptop and you two were slowly going through the lectures together.

He took his time explaining the things you were unsure of, which you were eternally grateful for because it saved you from going to office hours. 

You two went through all the lectures that were going to be on the midterm and were even quizzing each other.

The lights flickered in the library which signaled that the library is going to close in 15 minutes. You two stopped talking about school and started finding things you had in common while packing up your stuff. “I always thought I was ancient listening to ABBA,” you joked.

“I love my 70s and 80s music,” he said, zipping up his backpack. 

“You’re a man of taste,” you said, joking.

You and him were walking out of the library, “Are you going to the office?” He asked.

“I went in this morning,” you adjusted your bag strap, “I think I’m gonna go home.”

“Oh,” Peter said.

“Wait, are you hungry? Apparently there’s a hidden gem ramen restaurant near campus, if you would like, we can try it?” you asked.

“You want to go with me?” he asked, a little stunned.

“Yeah, why not?”

“You could choose anyone in the student union or any of your friends-” He started.

“You helped me study for my midterm, I owe you one,” you smiled at him.

“Sure,” he said coyly. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You learned a lot about Peter over ramen, he was really into STEM subjects and would rather be told to do chemical compounds than write an essay, he loves sci-fi and fantasy. On the other hand he learned that you were also into sci-fi and fantasy.

Peter was walking you home and you two were continuing the conversation you had earlier and learning more about each other. “How did you get into the student union?” He asked.

“Honestly I have no idea,” you shrugged, “I was in and somehow I got elected to be president.”

“Do you like it?” He asked, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder.

“Keeps me busy,” you joked.

The two of you stopped in front of your building, “Are you sure I’m not putting you out of your way?” 

“I owe you because you paid for ramen,” he said.

“But you taught me stuff I didn’t understand,” you countered.

“I’ll see you soon Peter?” You asked.

“Yeah!” He smiled at you.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Since then, you and Peter always met in the pulp western stacks once a week and studied together. But you two also exchanged contact information so you guys were exchanging memes almost everyday. 

Today, you two finished doing your worksheets for bioethics early and were sitting and exchanging snacks and conversation.

“How did you find this?” You asked.

“I was actually into pulp western for a second and found no one came here, and now I just study here,” he popped a gummy bear into his mouth, “How did you find it?”

“I’m very passionate about pulp westerns,” you joked.

“You constantly surprise me,” he joked.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You were walking to your afternoon bioethics lecture when you felt an arm wrapped around your shoulder. Unconsciously you rolled your eyes knowing it was Flash, “Where are you going today?”

“The same class that I have had for an entire semester,” you bluntly stated, shrugging his arm off you again. 

“Skip class, you’re already passing,” He said, “Let’s go do something.”

“Flash, I am not doing that,” you stated flatly.

Flash was in the middle of persuading you to try and leave class and wrapped his arm around you. That was until your eyes landed on Peter standing outside of the lecture hall. 

You immediately pushed Flash off of you and made a beeline to Peter. “Hi Peter!” You exclaimed enthusiastically. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You were leaving the student union office and were walking to the library to meet Peter for your usual meet up. You noticed Peter walking in front of you and was on the phone, and were going to call out but some words caught your attention.

“I don’t know what to do,” Peter said, “I really do like her, and I love these hangouts but Flash is always draping his arms around her and is hanging out with her. I feel like I don’t have a chance.”

You connected the dots, Peter was interested in you.

You felt so much relief hearing those words. You slowly started harbouring feelings for him. He was always so gentle with you, and you guys had so much in common, it was hard not to catch feelings.

But the absolute bane of your existence was somehow still screwing this up for you. Flash was like a speck of glitter you could not get rid of.

You took a little bit of a detour to find Flash before going to meet with Peter.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You rushed into the library, your conversation with Flash took a little longer than you anticipated. You did text Peter that you would be a little bit later than you thought, lying and blaming it on a meeting. You picked up his favourite gummy bears as an apology gift from the student centre. 

You made your way to the pulp western section and saw Peter scribbling in his STEM notebook. “I brought gummy bears as a peace offering.”

“I was wondering when you would arrive,” he said, putting down the notebook.

“Got lost on my way,” you joked, sitting down and handing him the gummy bears.

He cleared his throat and looked at you, more seriously this time. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” you said.

Peter glanced down at the gummy bears, then back up at you. His voice was a little shaky. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you hang out with me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours. “You’re... you. You’ve got everything going on, and people are constantly pulling you in a million directions. But somehow, you still make time for this, for me.”

Your heart gave a small, nervous lurch. But instead of pulling away from it, you let yourself smile.

“It does,” you said softly. “It means a lot.”

Peter looked surprised but still unsure. “So… you feel the same?”

You nodded, your smile deepening. “I wouldn’t be hiding in a dusty corner of the library with anyone else, Peter. I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. I just… didn’t know if you felt the same.” 

Peter let out a breath that sounded like relief and laughed quietly. “Flash was around you so often, I was so convinced I didn’t have a chance because of him.”

“I literally duck behind shelves to avoid him,” you joked, “How do you think I ended up here?”

He grinned, and for a moment, the air between you shifted.

“Okay,” he said. “So what now?”

You looked down at the gummy bears between you. “Now we study. And maybe after that we go back to that ramen shop. Not gonna lie, I’ve been thinking about that miso ramen for weeks now.”

He smiled. “It’s a date.”

[writingfics-passingtime]

Empty Threats

synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.

pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)

word count: ~6700

cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com

The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.

You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.

The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.

Loki looks bored.

Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.

He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.

You don't want the answer.

So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.

The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.

You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."

His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.

You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.

You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.

The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.

The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.

Peace. Safety.

Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.

But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.

You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.

No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-

Wait...

"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.

"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."

You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.

Bed. Singular.

You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.

Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?

Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."

Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."

But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.

"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."

Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."

You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."

"I am," he calls after you.

You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.

The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.

Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.

Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.

The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.

Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.

You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.

Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.

You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.

When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.

Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.

"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.

Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.

With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"

"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.

"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-

"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.

Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.

You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.

Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."

The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.

You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.

"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.

You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."

In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.

You almost forgot.

You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.

That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.

Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.

"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.

You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."

He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."

You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."

The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.

You keep going anyway.

"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."

You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.

"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."

You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"

Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.

And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.

He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."

You blink. "Huh-what?"

Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."

Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees it.

Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."

Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."

He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."

You go quiet.

Dead quiet.

Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.

And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.

You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.

Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.

"Wise choice," he murmurs.

And fuck, you hate him.

You hate him.

Well... no.

You don't hate him.

And you hate that you don't hate him.

You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.

A mistake.

"Oh, you poor little fool."

A catastrophic mistake.

Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.

The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.

His game.

You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.

You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.

You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.

"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.

"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."

You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.

And the worst part?

You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.

"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."

He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"

His hands start inching forward.

You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."

His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."

His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.

You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.

You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."

You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.

You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.

And still, you don't laugh.

Until-

"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.

Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.

Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.

"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."

You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.

He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."

And then he really begins.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.

And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.

Which he probably has, the bastard.

You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.

"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."

"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.

"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.

You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.

He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.

You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.

"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.

"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."

You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.

Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.

Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees everything.

And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.

"Fuck! This is so messed up-"

"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."

You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."

"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."

You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."

He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.

"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.

"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"

You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.

He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.

You squeal. Actually squeal.

He grins wider.

"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."

You swear at him in every language you know.

He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.

"Say you’re sorry."

You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.

"Never."

He pauses. Cocks a brow.

Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.

You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.

"Never?"

Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.

The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.

"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.

"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”

You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"

But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.

Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.

And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.

"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"

Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.

He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.

You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.

"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."

"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."

"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"

"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."

"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."

Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.

And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.

"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.

He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"

You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."

His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.

That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-

Fuck.

Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.

Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."

It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-

Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."

"Yes, then."

"And a please."

"Go fuck yourself."

He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"

But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.

"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."

His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.

You yelp. "Hey!"

He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."

The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.

He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.

The friction is electric.

Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.

Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.

Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.

He dips lower.

This time, his lips ghost over yours.

Once.

Twice.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.

"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

Your jaw flexes.

"No."

He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."

You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."

Your breath catches.

"You want me," you retort.

He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.

Just once.

Then the other.

Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.

You feel your eyes flutter.

He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.

"Say it," he breathes.

And you can’t anymore.

You’re done pretending.

"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.

And Loki does.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.

You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.

Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.

You kiss him back harder.

Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.

And now he’s everywhere.

His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.

You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.

Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.

Still not enough.

His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.

"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”

"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."

He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."

When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.

Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.

Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.

The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.

Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.

Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.

You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.

Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.

You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.

The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:

"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."

You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.

Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.

You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.

Then, you hear the bed creak.

You feel him stand.

You don't turn.

Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.

The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.

By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.

He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.

You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.

His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.

You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you.

Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.

His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.

"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.

You narrow your eyes.

Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.

"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.

He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.

"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"

You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.

"Self-satisfied bastard."

He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."

He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."

His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.

"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.

"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"

You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.

"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.

He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.

"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."

You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.

When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:

“Perfect.”

You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.

He stands.

One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.

He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.

You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.

And he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.

Effortlessly.

You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.

Your eyes snap to his.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.

The air between you goes molten.

He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.

Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.

Your boots touch the floor. Barely.

"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."

Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.

"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.

He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."

You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.

The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."

You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.

Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.

The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.

You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.

Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.

"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.

He chuckles, deep and low.

Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.

You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.

Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.

"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.

You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.

"Only if you leave your harness on."

He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.

.

.

[lessersole]

The Catch

Pairing: Bucky x Reader, Platonic!Yelena

Summary: Bucky comes to the rescue when being Yelena's roommate makes things dangerous for you.

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: attempted abduction. Mentions of alcohol. Bucky on a motorbike!

------------

“So what’s the catch?”

“What catch? There’s no catch.”

You raise an eyebrow at the blonde’s suspiciously nonchalant reply. “This apartment is huge. You’re only looking for one roommate, I haven’t seen a single rat or cockroach and the rent is way, way lower than anything else in the city. There has to be a catch.”

Yelena shrugs, “No catch. It’s not huge, and I’m only looking for one roommate because there are only two bedrooms.”

“And the rent is so low because…” you prompt.

She gives you a sly smile, “I can ask you for more if you like.”

“Come on, Yelena. Roommates should be honest with each other, right?”

The Russian rolls her eyes. “The rent is low because I pay most of it. I just need someone to cover the extra. And I want to make friends.”

You narrow your eyes. “No one wants friends that badly.”

“Okaaay,” she responds, before admitting in a rush, “I may be sort of an ex-spy-slash-assassin and some people are weird about that, but it’s totally safe, I’m a good guy, no bad guys will come here or anything, I’m just a normal person living a normal life.”

Your mouth drops open, “I’m sorry, what?!”

Yelena sighs, “It’s not a big deal. And I was brainwashed to do it, but that’s all gone now, it was chemicals, they’re neutralised, no problem.”

You stare at her in astonishment, blinking rapidly. “And - what do you do now?”

She mumbles something inaudible.

“Uhh…?” you hesitate.

“I sort of - work for the government,” Yelena admits.

“You know that sounds like you’re a spy, right?”

She frowns at you, “I’m not a spy.”

“But you couldn’t tell me if you were, right?”

She flings her arms up in frustration, “I don’t know the spy rules! I’m not a spy.”

“Any more,” you point out.

“Any more,” she confirms, “So do you want the room or not?”

You look around at by far the nicest apartment you’ve seen since in your weeks of searching. The thought of living somewhere that would easily pass a health code inspection, without dozens of roommates to fight over the bathroom with, and that wouldn’t mean a multi-hour commute to work is tempting enough to overlook almost anything.

Glancing at Yelena as you weigh up your options, you notice a shimmer of something beneath her defensive exterior. Maybe she really is lonely.

“You promise you won’t be, uh, bringing your work home with you?” You ask.

She brightens, nodding, “Yes, definitely not. All fun here.”

Sucking your teeth, and hoping you won’t regret this, you take a big breath before answering, “Okay, I’m in. I’ll take the room.”

Yelena squeals in delight and wraps you in an excited hug, “I’ll be the best roommate ever, you’ll see.”

—

Six months later and Yelena has more than lived up to her promise. Your shared apartment has become a serene respite from the busy chaos of work and city life, and she’s clearly delighted to have a new friend. Your own friends have warmly welcomed her into the group, and she’s often with you for nights out bar-hopping, or happily joins you in hosting movie nights for everyone.

Yelena’s also frequently away for days or weeks at a time on work trips that you’ve learnt not to ask about, and you enjoy having the time and space to yourself. Right now, she’s been away for four days, and you’re not expecting her back until early next week, so you decide to reward yourself for making it through to another Friday with take-out and wine. Pouring yourself a glass after ordering a pizza, you’re just about to take the first sip when there’s a knock at the door. Confused - the food couldn’t possibly have come that fast - you set down your drink and move to squint through the peephole.

Standing outside your front door is possibly the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. A mess of dark hair hangs above shadowed eyes that give way to high cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, soft cupid’s bow lips and a razor-sharp jawline covered in thick stubble. His broad shoulders and clearly muscular arms are straining the leather of his jacket, and you’re momentarily hypnotised by the way the shirt underneath clings to his chest.

Taking a breath and letting your brain remind your body that this Adonis is a complete stranger, you slip the chain onto the door before opening it enough to peer through at him.

“Hi,” you say, wondering if he’s got the wrong door, and if so, what you can do to make it the right one.

His eyes flicker over what he can see of you before they meet yours, the blue shock of his searching gaze almost making you miss his low voice speaking your name like a question. You blink in confusion, “Do I know you? I think I’d remember if we’d met.”

“You don’t know me,” he confirms, trying to look past you into the apartment. “Are you alone?”

A finger of suspicion chills the playful heat inside you. “That’s a pretty creepy question to open with,” you tell him with a nervous laugh, hoping there’s an explanation that ends with him being completely non-threatening and asking you on a date.

His eyes meet yours again. “I work with Yelena. Someone got hold of her address, found out she lives with someone and is highly likely to be sending a team over to abduct you. You need to come with me. Now.”

“Ah - what?” You’re still more suspicious than panicked, “If that’s even true, how do I know you’re not the guy coming to abduct me?”

Can you blame the wine you almost drunk for the thought that you wouldn’t mind being abducted by this guy?

“Because if I was abducting you,” he growls, “this door would be in pieces and you would already be tied up in my car.”

You swallow, hard.

The man takes a deep breath as he glances around the corridor, trying to be patient. “Look, I’m Bucky. Yelena must have mentioned me?”

You shake your head, “No. She doesn’t really talk about work.”

Bucky grumbles something under his breath, “We might not have much time. Can you at least grab what you’ll need for an overnight while you decide if you’re going to trust me?”

If you’d met this guy in a bar you’d be more than happy to spend the night with him, but under these circumstances, you’re still suspicious. You narrow your eyes. “Fine.”

You actually have a go-bag prepared already - you weren’t going to be too cavalier about living with an ex-assassin/current probable spy - but as you shut the door on Bucky, you decide now’s a good time to call Yelena.

Ignoring his voice through the door saying that you could at least leave it open, you tug your bag out of the hall closet while you find her number. Yelena’s asked you to avoid calling her when she’s at work, but you can’t think of any other way to verify what Bucky’s telling you.

As it rings, you sling the bag over your shoulder and let your eyes drift to the floor of your open bedroom, where the glow of the city through the large window falls on the floor. Frowning, you notice a shadow blocking the lower corner and let out an exasperated sigh. Your neighbour seems to think the fire escape outside your apartment is a great place for him to store his overflowing junk, but Yelena seemed to have scared him off doing it for a while. As you're making a mental note to speak to him about it, the shadow moves. You freeze. Pigeons maybe? On top of the junk? You slowly step backwards, raking your mind to remember if you’d seen anything there earlier.

Just as the phone rings out, switching to Yelena’s generic voicemail message, there’s the unmistakable smash of breaking glass, followed by alarmingly fast, heavy footsteps. You spin around, but before you can even take a step, whoever’s come through the window grabs you from behind. You open your mouth, sucking in air to scream at the top of your lungs, but the attacker clamps a hand over your mouth and nose. You’re instantly choked as you try to breathe around a sweet-smelling piece of fabric, and as you struggle, you feel a sharp scratch on the side of your neck. Your thoughts go fuzzy, and even as you try to squirm out of the tight grasp, your body slackens. The violent cracking and splintering sounds coming from your doorway echo into the background, and darkness consumes you.

—

You surface slowly back to consciousness. There’s a roaring in your ears, and your body is heavy, unable to move, or even to open your eyes. You’re aware of a constant cold wind at your back and running through your fingers, hands buffeted by the air. Your face is pressed into something warm and firm, and something hard as metal is wrapped around you, holding you in place.

You remember being at your apartment. The window smashing, the footsteps, being grabbed - you force your body to move, eyes flying open, limbs flailing haphazardly and snapping your head up, only to bash into something hard.

“Shit!” Bucky’s expletive is audible over the engine noise as your sudden movement throws him off balance, making the bike he’s controlling with one hand swerve on the road. You realise all at once that the roaring sound was the motorbike, currently speeding down a dark highway. You’re facing backwards, basically in Bucky’s lap, both your legs thrown over his, his left arm holding you close to him.

The shock makes you cry out, but all that emerges through your still waking mouth is an addled groan, although your arms instinctively reach up to cling onto Bucky’s solid form.

His gravelly voice is close in your ear, “Hang on.”

The bike slows to a stop at the side of the road, and Bucky leans back to assess you.

“You okay?” He asks. The road is too shadowed for you to make out whether his frown is of concern or irritation.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, vocal chords just about working as you scramble to get off him. Your legs are still half asleep, and Bucky’s strong hand on your side is the only thing that stops you falling to the ground. He follows you off the bike much more gracefully, and helps you stand, one hand still on your waist, the other on your hip.

Your limbs are still shaky, and you feel like you have the beginnings of a hangover. “What happened?” You ask.

Bucky lets go of you. “The people who came to abduct you turned up. They drugged you, but I heard them breaking in and managed to stop them taking you. Now I’m bringing you to a safe house.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what to say to this, other than, “thank you.”

Bucky shrugs, “Don’t worry about it. There’s another hour before we get there, so we should get going.”

You nod. Despite still feeling too weak and dizzy to competently ride a bike even as a passenger, you’d rather recover inside in the warm than out by the side of the road.

Bucky’s eyes lingers on you, assessing, then he pulls out a bottle of water stored under the seat and wordlessly hands it over. You take it with another thanks and gratefully drink half in one go, suddenly thirsty. He simply nods when you hand it back, then straddles the bike.

After groggily admiring the flex of his leg muscles as he does so, you move to climb on behind him.

“No,” he says gently, stopping you and indicating that you should sit in front of him. “You might not be alert enough to keep hold of me, and I don’t want you falling off.”

You hesitate. “Can I at least face forward this time?”

A quick teasing grin tugs at the corner of Bucky’s mouth as he gestures to the space he’s left for you between his legs, “Lady’s choice.”

Rolling your eyes to hide the warmth blooming in you despite the strangeness of the situation, you climb in front of him as elegantly as possible. Although you try to keep some space between you, you can feel his warmth at your back as he leans forward, arms caging you as he grasps the handlebars.

His beard grazes your ear, his voice soothing it, “Just grab onto me if you need to,” he tells you.

You get no other warning before the bike takes off, his thick thighs pressing into yours as he raises his legs to the footrests.

—

An hour later, you’re struggling to keep your eyes open as the bike finally slows to a stop beside a wood cabin. The dense trees surrounding it would cast it in darkness even if it wasn’t the middle of the night, and the winding dirt track you’ve been following for the last 20 minutes makes it even more thoroughly hidden.

The stress of the day, lingering effects of the drug and gentle turns of the bike have lulled you into a half sleep, and you’d given up on staying alert long ago, leaning comfortably into Bucky’s solid chest, his strong arms keeping you in place. As you joltingly step off the bike, the absence of his warmth makes the chill breeze feel even colder.

His hand brushes your lower back as he passes you to the entrance of the safe house. Beside the clatter of him unlocking the door and the ticking of his motorbike cooling down, there’s no sound other than the breeze in the trees. You must be miles from anywhere.

Bucky disappears into the darkness of the cabin, and you follow, lingering at the door. The place is small - you’re standing in a living room-kitchen space that spans the width of the building, the door opposite revealing a shaded corridor that Bucky heads into, leading to what can’t be much more than a small bathroom and bedroom. After checking each room - which doesn’t take long - Bucky returns to the main space.

“It’s clear,” he tells you matter-of-factly, “Hasn’t been used in a while by the look of things, and I wouldn’t trust the bed in there, it’s more woodworm than wood.”

You nod and mumble a small, “Okay.” Now that you’re here, everything feels real and scary again. You were attacked, and drugged, and are now hiding out in a creaky cabin in the middle of nowhere, no one but Bucky and, you suppose, Yelena, knowing where you are. You don’t even have your phone with you.

While you’re thinking this, Bucky turns back into the corridor, leaving you in the main room again. Feeling even more awkward, you head to the kitchen area, trying to figure out how to make the best of things. You pull open wonkily attached cupboard doors, finding a few cans of soup and placing the least rusty ones on the counter top - you never did get that pizza. You’re contemplating the wisdom of even checking the use by dates when Bucky passes, his arms full of blankets and pillows which he drops on the couch.

“Bedding’s fine,” he gestures to it, not even looking at you before turning to kneel in front of the fireplace. Sooner than you expect, he stands again, a fire crackling into life in the grate.

“I’d keep the fire burning,” he tells you as he moves to the front door, “It’s the only heat in this place, and you don’t need to worry about the smoke, we weren’t followed and there’s no one else around for miles.”

Your heart sinks. You hadn’t even realised you’d hoped he’d stay until it’s clear he’s about to leave, but the thought of being left alone, here, after everything - it’s daunting.

“Oh. Sure, yeah.” You reply, before holding up a couple of the soup cans, “You don’t want to stay to eat something? It’s a long way back to the city, right?”

Bucky’s stare is carefully neutral as he takes in your questionable finds. He opens his mouth, but as his gaze slides to your face, he pauses. “Sure,” he says uncertainly, “Looks delicious.”

“You must be hungry then,” you joke, trying to hide your relief as you hunt for a can opener.

—

A little while later, the cabin’s feeling a bit more friendly. The smell of the surprisingly decent soup and warmth of the fire have spread through the space, and with your and Bucky’s bowls washed and left to dry by the sink, the place looks almost homey. Even so, apprehension pulses through you when you see him preparing to leave; his warm, steady presence is more of a comfort to you than it should be.

“You shouldn’t need to be here more than one night.” Bucky reassures you. “Two at most. Yelena will come get you when she’s back in the country.”

“Two nights?” Your voice cracks and you clear your throat, determined to come off as confident and unafraid in front of him, “I mean, that’s fine, I guess. I’m sure I can keep myself entertained.”

You shoot him a quick smile. But he can’t ignore the tension in your body language, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself despite the warmth. He’d intended to leave. The second he set foot in the cold, musty cabin it had reminded him of places he’d hidden out in on missions as the Winter Soldier. He’d meant to drop you off and leave as soon as he’d checked it was safe.

Then you’d turned to him with an old tin of soup and a shaky smile, and something tugged at him to stay. Probably he just felt sorry for you. And that urge to look after you, make you comfortable, that was just him wanting to do what was asked of him - nothing to do with the attraction he’d felt to the bold, suspicious person who’d opened the door to him earlier this evening. And if this basic cabin out in the forest was starting to feel more like home than his apartment back in Brooklyn, it was just because he still hadn’t decorated or got used to the modern city - not because sharing dinner with you had warmed him more than any fire ever could.

Jacket and boots on, Bucky hesitates. “Are you alright?”

You flash him another small smile that comes out halfway between the ease you’d intended and a grimace. “I’m fine,” your voice comes out squeaky and you try again. “I’m fine.” You say, a bit more confidently.

Bucky’s eyes don’t move from you, but his raised eyebrow suggests he doesn’t believe you.

Sighing, you admit more quietly, “I think I’m maybe in shock. All this is…a lot. I’ll be alright in a bit.”

Bucky nods and stomps out the door without another word.

You blink rapidly, jarred by his sudden departure, but instead of hearing the roar of his bike starting up, there’s a slam as he returns and shuts the door behind him.

“Here,” he holds out a candy bar to you.

You simply stare at him, dumbfounded.

“Sugar helps with shock,” he explains with a shrug. “And it counts as dessert. Since you made dinner.”

You can’t help the laugh that spills out as you thank him. “I didn’t expect this from you.” You add as you take the candy, looking up in time to see his throat bob as he swallows.

Sinking into the couch as you unwrap the chocolate, you hope Bucky will join you, and are startled when instead he squats down in front of you and places a hand either side of your legs, gripping the couch with both hands and tugging the whole thing – heavy old furniture and you – so you slide across the floor, closer to the fire. His smug grin is the only sign he’s noticed your mouth falling open in astonishment, as he drops down next to you. Right next you; his arm and leg brushing against yours.

“It’s better to stay warm,” is all he says by way of explanation, watching the dancing flames in front of you both.

“Thank you,” you repeat. After a moment you lean into him slightly, curious to see how he’ll react. As if by instinct, he lifts his arm to wrap it around you, pulling you firmly into his side.

You smile to yourself, and snap off a square of chocolate to pass to him. Your eyes meet as he takes it from you, and you let your gaze linger on his face, so close to yours. Bucky doesn’t turn away - watching you with an intensity that mirrors your own. A loud crackle from the fire is the only thing to snap your attention away, and you sit together in comfortable silence, your face warm as you let the candy melt in your mouth.

“Better?” Bucky asks.

“Much,” you answer. His solid warmth has calmed you, and you’re pretty sure it’s his proximity, rather than the fire’s, that’s making your blood pump hot through you. Your suspicion is confirmed when he removes his arm from around you and stands up, taking the candy wrapper from you and leaving a cold gust of absence.

“Lie down,” he instructs softly, gesturing to the blankets and pillows around you on the couch, “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

He moves to the kitchen before you can reply, so you do as you’re told and lie down, burrowing into the blankets in the hopes of capturing his lingering warmth. You desperately want to ask him to stay, but you’re not sure how.

Eyes closed, you’re unaware of Bucky’s silent return. He watches you, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders at the soft sounds of your breath and the fire. He wants to stay - to comfort you, he tells himself, and make sure you’re safe. Nothing else, of course. But do you want that?

“Are you still cold?” he asks, his voice low.

You open your eyes to the sight of him looking down at you from the foot of the couch, his creased brow casting his eyes into shadow.

“I could be warmer,” you tell him.

The next sound you hear is the soft thud of Bucky’s boots hitting the floor as he toes them off, simultaneously shrugging out of his jacket. Leaning over you, his knee tucks into the space behind yours.

“Budge up,” he mutters, a gentle teasing edge dancing through his voice.

Slightly stunned - and delighted - you shuffle forward to the edge of the couch, letting him slot in behind you against the back cushions. Lifting the blankets, he presses against you, his right arm snaking around your body, holding you to him.

Realising you’ve been holding your breath as his body adjusts to yours, you let out a contented sigh. Sandwiched between the flickering heat of the fire and the warmth and security of Bucky’s firm body, you feel yourself finally relax. As the last remnants of tension and shock are eased out of you, you drift off to sleep, comfortable and safe in Bucky’s arms.

He’s slower to fall asleep. Bucky wants to hold still so you won’t wake, but your closeness is making him more aware of every part of his body.

He looks down at you fondly as you twist over mid-dream, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pressing your face to his chest, inhaling deeply as you continue your steady sleep. Taking a long breath, Bucky tries to ignore it as the spark of a feeling he hasn’t felt for a very, very long time catches in his chest, the glowing ember of it warming him deeply as he relaxes into sleep.

—

The first fingers of dawn creeping through the flimsy curtains wakes Bucky the next morning. There’s a smile on his face and a gentle glow in his chest – he’s slept soundly through the night, and has the unfamiliar feeling of having woken from a good dream. Keeping his eyes closed to try and recapture the thoughts that were just now floating through his sleeping mind, he’s suddenly brought back to reality by movement in his arms – you, shifting as you wake up.

You awake with the same warm glow as Bucky, breathing deeply as consciousness trickles in, and inhaling a delicious scent – clean, woodsy and warmly spiced, something that smells both comforting and exciting. There’s soft fabric under your hand and you sigh contentedly as you nuzzle closer. It’s only when Bucky politely clears his throat, the sound reverberating through the chest you now realise you’re lying on, that the realisation of where you are comes back to you.

Jerking back as far as you can – which isn’t much, given the size of the couch and that Bucky’s arms are still encircling you – your eyes fly open and you freeze as you meet the supersoldier’s amused gaze.

“Morning,” he greets you with just a hint of a smirk, his gravelly voice making your stomach somersault.

“Morning,” you squeak back, inwardly cursing yourself for not being anything like as cool as he is. Knowing your normal morning state, your hair is probably a bird’s nest and you don’t want to think about the likelihood of there being drool on your face - or his chest.

But Bucky simply smiles back at you, his eyes dancing over your face. Half-stunned, you gaze back at him - his strong nose, his smooth cupid’s bow lips, his ice blue eyes - and a hot longing spreads through you. You know you’re currently in a strange cabin in the middle of nowhere, hiding out from mysterious enemies who want to hurt you - but right now that all feels very far away; much less important than the warm, muscular body pressed against yours.

A darkness in Bucky’s gaze makes you shiver in delight as you realise his thoughts are mirroring your own.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, voice gruff but with the ghost of a smile, his arms still wrapped tight around you.

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back into him and angling your face up to his, “Very,” You answer softly, “You?”

“Very,” Bucky echoes, staring deep into your eyes for a moment before pulling you close, erasing the last space between you. His soft lips brush against yours, sending tingles racing through your body, and you press into him eagerly. His response is immediate, his mouth firm and giving, and you fist his shirt in your hands as you move closer, opening your mouth to his, and-

A loud, shrill alarm pierces the air and you yelp, both of you startled apart. You nearly fall off the couch at the noise, and Bucky bolts upright.

“It’s the proximity alarm,” he explains, jumping up and heading for his jacket where it’s hanging on the back of a chair. After pulling his phone from the pocket, his shoulders loosen as he visibly relaxes. “It’s friendly,” he says, turning back to where you’re half-lying, still tangled in blankets.

“Good,” you manage to respond, unconvincingly. You’re obviously glad there’s no threat, but the timing of this arrival could have been better.

A lopsided smile spreads across Bucky’s face, “You don’t sound too happy about that,” he teases, voice still rough.

You fail to hide a smile, wrinkling your nose, “I’m just…no good with guests before I’ve had coffee.”

His smile widening into a grin, Bucky nods. “I’ll put some on.”

You extricate yourself from the bedding as he heads to the kitchen area, and try pointlessly to brush the wrinkles from your clothes, hoping whoever’s coming to meet you can’t tell that your heart is still pounding, heat pulsing through you from the kiss. It might have been short, and unpleasantly interrupted, but it was the best kiss you’ve had in a very long time.

As you neatly fold the blankets, still warm from your and Bucky’s combined body heat, his clattering in the kitchen is drowned out by the sound of an engine outside, before the front door bursts open and Yelena strides into the cabin.

Before you can even open your mouth to greet her, she runs to you and wraps you in a fierce hug, “I’m so sorry!” She says into your shoulder before pulling back to look you over, checking for injuries. “I never thought you would get hurt because of me, you’re my best friend and I love you and I nearly got you kidnapped!”

“It’s okay,” you reassure her, returning the hug, “I’m fine, Bucky looked after me.”

Yelena glances over at Bucky who nods at you both before returning his attention to the coffee. Yelena slowly turns her head to look back at you, her eyes narrowing and a cat-like smile spreading across her face, “He looked after you, huh?” She drawls.

“Shut up,” you mutter, feeling your face warm, “not like that. Well, not - no, not like that.”

“Okay,” she answers with a grin, “What’s that saying about silver livings again?”

“Yelena,” you warn her, aware Bucky can hear you both.

She laughs again before the smile slides from her face. “I am really sorry though,”

“It’s not your fault,” you reassure her.

“But I put you in danger,” she insists with a pout, “and I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Coffee’s ready,” Bucky calls from the kitchen.

“Look, we can talk about it later,” you tell Yelena, moving to where Bucky’s pouring you a mug.

“Fine,” Yelena grumbles good-naturedly as she follows you, “But can we talk about whatever it is you did to get Barnes to make you coffee?”

You roll your eyes as she laughingly bumps your shoulder, neither of you noticing the openly affectionate look on Bucky’s face that he quickly moves to hide.

------------

Part two

Tags: @yesshewrites1

[unholyhelbig]

i would love a one shot of nat interacting w ronnie! maybe r is caught up doing a job for nat and nat has to pick ronnie up from school and domesticity w r ensues?

Title: The Carpool Lane [an Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: You get caught up while running an errand for Natasha and aren't able to pick your daughter up from school. You ask Natasha to do it and she has to grapple with some big feelings.

[a/n: Hello! I promise you all that the last official chapter of the Oversight is going to be posted soon. It is a very heavy one so here is some fluff in the meantime! Also, I'm opening my requests again, so feel free to send some my way.]

Warnings: None that I can think of other than horrible grammar, but please let me know if I need to add any!

Check out the full Oversight universe

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven]

The air in the home office had become sticky and cloying. It often did when the sun decided to shine as strongly as it did. Natasha kept her books clean and clear of dust but often times there was only so much she could do. Large particles floated in the crossfire of a golden glow. It almost pained her to wrench the window open and disrupt the flow.

It was difficult for Natasha to keep focus when she could hear the sounds from outside and feel the soft breeze on her skin. She was often known for her dedication, for her focus and her ruthlessness. But on afternoons, she was stuck doing mountains of paperwork when she’d much rather be doing you.

Natasha often drifted into hazed memories of the whimpers that escaped you, your breathless swears interlaced with the intoxicating way you moaned her name. She liked teasing you until you begged for her, until you needed her more than you needed breath, until you arched your back and cried into the thousand thread count sheets.

Of course, her favorite thing was to bring you to the very edge with her just her delicate touch and her sultry words. You’d come undone underneath her, coated in sweat and ready to please as an orgasm rocked through- an annoying ringtone.

Natasha had shoved her phone into the bottom drawer of her desk to gain some focus. It clearly wasn’t working. Her nails scratched across the rich oak of the desks surface before she pawed around.

Yelena had set her ringtone to the loudest, most obnoxious blowhorn she could find. She claimed that Natasha was losing her touch and often couldn’t hear anything past her own thoughts. And so, what if that was the case? Natasha quite liked her thoughts lately.

“Romanoff,” She drawled, voice dripping with annoyance.

“Hi,”

It took one breathless word from you and everything else was forgotten. There was worry in that single syllable and it made Natasha’s world spin for only a second before she got her bearings. She could do this. She was in charge.

“Tell me where you are.”

“You know where I am, you sent me here yourself.” You chuckled in a low whisper. Natasha had sent you to collect rent from your usual charges. She knew your pattern and could hear the low hum of the row of washing machines behind you.

While she prided herself on her ability to train you into the perfect protector with a quick hand a vicious tongue, she wouldn’t dare change a thing about your soft spots. You had particular one for the family that rented the apartment above the Soapsuds laundry mat and ran it seamlessly.

It was nearly impossible for you to say no to the elderly woman that took up residence with her son. She’d make you tea and you’d indulge in cookies as she regaled you with her charming stories from the 40’s.

“She’s a trained killer, ma, she doesn’t have time for this!”

Natasha heard the son’s accented voice muffle it’s way through the phone. She scoffed, and switched her phone to her other ear. You must have put your palm over the receiver because you were garbled too.

“I absolutely have time for this Miss Vazquez.” You returned to your conversation, voice whispered once more. “I don’t have time for this, Nat. I don’t want to break her frail heart. Could you possibly… pick Ronnie up from school?”

Natasha had been rendered silent, which wasn’t a feat that was often achieved in a shocking manner. Usually, if a Romanoff was quiet, they were busy calculating and it was better to avoid the storm brewing behind their eyes. This wasn’t the same kind of soundlessness.

She had to pick her jaw off the floor. Veronica was your entire life, and though Natasha came in for a close second, you would do absolutely anything for that child. You’d walk through fire, and it was testament to your growing trust with Natasha, having her pick your daughter up from school.

“Nat, baby” your voice came through the phone “did I lose you? If it’s too much I can get Darcy to take a later lunch. It’s not a problem at all. I shouldn’t have asked, you’re a busy woman and-“

“I’d love to.”

“Huh?”

“I can pick her up, y/n, really.”

Her palms started to sweat, and Natasha never sweated. She stood up and started to pace the length of her office, entering and exiting the large stream of light that vented in through the window. She listened carefully as you told her word for word how to enter the car line, and what mothers to avoid entirely.

“I’ll call ahead, let them know you’re safe to pick up Ronnie. Thank you for doing this, Natty. I appreciate it.”

She smiled, biting her thumbnail. She stopped at the window and peered out at the newly installed swing set at the edge of the property. So many little things had changed in Natasha’s life over the last year. There were children’s books strewn over the tables and art supplies that Ronnie loved to draw with. This was an extra step. This was the extra step that made her fingers itch for the ring hidden in the false bottom of her desk.

“Darling! Would you like to hear about the night I had with Robert Kennedy?”

“I would love to, Miss Vazquez!” You called back, lowering your voice once more. “I love you, I’ll see you at home. Dinner is on me.”

You had hung up the phone a few moments ago but Natasha kept it against her face for a few moments as if it were an anchor. She had to pick up Ronnie. She had to pick up Ronnie. Natasha was on her feet now, searching the large living room and foyer, and even the nightstands by her bed before she grasped at her keys and sprinted out the door.

Veronia was a girl of very little words, but she was comfortable enough around Natasha to curl into her side during movie nights, little fist clenching onto the fabric of her shirt. Most of the time, she’d fall asleep before the end of the film and Natasha would stare affectionately as you scooped her up and took her to her room.

Now, Natasha sat in the parking lot of the school with blood rushing past her ears. Somehow, the gaggle of mothers that lingered by the release doors were scarier than anything she had ever faced before.

She’d been shot at least four times and had survived them all. She had pulled the trigger herself more times than she could count, but all of curious eyes landing on her sleek black car made her nearly sweat through her t-shirt.

Natasha stalled as long as she could before taking the tentative steps across the asphalt lot. There was a small patch of green grass that seemed to be overwatered if it still held its vibrant color during a late heated day.

Her sunglasses were down over her eyes and she feigned looking at her phone, though she eyed each and every parent that lingered. They were openly staring at her, and she heard a few hushed whispers, absolutely no attempt to muffle their judgements.

“Don’t pay them any mind.”

Natasha startled, not noticing the woman that had sidled up next to her. Her skin was pale, her hair a pitch-black color that must have heated her up on a day like this. She stuck her hand out and Natasha took it carefully, shaking it. “Jessica Jones.”

“Natasha Y/L/N,”

The woman was apprehensive to use her own last name. While she kept a mostly low profile, there were still some people who would clock the name as something familiar. The last thing she needed was someone targeting you, or God-forbid, Ronnie. The words fit perfectly into her mouth like a sweet candy.

“I’ve never seen you around here before, and apparently neither have the vultures with the way they’re circling.”

She couldn’t help but smile “I’m… new. My partner got a little tied up at work and asked me to pick up her daughter.”

“Ah, so you’re that Natasha.” She must have flushed awkwardly, nervously, because Jessica seemed to backtrack. “Nothing bad. There are moms like the women over there who put their entire being into making everything perfectly beige. Then there are moms like y/n and I. Imperfect.”

Natasha’s eyebrows lifted. Each woman that flocked towards the front of the glass doors, waiting excitedly for their children to spill out did have the same look about them. They all wore leggings and different colored pastel shirts. Each one had the same highlights and haircuts, and apprehensive stares.

“We’re out here a lot together, and it was pretty obvious when things started to change for her. With you around, the smile actually reaches her eyes you know?”

The statement warmed Natasha greatly and made the box in her desk weigh heavier on her mind. Of course, she didn’t want to think too much about it, but she also wanted to make sure that you were happy, something you reassured her of over and over again.

Natasha opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the barrage of tiny feet on the sidewalks and grass. There was a sea of runny noses and crinkled papers slathered in different primary colors.

A small boy with dark ringlets of hair crashed into Jessica’s legs clumsily and she let out a large huff of air in response, scooping him up into her arms. He had the most startling blue eyes like his mother and gave Natasha a gap-toothed-goofy smile.

Natasha was searching the crowd for your daughter. It wasn’t like she would call out, that was much too vocal for her and Natasha didn’t blame the girl in the slightest. Through the sea of kids, her eyes locked on Ronnie’s and she gave her an encouraging smile and a small wave.

Veronica’s expression lit up as she dashed the few feet that was separating them. Natasha had the foresight to lean down enough to dampen the impact of her hug. It was quite the rare occasion to be embraced by her, so she savored the spring scent of her.

“Your mama got caught up at work and asked me to pick you up.” Natasha explained, leaning back on her heel, she brushed a strand of hair behind Ronnie’s ear. “What’s that?”

Natasha gently pointed to the picture that was in Veronica’s hand. Her chest welled with pride at the drawing and she would say that it was miles better than any other kid she saw run out with their artwork. Yelena had been right; Ronnie had a beautiful gift that Natasha would pour everything into for as long as she wanted to call it her craft.

This particular scene was a rendition of the large house, too big to fit within the confines of the paper. There was six figures that vaguely resembled each person Natasha knew and loved. A clear grouping had been established.

Kate was smeared in a purple color with dark locks of hair.

Yelena had been drawn next to her, hand and hand.

Clint stood close to them- but not too close- with his signature deep look.

What called to Natasha the most was how Ronnie had grouped her. There was a figure by the edge of the page that was clearly you, down to a tea, and a shorter figure right next to you that was unmistakably Ronnie. The two figures held hands; and on the other side, with her signature deep auburn hair and green eyes, stood Natasha. Her fingers were wrapped around Ronnie’s in the photo, too smudges of color that made the enforcers heart thrum harder than it ever had before.

“This is beautiful,” Natasha breathed, struggling not to let the water that built up in her eyes drip down her cheeks. That would be weird. It would freak Ronnie out. “I love it.”

“You do?” The girl asked.

“I do. In fact, it’s getting framed and hung up immediately.”

It was rare for Ronnie to speak, but it was a prize each time she did. Just like you, Natasha had begun to understand her body language and everything she said with her eyes. It was something she would grow out of, or maybe she would speak with just her art.

Either way, Natasha read her loud and clear.

It was well past ten pm by the time you had pulled yourself away from the laundry mat. You ended up eating dinner with the family despite your repeated refusal. It was some of the best food you have ever eaten and though you missed the quality time with Natasha, the vodka coating on the pasta would have you reeling for weeks.

The house was mostly dark by the time you returned, and you were careful when you let your keys drop into the dish by the door. A soft golden light streamed down the hallway, leading to the kitchen.

Natasha would often partake in a glass of red wine, a record playing softly in the background. It was her time to unwind, to do the dished from dinner and breathe out the stress of the day. Just like any office job. Sometimes she’d use the time to scrub away blood from under her nails as you waited patiently and took sparing sips from her glass despite denying wanting one of your own.

The sink wasn’t on, and the kitchen was mostly silent save for a faucet drip here and there. Natasha leaned against the counter and stared at the moonlit swing set in the yard. It was bathed in just enough pale light to make out the shapes drifting in the light breeze.

You came up behind her, snaking your arms around her waist and resting your head on her shoulder. She shivered against the coolness of your skin, but hugged you tight against her center with a comforting and raspy hum.

“Thank you for picking up Ronnie today,” you mumbled into the side of her neck, “And getting her to bed. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Natasha turned in your arms and had a bit of a pout to her expression that you weren’t expecting. You lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at her. You wanted to kiss that frown right off her lips. You wanted to lull her into a state of content after the long day you’d had.

Almost timidly, she said “We’re a family. That’s what we do.”

God, how long you’d wanted to hear that. This time, you didn’t hesitate to close to the distance between you both. You kissed her softly; you kissed her with so much love that it left you dizzy.

You’d scared away partners before with the prospect of having a daughter. Most of the time, you wouldn’t’ even bring it up until a third date, when you were close to sure. But even then, you’d be left at the restaurant, or the bowling alley, or the movie theatre by yourself once the words left your mouth.

Nothing about your relationship with Natasha had been conventional, however, and each day she shocked you with her tenderness and care for someone she had no responsibility towards. Just letting you and Ronnie move in had been enough. Parenting her? Loving her? It felt beyond reality.

She chuckled into the kiss, running her fingers down your jaw. “I love you too, detka.”

“Mm, seriously, thank you.”

“Do you want to see something?”

You lifted your eyebrows suggestively and earned a light-hearted smack to the shoulder. She wormed her way out of your embrace and crossed the large kitchen to the fridge. When you’d first moved in, it was blank. There was a single wedding invitation tacked up with a magnet for joining the Murdock and Natchios families in matrimony, but even that had been years old.

Now there was something new.

Something that had unmistakably been crafted by Ronnie. The photo was a beautiful mix of colors and mediums and at the very corner in, in blue crayon, were two words; My Family.

[Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

[writerslittlelibrary]

Sharing a safehouse

masterlist

summary: after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?

pairing: Natasha x teen reader

warnings: none

genre: fluff

words: 1645

a/n: I would like a standing applause for the fact that I am posting another fic in the span of a month. it has happened. the apocalypse has struck 

also, have I written this trope before? yes, yes I have. will I be writing this trope again? yes, yes I will

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

The silence is unbearable. It’s not like you were against the quiet, on the contrary. You liked  a calm, quiet environment to work and relax. No, it was the quiet with Natasha that you couldn’t bear. 

You and Natasha never were the best team, mainly because it seemed Natasha just didn’t want anything to do with you. 

You didn’t blame her, truly, you didn’t. You weren’t afraid to admit you were a pretty odd kid. You liked stuffed animals, cartoons, and sometimes, when you were certain no one was watching, you’d open your drawer and take out your dolls. 

It wasn’t like you got to have any fun things when you were a child, and something as simple as a doll would have been harder to acquire than literal gold. 

You weren’t shy about admitting you had a fucked up childhood, and you weren’t shy to be watching Winx Club in the living room of the Avengers compound. It was funny, really, how at first Sam made fun of you, yet slowly started to get more and more invested to the point he would ask you when you were going to start the next episode. 

He was a total Winx Club fan now. 

The rest of the team seemed to pretty much ignore your childish side. Not in a rude manner, but rather in an uninterested manner. They didn’t think you were weird, and you liked it that way. 

Natasha, however, wasn’t at all holding back when she saw you watching a cartoon or coloring at the table.

It wasn’t like she’d get angry, but she would walk away, or give you a look like you were vermin. 

You never quite understood where her disdain for you came from. She was your favourite superhero, yet she treated you like dirt under her shoe. She wasn’t gentle when making her comments, either. 

Sometimes, when you were drawing, she’d make a comment about how you were far too old for such things, and while you were watching a cartoon she’d scoff like you were insane. 

It was a literal cartoon, not the end of the world. 

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring her antics over the past year, but you couldn’t deny that they still stung. Why did she despise you breathing so much?

At the moment, Natasha was caught up in writing her mission report while you were curled up on the couch, which doubled as the bench for the table and the bed you would be sleeping in. 

Tony was fucking loaded. Why the hell was this safehouse a literal trailer?

You were reading Rainbow Magic; Ruby, the Red Fairy. Occasionally, you’d glance up from your book, and you’d catch a glimpse of Natasha’s disapproving stare before she’d continue working. 

Okay, fine, maybe bringing the Rainbow Magic series wasn’t the most strategic plan with such a fairytale hater, but who could blame you? Those fairy books were actually very enjoyable. 

You ignored Natasha’s judgement, finishing your book before you got up, walking to the small cupboard and pulling open the doors.

Expecting for some form of entertainment in this trailer was clearly too much to ask. 

The cupboard didn’t hold much, safe for a few spiders and a bucket of cleaning supplies that looked to be at least two-hundred years past their expiration date. 

And then, at the far top shelf, you could see a chessboard peeking out amongst the shelves.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to reach it, but you got it. 

By now, Natasha had finished her mission report and was studying your every move. Of course, you caught up to her staring almost immediately, and you turned to face her while holding up the chess board. 

“Do you play?” 

Natasha frowned, before sighing and giving you a singular nod. Well, more excitement was clearly too much to ask. 

Natasha leaned forward, clearing the table of her papers and reaching for your book. She half expected her to just throw it on top of your bag in the corner, and you were more than surprised when she picked it up gently and handled it with much more care than you thought her to be capable of. 

When the table was cleared, you put the chess board down, handing Natasha the box that the white pieces were stuffed in. 

“I’m always black,” Natasha said while frowning at the colour of the pieces in the box. 

“Sure.” You passed the box with the black pieces to Natasha while arranging the white pieces on your own playing field. 

Once all the pieces were put in place, Natasha made the first move, to which you immediately responded by putting her piece back in its place. 

“White starts,” you mention as you make your own move.

Natasha huffs but doesn’t protest, instead moving her own pieces to defend against your attack. 

The game continued far into the night, and after playing for nearly three hours, you finally made your last move, trapping Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I let you do that,” Natasha says before rearranging her own pieces. 

“Sure you did,” you respond before placing your own pieces back on the board. 

“Don’t you have to go to bed? It’s far past your bedtime,” Natasha asks, glancing at the clock on the whole. 

“I don’t have a bedtime,” you remark, making your move with the chess piece. 

“You act like a child, yet you don’t go to bed on time?” 

To your surprise, you didn’t hear any judgement in Natasha’s tone. Just pure confusion. A genuine question not meant to insult you. You didn’t expect that. 

You look up at her, frowning before shrugging. 

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares,” you say, counteracting Natasha’s move by blocking her piece. “And even if I wanted to, we’re sitting on my bed.”

As if the evening wasn’t surprising enough, Natasha lets out a huff of amusement. 

“We can share the big bed. It’ll help with the nightmares,” she suggests. 

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the game in the hopes of preventing awkward eye contact. 

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno know. Another presence helps with preventing nightmares or something. There’s a study on it.”

“No, I mean why are you so nice? Why offer to share your bed with me when you normally can’t even stand to share the same room?”

At that, Natasha looks up, a hint of guilt mixed into her usual calm facial expression. 

“It’s not personal,” she says, moving her chess piece. 

“Then what is it? You’ve barely shared one conversation with me since I joined a year ago.”

“You’re a child,” Natasha suddenly says after a moment of silence. There’s venom in her voice, yet you can feel it isn’t directed at you. 

“You should be able to play with your dolls without having to feel the need to hide, and you should be able to go to school and make friends and stupid decisions. You shouldn’t live in a compound with superheroes and fight super villains weekly. You are a child, and you should be able to be one.” 

You fall silent for a moment, shocked at her revelation of knowing about your dolls, and shocked at the amount of emotion hidden under her confession. 

“You don’t hate me?”

Natasha’s head shoots up, tears glistening in her eyes. 

“Hate you? What ever gave you the impression that I hate you?”

You shook your head. “You avoid me, you scoff wherever I’m drawing or watching something in the common room. It feels like you judge me, daily.”

At that, Natasha’s facial expression softens, and her expression turns glum.

“I never meant for you to feel like you were in the wrong, and I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t judging you, I was judging the situation you’re in.” Natasha inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to the chess board and making another move. 

“Fury gave you a choice. Either prison, or joining the Avengers. You never even did anything wrong. You were just a child, graced with powers that no one understood and everyone feared. You didn’t deserve prison, and you didn’t deserve the threat of prison. You deserved a family.”

You sighed. 

“And in a way, I got a family. The Avengers are nice-”

“They’re not your family, they’re your team. There’s a difference. Sure, they care about you, but if they were your family, they’d want you to live a life, rather than become a superhero.”

Natasha fell silent, and at her words, so did you. 

Was she right? If the Avengers were your family, would they want you to live a normal, domestic life somewhere else, rather than the superhero life you were living right now?

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like I hate my life. Just the paperwork,” you remark, moving your queen to once again trap Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I want to work something out, if you’ll let me,” Natasha then said, pouting when you took her king. 

“Like what?” you ask.

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Something that’ll put you off missions, at least until you’re twenty-one or something. Maybe older. Something legal. I mean, you’re not even allowed to drink in the United States. Why the hell are you allowed, or better said, forced, to risk your life daily?”

At that, you snort.

“You make a good point.” 

“We’ll figure something out, I promise,” Natasha states, helping you clear the chessboard and standing up from the bench. 

“Now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s a bakery or something in this god forsaken place.”

You snicker, taking Natasha’s hand and allowing her to lead you. Maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you thought she did. 

Bonus a/n: rainbow magic; Ruby the Red Fairy is the first ever book I read in English.

Edit: I lied. I found the Rainbow Magic book yesterday. It was Erin, the Firebird fairy

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[a-bit-of-writing]

Misfire {Tony Stark x Reader}

Fandom: Marvel

Characters: Tony x Reader

Summary: Tony drops a missile launcher, ignores his comms, and nearly gives you a heart attack. Now you’re storming into the Tower ready to strangle him or maybe just kiss him. Depends how the apology goes.

It’s the fourth time you’ve replayed the footage.

Even muted, the video is infuriating: a Stark Industries-built launcher slipping from Tony’s grip mid-hover, crashing down toward a civilian zone – your zone – before veering off at the last second, narrowly missing a cluster of crates. And you.

He didn’t answer his comm for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of silence. Fifteen minutes where the worst possibilities clawed into your chest.

You storm into the penthouse with smoke still clinging to your clothes, your palms scraped raw from the rubble. The elevator doors slide open too smoothly for how badly you want to kick them.

The lights are dim, the skyline beyond the glass soaked in orange dusk, and there he is – lounging on the couch like he didn’t almost give you a heart attack. Like today was just another problem solved, another life nearly lost.

Yours.

He doesn’t look up as you enter, just raises his glass lazily, swirling the amber liquid with that maddening nonchalance.

“Before you say anything,” he says, without looking, “I just want it on record that I was right. Technically.”

You stop, pulse hammering, voice ice-edged.

“You dropped a missile launcher off a building, Tony.”

He turns his head, finally meeting your eyes. There’s a flicker of something there – regret, maybe – but it’s buried under layers of practiced calm.

“You weren’t directly under it.”

“I should’ve whacked you over the head with the damn thing,” you snap, stalking toward him. “Would’ve made about as much sense as whatever that was supposed to be.”

One brow lifts. “Is this still part of the apology or have we moved on to threats of bodily harm?”

The silence that follows is sharp.

You hate this. This dance you two always do. The jokes, the misdirection, the constant edge of almost saying what you mean.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, voice quiet now. “For fifteen minutes, I thought I was going to walk into a crater with your body at the center.”

The glass in his hand stills. Something in his jaw tightens.

“I didn’t mean to lose the comms,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, more grounded. “There was a blast – took out the HUD. I fixed it. I was fixing it.”

You cross your arms, resisting the urge to look away. “You always fix things after the damage is done.”

He sets the glass down and rises slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal. You don’t move. You’re not angry, not really. You’re scared. And Tony Stark – he’s too damn good at pretending he’s not.

“I’m not invincible,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

“Do you?”

His smile is crooked, tired. “Most days? No. But I like pretending. It keeps me going. Keeps me from realizing just how close I come to screwing everything up.”

Your arms fall to your sides as he steps closer, hesitating just before touching you. His voice drops to something almost reverent.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s raw. Honest. No deflection this time.

“I know,” you whisper.

And just like that, the space between you collapses.

He wraps his arms around you like a man who just survived something he hasn’t processed yet. You press your face into his shoulder, letting his warmth settle the storm inside you. His fingers thread through your hair, grounding himself in you. No suit. No shield. Just skin and heartbeat and breath.

“You’re still infuriating,” you mumble against him.

He lets out a low chuckle, his mouth brushing your hair. “And you still love me anyway.”

“…That’s still up for review.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, that spark returning to his eyes. “Well then, I better start convincing you. Waffles? Foot rub? A customized missile with your name on it?”

You smile despite yourself. “You ever flirt like a normal person?”

Tony grins. “Never claimed to be one.”