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sunni-stuff · 5 months ago

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All they could give you was a symbol—a medal, small yet unbearably heavy in your palm, its weight nothing compared to the grief settling in your chest. It was meant to be an honor, a token of his sacrifice.

There was no uniform, no familiar scent of oak and Ives lingering on fabric, not even remnants of his mask worn and frayed from years of use. Nothing tangible to hold onto, nothing that felt like him. Just this medal, cold and unyielding, a poor replacement for the man who had once filled your world with warmth.

The air felt thick, suffocating. Price stood before you, his head bowed, hands clenched at his sides, unable to meet your eyes. Maybe because he knew—knew that this wasn’t enough, knew that no medal, no folded letter of condolences, no words could ever replace the life that had been stolen from you.

Your fingers tightened around the medal, nails digging into your palm as if holding onto it tightly enough could somehow bridge the impossible gap between the past and now. As if it could bring him back. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

The questions flowed before your tears. How? When? Where? Was he absolutely sure that Ghost—no—Simon, your Simon, was truly gone?

There’s a loud silence, the kind that bounces off the walls with its intensity. Gaz stares at your weeping form, or more accurately, stares through you, steeling his gaze upon you as he says—

"Confidential."

Gaz's voice was steady, but the weight of that single word shattered everything. It rendered your questions useless, left an empty void where answers should have been. There would be no closure, no understanding of why—just a truth you weren’t ready to accept.

Johnny shifted uncomfortably beside you, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee before he spoke. “His pension… it’s there for you.” His voice was gentler than usual, words carefully chosen, but they felt hollow.

As if money could ever fill the gaping wound Simon left behind.

Your gaze flickered toward the stairs, toward the only piece of him that remained—the little one asleep upstairs, curled beneath a starry blanket, blissfully unaware. Too young to understand that his father would never be coming home. Too innocent to know that the world had just taken something irreplaceable from him before he even had the chance to hold onto it.

Loss had never felt so deafening.

He was gone. Just like that.

The one who had carved his name onto your heart with stupid jokes that always made you roll your eyes, with brown eyes that saw through every guarded piece of you—vanished. No warning. No final words. Just a pebble sinking into still water, disappearing beneath the surface while the ripples of his absence spread endlessly outward, touching everything, unraveling everything.

His absence wasn’t just an empty space—it was something alive, something that pressed against you from every direction, filling in the cracks he left behind. It clung to the air, heavy and unshakable, an echo of him that refused to fade. And it was everywhere.

The house still smelled like him. Coffee and cedarwood, the faint trace of his cologne that had seeped into the fabric of the couch, the sheets, the very walls. His mug sat abandoned in the sink, a ghost of a morning that would never come again. His jacket hung by the door, his shoes still beside yours, untouched. As if he had only just stepped out, as if he might walk back in at any moment.

It was absurd, really, how the world dared to keep spinning when yours had come to a violent halt.

Grief wasn’t loud, not like they made it seem in movies. It wasn’t a storm of screaming and crying, not always. Sometimes, it was the unbearable silence that pressed against your chest in the middle of the night, where his warmth used to be. It was waking up and, for one blissful second, forgetting—only to remember again with a force so brutal it stole the breath from your lungs.

And what were you supposed to do now? Go on? Move forward? How, when every step away from this moment felt like a betrayal? Like you were leaving him behind in a past that no longer existed, while you were forced to exist in a future he would never see?

For the first few months, you put one foot ahead of the other, treading through grief as if carrying a wounded soldier through combat. Each step was heavy, weighted with loss, but you took them anyway—because what else was there to do? Grief wrapped itself around you, clinging like a second skin, suffocating yet familiar, a constant presence in the quiet spaces he used to fill.

But so did hope.

Faint at first, like a flicker in the dark, barely there. It lived in the steady rise and fall of your son’s chest as he slept, in the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around yours. It was in the mornings you forced yourself to wake up, in the days that stretched forward even when you wanted time to stop. In the darkest nights, when the weight of loneliness pressed down on you like a suffocating fog, you held onto his words, the ones he whispered against your skin, against your lips, when he was still here—I’ll always come back to you.

You'll stay waiting.

Every night, every morning. Through birthdays and quiet moments at the dinner table, through the scraped knees and bedtime stories. You told Leo his father was out there, fighting his way home, that one day he’d walk through that door like no time had passed. You painted a picture so vivid, so real, that sometimes—just sometimes—you could almost believe it yourself.

And Leo, with his father’s sharp eyes and your steady heart, listened. He never questioned. He never doubted. He simply *believed*, because you did.

Even as the years passed, as his baby fat melted away into the angular features of a young man, as his voice deepened and his stance mirrored the quiet strength of a man he never met, you held fast and he never once asked you to stop telling those stories.

Simon would return.

He had to.

And until he does, you'll wait, even if your skin begins to wrinkles and your memory begins to fade.

You were told to let go, that your endless waiting would be for naught, that the man you called your husband wouldn’t be stepping through the front door anymore. Some were gentle in their suggestions, others blunt, but they all carried the same message—move on. Remarry. Start over.

They didn’t understand.

No man could ever be Simon Riley.

You shut it down swiftly, time and time again. To every well-meaning friend, every hopeful stranger, every persistent suitor—you made it clear. You were not interested. You were still happily married. The ring on your finger was proof of that, a quiet testament to a love that neither death nor time could erase. Your beating heart, steady and unyielding, was an extension of the hope you carried deep inside, the belief that somehow, somewhere, Simon was still with you.

The years pressed heavy on your shoulders. Doubt crept in like a shadow, whispering cruel what-ifs in the dead of night. But you refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you clung to his words, the ones he left behind, spoken in the deep rasp that had once been your home. Words of love, of promises made, of a future you had built together.

And so, you waited. Not because you were lost in grief, not because you were afraid to move forward, but because love—real, true love—did not simply fade.

Because he never lied.

And if he wasn’t back yet, it only meant one thing.

He was still trying to find his way home.

Your endless rejections stirred whispers in the neighborhood. Boys—never men in your eyes, not with their arrogance—took turns trying to woo the widow who remained steadfast in her belief that her dead husband would return. They called you insane for waiting on a ghost, convinced that one of them should rightfully claim the hand of someone as beautiful as you. But if your cold no wasn’t enough to deter them, Leo was.

Your son stood tall, a quiet force of nature. His glare alone was enough to send would-be suitors scurrying, the cold glint in his eyes promising consequences for anyone foolish enough to try and take his father’s place. Yet, for you, his mother, that steel melted into something soft. Devotion ran deep in his veins. Whether by your side or not, he was always protecting you.

That much was clear when, on his way home from school, he was stopped by Anthony—the worst of them all. Ruthless, persistent, always flanked by lackeys who clung to his every word. Leo tried to sidestep him, choosing to ignore the man who had been a thorn in your side for years. But then, Anthony’s voice cut through the air, crude and dripping with mockery.

"When is your tramp of a mother gonna find a new husband?”

Leo froze mid-step. The words, crude and venomous, burned into his mind, igniting something primal deep in his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he slowly turned to face Anthony.

The older man smirked, arms crossed over his chest, flanked by his usual lackeys who snickered behind him like hyenas waiting for a kill. They had always been vultures, circling, waiting for you to break under the weight of grief and loneliness. But you hadn’t. And neither had Leo.

He met Anthony’s gaze head-on, eyes sharp and unyielding. “Say that again,” Leo challenged, his voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that sent a chill through the air.

Anthony scoffed, stepping forward, puffing up his chest as if his age alone would be enough to intimidate Leo. “You heard me, kid. Everyone’s sick of watching her waste away, waiting on a dead man. She needs someone real.” His lips curled, voice dipping into something cruel. “You need a father.”

The crack of Leo’s fist connecting with Anthony’s jaw echoed down the street. The man stumbled, caught off guard, his cronies recoiling in shock. Leo didn’t stop. His knuckles struck again, again, fury pouring out in sharp, brutal movements. Years of biting his tongue, of standing guard while men like Anthony circled like wolves, all of it exploded in that moment.

Leo was outnumbered, but that didn’t stop him. He threw every ounce of his strength into his punches, his breath ragged, his body shaking—not just with rage, but with something deeper. Something that had been buried since the day his father disappeared. The bruises blooming across his skin were nothing compared to the weight he carried on his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, he was yanked backward. A strong grip seized his collar, wrenching him away from the fight. Leo's head snapped back, his teeth bared, ready to snarl at whoever dared to interfere—until he saw him.

Uncle Price.

The older man's weathered eyes were dark with anger as they took in the scene before him. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the look he shot at Anthony and his crew was enough to make them hesitate, stepping back just enough to feign innocence.

"Come on, son," Price said, voice firm but steady.

Leo exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag. He cast one last glare at the group, knuckles still throbbing, heart still pounding. But it didn’t matter.

He had a home to get back to. A mother to protect.

You were devastated when Leo came home, his face a bloody mess. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Without thinking, you rushed to him, a damp cloth in hand, gently cradling his face as you pressed it against his bruises.

Your lips parted, ready to demand what had happened—but the look in his eyes told you everything.

This was the consequence of your refusal. Of your unwavering devotion to a ghost. They wouldn’t come for you. No, they would take their anger out on your son—the boy who had done nothing wrong, who only wanted to protect you. The thought turned your stomach.

You couldn't allow this to continue.

So, in the days that followed, you devised a plan. A challenge.

If the men wanted to prove themselves worthy, they would have to earn it. Earn being your husband. Bring back game—the largest boar they could find. But there were conditions. It had to be taken down with a single shot, clean and precise. And it had to be done using the same model as your husband’s prized hunting rifle. No knives. No second chances. Just one bullet.

However, you knew—none of them had a shot that clean. Not these half-men who could barely hold a rifle, let alone wield it with precision. Their hands were too soft, untouched by real work, never having held anything heavier than their own egos.

They would try, of course. Driven by pride, by the foolish belief that brute force could replace skill. But you had no doubt—each one would fail.

Maybe then, they would finally understand.

Much to your surprise, over the course of weeks, some of them actually tried. And, as expected, they failed spectacularly.

One managed to hit himself in the nose from the recoil, clearly never having held a rifle in his life. Another showed up at your door grinning ear to ear, proudly presenting a pig instead of a boar. You slammed the door in his face without a word.

Anthony was the one who nearly had you convinced—his boar was of fair size, impressive even. But one look at the wound told you everything you needed to know. The bullet hole was too wide. A different rifle. A different shot.

The door slammed in his face, too.

This little game of yours went on for some time, keeping them preoccupied and keeping them far away from you and your son. That's what mattered.

Days after his rejection, Anthony grew restless, his anger festering like an open wound. He was a storm barely contained, his temper so volatile that even those who usually followed him began to keep their distance.

Seated at the bar, he gripped his drink so tightly it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter in his hands. Around him, the air was thick with frustration—every man in this room had either failed in their attempts to win your hand or was still trying. Their collective agitation simmered beneath the weight of another humiliating failure.

Anthony’s voice slithered through the murmurs of the bar, wrapping around the ears of every man who had tasted rejection at your hands. His knuckles flexed, still white from how tightly he had gripped his drink moments ago.

"Can't you guys see we're being played?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade. He sneered, his lip curling. "How she holds us down while her bed gets colder. Holds us down while that boy gets bolder?"

The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his grin as he leaned forward, watching their faces twist with realization.

"Here and now, there's a chance for action."

That was the hook. He had them now. A shared glint of hunger flashed in their eyes, their minds shifting in unison. Some sat up straighter, others exhaled slow and deep, as if steeling themselves for the promise of something wicked.

Anthony pushed himself up onto the table, boots thudding against the wood. He stood tall, eyes dark and wild, his tone dropping to a low whisper despite the fact that every soul in the bar was already watching him.

"I say, we deal with the kid first. When he walks back from school tomorrow, we hold him down."

A pause, letting the weight of those words settle over them like a shroud. His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light.

"We hold him down while I break his pride, his trust, his faith—" his fingers flexed, miming a snap, "—and his bones."

A slow, creeping murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The men weren’t just listening anymore. They were envisioning it.

"We cut him down into tiny pieces," he continued, voice thick with malice, "then throw him where she'll never know."

A few heads nodded. Some sipped their drinks, lips curling with a sick sort of anticipation.

"And when she wonders where her dear son has gone, only the earth and the trees will know."

A hush fell over them, as if nature itself was listening, horrified.

"When the deed is done, she'll have no one to stop us from breaking her door. No one to stop us from taking her love..." He let the last words drip from his lips, dragging them out like poison.

"And more."

If any of these men had an ounce of sense—if they had learned from the old tales whispered by their grandfathers about watching the dark, about never turning their backs on the unknown—they would have known to be afraid. They would have felt the weight of something beyond their understanding, lurking just outside the glow of the dim lights.

But none of them did.

None of them noticed the figure standing in the corner, veiled in shadow, unmoving, listening. None of them realized that the dark had teeth, nor that it had been waiting.

Anthony barked out a laugh, a cruel, vile thing that reeked of arrogance. The devil inside him knew no limits, no fear. "Tomorrow, my frien—"

The words barely left his tongue before the gunshot cracked through the air, a sharp and deafening roar.

The bullet found its mark with merciless precision, punching straight through his throat. His body jolted, hands flying up as if to claw at the gaping wound before his knees buckled, sending him collapsing onto the table. Blood gushed, dark and pooling fast, soaking into the wood.

The bar plunged into silence.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

They all stared, wide-eyed and frozen, at the lifeless husk of the man who had been standing, laughing, just moments ago. His glass, still half-full, teetered on the edge of the table before toppling over, the liquid spilling into the growing crimson.

Then—movement.

Eyes flicked toward the corner, toward the place where something had lurked unseen. A figure moved, gliding toward the light switch, silent as death itself.

The room plunged into darkness.

Gunfire.

It erupted like a storm, a relentless barrage that tore through the heavy air, each shot finding its home in flesh and bone. The men barely had time to scream. Shadows danced with the flashes of gunshots, their shapes twisting and writhing like specters, like the very vengeance that had come to claim them.

Retribution had arrived. And it showed no mercy.

Bodies lay sprawled across the floor in twisted, unnatural positions, men crumpled in their final moments, their faces frozen in shock and agony. Those still alive—those still breathing—scrambled in the chaos, tripping over their fallen comrades, their movements frantic, uncoordinated.

One of Anthony’s right-hand men, a stocky figure with a buzzed head, his eyes wide with panic, reached for a pocket knife. His fingers fumbled in desperation, clumsy as the adrenaline surged through his veins, his body bracing for a fight he knew he was never going to win. His hand was shaking, but he gripped the hilt with a last-ditch hope, his stance poised for the slash—except it never came.

A blade—cold, precise—pressed against his neck, the tip sinking into the flesh just below his ear. The faintest shift of pressure, and it would be over. The edge of the blade kissed his carotid artery, the promise of death within a breath.

He froze, eyes wide, unable to even speak as the weight of the situation crushed him. His body trembled as the reality hit—there was no escape, no hope of survival. Not anymore.

"I’m sorry!" he gasped, his voice trembling with desperation.

His hands shot up in surrender, palms facing out, a desperate plea for life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The blade remained at his throat, unwavering, a constant reminder of his impending fate.

A scoff brushed against his ear, low and humorless. The sound alone sent ice down his spine. Slowly, with the caution of a man facing the reaper himself, he turned his head just enough to see—

Those eyes.

Weathered, sharp as broken glass, burning with a vengeance too deep to be mortal.

A ghost.

A man they had long thought dead.

The knife against his throat pressed just a little harder, just enough to let him feel the edge of death. His pulse pounded beneath the steel, his breath coming in frantic, uneven gasps.

He swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. He had been so sure Simon was dead. They all were. It had been years—too many years. The man they had spoken of in past tense, the man whose wife they had planned to take like a prize, was supposed to be gone.

But here he was.

And the look in his eyes…

Those were not the eyes of a man who had merely returned. They were the eyes of something risen from the grave, something that had crawled its way out of hell itself.

“Please,” the man whimpered again, his hands trembling in the air. “Please, have mercy.”

A scoff. Low. Cold.

"Mercy?" Riley's voice was rough, hoarse from years of silence, of waiting, of watching from the shadows. "You want mercy?"

The man could only nod, his throat too tight for words.

Riley leaned in, just enough for the stench of blood and sweat to mix between them. His grip on the knife never wavered.

"You were gonna take my boy from me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet it carried more weight than any gunshot. "Hold him down. Cut him into pieces. Make his mother beg."

The man's lips quivered. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come.

Riley exhaled slowly, the sound eerily steady, controlled. "You prayed on a widow. Plotted against a child. And now you’re askin’ me for mercy?"

The man's whole body shook. He opened his mouth to beg, to say anything—

But the blade slit his throat before he ever got the chance.

A wet gurgle bubbled from his lips as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor, his hands grasping at the wound in a desperate, useless attempt to hold in what was already lost.

Simon stepped back, his expression unreadable, watching as the life drained from the man's eyes.

Then, silence.

The only thing left in that bar was death.

The rain was a heavy, persistent downpour that splattered against the windows, casting an eerie, wavering glow across the room. The knock came again, soft but insistent, like a warning or a plea. It tugged at you, pulling you from the safety of your quiet home, the stillness of the night broken by this unexpected disturbance.

The rain pounded relentlessly against the windows, its rhythmic assault filling the silence of the house like a constant whisper. The storm outside was a living thing, roaring in the night as though it, too, were trying to get your attention. And then that knock. Soft at first, almost imperceptible under the storm's roar, but then again, louder, more urgent, as if something—or someone—knew you were inside, knew you were awake even though the rest of the world seemed to be asleep.

You hesitated, standing at the base of the stairs, your eyes glancing at Leo, curled up on the couch, oblivious to the world around him. He looked so peaceful, his steady breathing a stark contrast to the storm. You could feel your chest tighten as a wave of protectiveness washed over you. Quietly, you crossed the room and covered him with a blanket, smoothing the fabric over his slouched form as you whispered a prayer under your breath for his peace, for his safety. You didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to risk something happening to him while you were gone.

But that knock—it pulled at you. It felt like a summons, a call from somewhere deep within your soul, urging you forward, pushing you away from the comfort of your quiet home. With a soft sigh, you moved toward the door, the floor beneath your feet creaking with each step. The coldness of the wood seemed to bite into your skin as you walked past Leo, your steps careful and measured, as if the house itself was trying to hold you back, to keep you safe.

When you reached the door, it stood like a shadow before you, dark and looming. The doorknob was cool in your hand, as though it had been waiting for you to open it. You paused, your heart hammering in your chest, a knot of unease twisting in your stomach. It was an unnatural feeling, a sense that something was not right, that this moment was different from all the others before it. Another knock came, more forceful, more demanding.

Something inside you stirred, and with a shaky breath, you turned the knob. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Standing before you, drenched to the bone, was a man—a shadow of a person. His clothes were stained in dark red, the blood soaking through the fabric in patches, his hair matted and wild, blown in odd directions by the wind. His face was pale, a look of exhaustion and pain etched across it, yet there was something eerily familiar about the figure in front of you. His body swayed slightly, as though he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own.

But it wasn’t the blood, nor the state of him that caught your attention. No, it was the nose. That crooked nose, bent in a way that only one person in your life had—one person you hadn’t seen in years. A person you’d thought lost to time, to memory.

The tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, the sobs catching in your throat. The man’s eyes—wide, filled with a pain you couldn’t quite place—met yours, and in that moment, your body went cold, then warm, then cold again.

It was him.

The man you've been waiting for.

Your arms wrapped around him without a second thought, the years of waiting, of hoping, of believing that Simon would somehow return, crashing into you all at once. The blood staining his clothes, the heavy scent of sweat, dirt, and blood—none of it mattered. He was here, in front of you, breathing, alive.

“Simon,” you whispered his name like a prayer, clutching him tighter as though he might slip away if you let go. Your fingers dug into his back, feeling the cold chill of his skin beneath the wet fabric. It wasn’t real, you told yourself. This couldn’t be real, could it? But the steady beat of his heart, the warmth radiating from his chest, told you it was.

He was home.

The words barely formed on your lips, your throat tight with emotion as you lifted your face to meet his. His eyes were distant, clouded with confusion and pain, but there was recognition there—faint, but it was enough. His arms, weak and trembling, slid around you, holding you with a sense of desperation that mirrored your own.

“I—I never stopped waiting for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. Tears ran down your face, unbidden, falling into the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that Simon was here. He had come back to you, to the family he had left behind. Your heart, which had once ached with the loss, now soared with the joy of his return.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was a beat of silence where all you could hear was the heavy rain, the sound of his shallow breathing, and the thudding of your heart. He was here, alive, but something was off. He wasn’t the Simon you remembered. He was different—haunted, broken. His fingers gripped your arms, his touch gentle yet firm, as if afraid to let you slip from his grasp.

“I never… I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead,” you murmured, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I never gave up on you, Simon. I knew you were out there.”

The way he stiffened in your arms made you pull back slightly, your hands still on his chest, your eyes searching his face. The blood, the grime, the weathered look of him—he was a far cry from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago. The memory of his mission, the last time you had seen him before the war had swallowed him whole, gnawed at your mind.

“I—I didn’t want you to wait for me,” Simon finally rasped, his voice raw, broken. His words trembled in the air, caught between a confession and regret. “I never meant to come back like this…”

You shook your head, brushing his hair from his face gently, as if touching him could somehow undo all the pain of the years you’d spent apart.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm that raged inside you. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

But even as you spoke, something in his eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them, making you wonder if this was truly the Simon you had known. Had the years away from you broken him too? Had they taken away more of him than just his body?

But before you could ask, his hands reached up, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as though he were memorizing your features, like you might disappear at any moment.

“I won’t leave you again,” he whispered his promise hoarsely, his voice full of something too raw to name.

“Good,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your own hands trembling as they cradled his face, pulling him closer. "Because I’ll never let you go again."

For the first time in years, you felt whole. Simon was home, and despite the blood, the rain, and the years apart, nothing else mattered and when Leo awoke, the unfinished chapter in their lives for so long would finally close.

-- Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #happy valentine's day #anyone who can tell what this is based off of gets a kiss

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meenaxskz · 20 days ago

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you lost the handcuffs keys (bf!bangchan x reader)

drabble | bf!bangchan x reader au genre: light smut (just in case…but mostly crack) | crack warnings: mature suggestive content | language Summary: chan finally lets you take control in bed. you bring out the fluffy pink handcuffs and have the night of your life until it ends and you realize… you lost the keys. a/n : omg i know i vanished again i'm so sorry life’s been lifing but i promise i’m alive!! and actually working on a long hyunjin series 👀 you’ll see what i mean soon hehe. in the meantime, here’s a little chan x reader so you know i haven’t evaporated lol

tonight was your moment.

your villain arc. your dom debut.

chan looked up at you all smug and shirtless and said “i’ll let you be in charge tonight” and you said bet. you meant it with your whole chest.

you straddled him, whispered filthy things, and whipped out your secret weapon:

fluffy pink handcuffs.

he blinked.

you said “just trust me”

he said “okay babe”

you cuffed him to the headboard, kissed down his chest, and ruined him for like an hour straight. he moaned. whined. begged. called you “ma’am” at one point (he denies it now).

and now it’s over…

you flop next to him, smug, breathless, glowing. he smiles at you, wrists still cuffed, all blissed out and ruined.

“okay” he’s panting “you can uncuff me now”

you reach for the keys. and pause. then check again.

“uhh…”

he raises an eyebrow “...what.”

“don’t panic” you say immediately. too fast. too suspicious.

“WHY WOULD I PANIC”

you sit up. open the drawer. then the other drawer. then under the bed. you pull the blanket off the bed. check under his thigh.

nothing.

“babe?” he watches you flip over a pillow aggressively “WHERE ARE THE KEYS”

“I DON’T KNOW”

“WHAT”

“I DON’T KNOWWWWWW” you scream fully flailing now “I HAD THEM AND THEN I DIDN’T AND I THINK I KICKED THEM INTO THE VOID”

he stares at you. full blown handsome disappointment.

“y/n” his voice calm but deeply scary “if you don’t uncuff me in the next five minutes i’m going to sue.”

you fake a laugh “for what??”

“improper horny procedure”

“okay no. no no no. we can fix this”

20 minutes later:

he’s still cuffed. still sweaty.

you’ve now tried:

a bobby pin

a paperclip

googling “how to pick handcuffs”

threatening the handcuffs verbally

blaming him for looking too hot and “distracting you”

“i’m gonna start crying” chan mutters “i can’t feel my left shoulder”

“shhh” you say, digging through the drawer again “i found something that might work”

“...what is that”

“...strawberry lube.”

he goes silent.

“i’ve watched macgyver. i got this.” he’s sweating.

“why do we have strawberry lube”

“...it smells good?”

“that is not…” he starts then exhales “FINE. FINE JUST GET ME OUT”

you lube the inside of the cuffs like a crazy person. he’s watching you. deadpan.

arms still cuffed. thighs still spread. dick still out.

it slides off. you shriek: “OH MY GOD I’M A GENIUS”

he sits up. rubs his wrists. squints at you.

“…don’t be mad” you whisper.

he leans forward slowly. grabs your waist. throws you onto the bed. you scream

“you’re not allowed to be in charge for at least six months”

“but babe. i freed you.!”

“...with lube”

you smile “i problem solved”

he groans “you’re banned”

“...but i already ordered a leash?”

“NO”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

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sunarryn · 3 months ago

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DP X Marvel #8

By day, Danny Fenton was Midtown High’s hottest disaster. He was the Stark STEM Scholar—one of only three in the country—famously discovered after winning some obscure international quantum physics competition at age sixteen and allegedly giving a presentation that made Tony Stark laugh, cry, and threaten to adopt him in the same breath.

The problem was that Danny had no clue he was hot.

Like, he genuinely didn’t know. He thought people stared at him because of his weird vibe or maybe because he once muttered “parallel dimension colonoscopy” during a psych quiz and the rumor never died. He figured the occasional lingering looks were because people thought he was gonna go feral and try to bite someone (which was fair). He wore hoodies three sizes too big, drank energy drinks like water, mumbled through conversations, and ducked away from people like a scared little gremlin.

Meanwhile, the rest of Midtown was losing its mind over him.

In particular Peter Parker was losing his goddamn mind over him.

It started innocent enough. Peter had just been minding his business, doing his whole friendly-neighborhood-academically-overachieving schtick, when in walked him—Danny Fenton, with a bag slung over his shoulder, silver earrings glinting in the light like a warning sign (courtesy of Sam, who declared, “If you’re gonna be mysterious and broody, at least be aesthetically consistent.”) His hoodie looked like it had a body count. His cheekbones could slice vibranium. His eyes were dead, like truly void-of-soul dead, and Peter’s first thought wasn’t even “oh, new kid.” It was “I want him to step on me.”

Peter, poor, unsuspecting Peter, had his first-ever sexual panic as Danny plopped down in the seat next to Peter and promptly fell asleep face-first on the desk with a muttered, “If I die during lecture, bury me in a black hole.”

He was in real time was realizing he was a bisexual disaster. Danny didn’t notice. Because of course he didn’t. He just blinked at Peter like he couldn’t tell if he was real, offered a crooked half-smile, and then walked away like he hadn’t just lit Peter’s soul on fire and then pissed on the ashes.

Every day since had been a goddamn trial.

Peter had spent the first week internally screaming.

The second week, he started writing hate poetry. By the third, he was doodling “P. Parker-Fenton” in the corners of his calculus notes like a 12-year-old girl.

“Dude,” Ned had said, catching him mid-sketch. “You’re literally Spider-Man. Act like it.”

Peter flipped him off with the enthusiasm of someone spiraling.

See, Danny was not just hot. He was dangerously hot. Apocalyptically hot. End-of-days, angels-weeping-in-the-streets hot. But it was more than that—Danny had this vibe, like he could kill you or cry on you or accidentally invent interdimensional travel with a paperclip and a Diet Coke. He muttered equations under his breath, got into passive-aggressive debates with teachers, and once fixed the lab’s particle accelerator by kicking it.

And Peter couldn’t look away. Not that he was the only one.

The kicker, the absolute cherry on top of the chaos sundae? Everyone thought Danny and Black Cat had dated. The way Danny would scowl, rant, and complain like he was personally offended by Black Cat’s existence? Peak scorned lover energy.

“He thinks he’s slick, but he’s just a glorified stripper with daddy issues and too many backflips,” Danny once said in class and the teacher had to excuse herself.

“I swear I’m gonna develop a neurotoxin specifically to neutralize dumbass vigilantes with cat kinks,”

Everyone assumed Black Cat dumped him.

Peter, in his infinite genius, thought: oh my god, Danny’s still not over him.

Peter had almost passed out. Because here was the thing: he was Spider-Man. And Black Cat was his worst problem since midterms. He had arrived like a menace out of hell and a bisexual’s fever dream: black skintight tech suit (developed by who-the-fuck-knows), long white hair, with a domino mask and toxic green eyes, and with an ass so perfect Peter couldn’t even swing straight half the time.

Seriously. There’d be villains throwing grenades, and Peter would be getting motorboated by thighs. There was groping. There was flirting. There was one time Black Cat bit his ear and whispered, “Miss me, pretty boy?” and Peter crashed into a billboard.

He’d tried everything. He webbed Black Cat’s legs. Black Cat purred and called him “kinky.” He yelled. Black Cat called it “foreplay.” He threatened to arrest him. Black Cat licked his cheek and said, “Book me, officer.”

Peter had screamed into his pillow for three hours.

It wasn’t even just the flirting. Black Cat had the most obscene agility Peter had ever seen. He moved like he was born in zero gravity. Feline, fluid, and just a little too dramatic, like he knew exactly how good he looked vaulting off rooftops with his ass perfectly lit by the moonlight.

Peter hated him.

He also maybe wanted to kiss him until his lungs gave out.

Worse yet? Peter was starting to like the bastard. His timing was always perfect. His gadgets were weirdly high-tech. He had a talent for saving people and then disappearing with a little salute and a wink that made Peter’s skin itch.

And then there was that kiss.

One week ago. Midtown Bank. Hostage situation. They cleared the building together, Peter bleeding, dazed, and vibrating with adrenaline.

Black Cat had grabbed his face—grabbed his face—and said, “You’re my favorite arachnid, you know that?” and kissed him full on the mouth, through the mask.

Peter hadn’t spoken a full sentence since.

Meanwhile, Danny was in class the next day, legs crossed, sipping a disgusting Monster-Latte hybrid, and saying, “What kind of vigilante triple flips over a fire hydrant for no reason? Just run, you overdramatic bastard.”

Peter, in a cold sweat, nodded and said “yeah totally” in the voice of someone whose soul had left his body.

And Danny. Danny had no idea.

Because Danny was the goddamn Black Cat.

He hadn’t meant to become a vigilante again. The plan had been normalcy. New town, new school, no more ghost crap. He was gonna do his best, keep his grades up, pretend he was just some regular nerd with caffeine addiction and unresolved trauma.

Then a ghost tried to possess the mayor.

So. Yeah.

Ghosts were still following him. And New York didn’t have a Phantom. It had Spider-Man, sure, but Spider-Man didn’t fight intangible poltergeists or ancient Babylonian curses riding the 6 train.

Danny had no choice.

He did not name himself. He wanted to be called Specter. Or Eclipse. Something cool and ominous.

But no. Someone caught a blurry photo of his suit and labeled it Black Cat, and the media ran with it. Because of course they did.

“What part of me says feline?!” Danny groaned, head in his hands.

“You land on your feet,” Jazz offered.

“You hissed at a reporter once,” Sam added.

“Your thighs jiggle like a cat when you run,” Tucker said while texting.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, peeling into his skin-tight tech suit. “Let’s lean into the bit.”

He redesigned his suit. Added some claws. Built in some stealth mods. Accidentally made it a little too form-fitting. Like. A lot. And took notes from DC comics’ Selina Kyle’s Catwoman.

Jazz called it pornographic. Sam said it was camp. Tucker just sent a picture of the suit’s ass shot and wrote “God is testing me.”

But it worked. People were scared of him. Or thirsty. Usually both. And if Spider-Man wanted to play, then Danny was gonna play.

He didn’t expect Spider-Man to be this hot, though.

Danny had zero intentions of flirting with him at first. But then Spider-Man showed up with that stupid voice, that stupid righteous attitude, that stupid perfect thighs, and Danny’s brain short-circuited. The sarcasm kicked in. The smirks. The shameless groping.

And then he kissed him. Because why not? No one would know.

Except now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Spider-Man’s breath had hitched. His hands had clutched Danny’s suit like he didn’t want to let go. His knees almost gave out. Danny had felt it.

And now he was spiraling.

Because, uh. He was also kind of in love with Peter Parker. Like. A lot. The boy was brilliant, funny, painfully kind, and so pretty it gave Danny a stomach ache. But Danny couldn’t flirt with Peter because he was Black Cat, and he couldn’t flirt with Spider-Man because he was Danny.

His life was a joke.

Because Danny had no clue. About anything.

He didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man. He didn’t know Peter was spiraling into an identity meltdown because the boy he lowkey flirted with in calc was also the boy he highkey flirted with on rooftops. He didn’t know Peter was fantasizing about both of him like some bisexual train wreck with a death wish.

While for Peter? He didn’t know what he wanted more—Danny, or Black Cat.

The nerd with the hoodie and the caffeine addiction, who muttered to himself in code and looked at equations like they personally offended him? Or the cocky, sleek, thigh-baring menace who called him “pretty boy” and kissed him mid-battle just to watch him panic?

Peter was going insane.

Every time Black Cat landed in front of him, Peter had to actively fight the urge to sniff him like a lunatic. Every time Danny leaned over his desk to scribble notes, Peter’s soul left his body.

There was no winning.

“Someday,” Danny said one night, sitting on a rooftop as Black Cat and watching the skyline, “You are gonna figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Peter as Spider-Man said, trying not to look directly at him.

“That I’m everything you want,” Danny purred, leaning into his space. “Hot, flexible, an emotional disaster.”

“You’re—! You’re insufferable.”

“I’m irresistible.”

Peter didn’t reply. He just screamed into the void later that night, face-planted into his pillow, and prayed for mercy.

The universe, as always, ignored him.

It all started at the Stark Foundation Fall Gala. A black-tie, red-carpet, industry-defining, media-covered event hosted in the glass spire that was Stark Tower, attended by the world’s smartest people and most insufferable billionaires—and two absolute disasters masquerading as teenage geniuses.

Danny Fenton, Stark STEM Scholar and walking espresso machine, was there because Tony Stark had personally invited him (“You’re legally required to be my prodigy now, kid, don’t argue, you signed the scholarship, it’s in the fine print”), and Peter Parker was there because he was Tony’s favorite intern, which meant “emotional support goblin” and “get me coffee, Peter” in the same breath.

Danny walked in like he’d been dragged from his apartment ten minutes before the event by the ghost of Coco Chanel—because he had. Sam had done his hair, shoved him into a black velvet suit that hugged his ass and thighs a little too perfectly, slapped silver rings on all his fingers, smokey eyeliner, and threatened him with a haunted curling iron if he so much as slouched.

Peter, meanwhile, had been hyperventilating in the bathroom for fifteen minutes.

He was wearing Armani. He had been forcibly styled by Pepper Potts herself, who had told him, “If you’re going to be Tony’s emotional support intern, you need to at least look like you’re not feral.” Peter had not emotionally recovered from being spritzed with Tom Ford cologne and told he looked “delicious.”

They spotted each other across the room like the first five minutes of a YA adaptation, except one was drinking something radioactive-green from a champagne flute and the other was clutching a tray of hors d’oeuvres like a weapon.

Danny blinked. Peter blinked.

Then they both looked away so fast they might’ve given themselves whiplash.

Which would’ve been fine if that was the end of it.

But no. God had other plans.

Specifically: Tony Stark’s plans.

“Come here,” Tony hissed, grabbing both of them by the shoulders. “You two teenage disasters are going to schmooze.”

“Tony I can’t schmooze,” Danny said, panicking. “I don’t even know what schmooze means, I thought that was a cheese—”

“And I have shrimp hands!” Peter added wildly, holding up his fingers still greasy from crab rangoons. “I can’t touch people like this! I’ll be arrested!”

Tony shoved them both forward like a mother bird kicking her children out of the nest and said, “Go. Talk. Mingle. Be charming. Or I’ll adopt you both and make you brothers and then who’s crushing on who, huh?”

“WHAT—” both of them said at once, violently red in the face.

“Bye!” Tony sang, disappearing into the crowd like a chaos goblin.

Peter and Danny stood in mortified silence for a full ten seconds.

Then:

“So,” Peter said. “Uh. You look… good.”

“Thanks,” Danny muttered, tugging at his collar. “I feel like a sexy baked potato.”

“You—what.”

“Just… overheated and wrapped in velvet.”

Peter wheezed.

They started talking. Somehow it spiraled into quantum entropy, the ethics of ghost containment, and whether Tony Stark was legally allowed to name a drone “Bitch Lasagna 3.0.”

Peter was sweating. Danny was internally combusting. They were both about five seconds from proposing marriage and didn’t know it yet.

Then came the moment.

A scream. A crash.

Glass shattered. Lights flickered.

“Fucking hell,” Danny muttered, already pulling off his jacket. “Can’t have ONE normal night.”

Peter, across from him, had already vanished.

Two minutes later, Spider-Man somersaulted through the crowd and launched himself at the glowing, oozing, screaming ghost that had torn through the ceiling.

Black Cat flipped down from the opposite direction, landing like a goddamn supermodel in latex.

The crowd screamed.

Peter screamed internally.

Black Cat smirked. “Miss me, pretty boy?”

“I don’t—this is a GALA, can we not?” Spider-Man groaned, dodging ectoplasmic debris.

Black Cat laughed, cartwheeled up a wall, and started firing anti-ghost rounds from his wrist mods. The ghost shrieked. Spider-Man nearly got crushed. Black Cat saved him by grabbing his waist and yeeting them both through a portal that landed them right in—

—the rooftop garden.

Panting. Sweaty. Disheveled.

“What the FUCK was that?!” Spider-Man gasped lifting up his mask slightly from the bottom to breath.

“I didn’t summon it!” Black Cat snapped, wiping green sludge off his face. “Ghosts have no concept of social etiquette!”

Danny after wiping his face realized his domino mask fell off but it was too late to cover up again.

Peter stared at Danny’s very familiar stupidly hot face.

Danny stared at Peter’s very familiar stupidly kissable mouth.

Peter said, in a high-pitched, cracked whisper, “You’re Black Cat?!”

Danny shrieked, “YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?!”

They both screamed at each other. Like. Loud. Very. Loudly.

Birds flew off the rooftop.

Somewhere inside the gala, a waiter dropped an entire tray of champagne flutes from sheer sympathetic psychic resonance.

“YOU—YOU’VE BEEN FLIRTING WITH ME AS A VILLAIN!” Peter yelled.

“YOU KISSED ME ON A ROOFTOP AND THEN IGNORED ME IN CALC!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE STRAIGHT!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE BLACK CAT’s EX!”

“I AM BLACK CAT!”

Peter made a noise like a microwave about to explode. “OH MY GOD. I’M IN LOVE WITH TWO PEOPLE WHO ARE ACTUALLY THE SAME PERSON.”

Danny staggered back. “I—I’m in love with YOU! But I couldn’t SAY ANYTHING because you were Spider-Man and I was Black Cat and we were ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS—”

“BENEFITS? I GOT TRAUMA.”

“I KISSED YOU! WITH TONGUE!”

“YEAH AND IT WAS AWESOME WHICH MAKES THIS WORSE!”

They both fell silent. Hyperventilating.

Danny doubled over and screamed into the floor.

Peter clutched a potted plant and whispered, “This is a hate crime.”

There was a pause.

“…You like me?” Danny asked.

“You like me?” Peter countered.

They stared.

Then they both shrieked again, because this was TOO MUCH and NEITHER of them was equipped emotionally to handle anything.

And across the rooftop, where no one had noticed, Tony Stark was standing behind a pillar, filming the whole thing.

He grinned.

“I’m gonna play this at your wedding,” he whispered to himself, tearfully, joyfully. “God, I love being me.”

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x marvel #danny phantom fanfiction #marvel #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fandom #crossover #danny phantom fandom #spiderman fanfiction #spider man #spiderman #peter parker #iron man #iron dad #tony stark

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marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

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Wake up (part 3)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are awake but Bucky’s nightmare hasn’t ended yet.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: lots of talk about Bucky’s past; Hydra; brainwashing; mind control; loss of autonomy; panic attacks; emotional and mental breakdown; medical trauma; experiments; depersonalization; identity struggles; sedation; power imbalance; dissociation; crying; mentions of vomiting; severe angst; comfort

Author’s Note: We’re here guys, this is part three of wake up. It does have a happy ending, but I'm still going to give you a heads up because this is going to get intense. Themes and events ahead may he heavy, and I strongly encourage you to check the content warnings carefully before proceeding. Your well-being comes first, so if anything feels like too much, please take a step back. Read at your own pace and take care of yourself. That said, I hope you enjoy! ♡

part one part two

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

The room stops.

The alarms still scream, the monitors still beep, but for one suspended second, no one moves, no one breathes - because you are awake.

Bruce’s hands falter mid-air. Cho’s fingers freeze over the screen. Tony, usually the first to crack a joke or spit out some sharp remark, is silent. Even Steve, ever the composed, looks stunned.

But none of that matters.

Bucky is not aware of any of those things.

Because your eyes - those eyes that have always held the soft glow of recognition, the warmth of you, the love for him - are staring right through Bucky.

And they are blank.

Not confused, not dazed, not disoriented from sleep - no, something about them is wrong.

Bucky doesn’t realize the way his body is trembling. Doesn’t register the way his lungs have locked up, the way his grip on you has loosened, as if he’s afraid to touch you now.

Your pupils are wide, too wide, swallowing their color whole, leaving only black voids behind. You don’t blink. Don’t move. Just watch him.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky breathes, his voice a ghost of itself, the sound roughly shattering in his throat. His fingers twitch where they rest against your cheek. “Baby, can you-?”

The second he speaks, your body reacts.

Like a string has been pulled.

Your spine straightens, muscles locking into place like a marionette finding its tension. Your erratic and ragged breathing just moments ago evens out with a precision that seems unnatural.

A response. A reaction.

But it’s not you.

Bucky feels shot all over again. Not once. Not twice. Not even a third time. He can’t even count that high, not here, not now, not ever. And all those bullets land where his heart once belonged.

Something so utterly cold sweeps through his veins, turning movement into something impossible. Winter is settling deep in his chest, freezing him from the inside out. He doesn’t even feel numb anymore.

Because this isn’t just the fog of waking up after whatever the hell Hydra did to you.

This is something else.

A sharp, unresolved noise scrapes out of Bruce’s throat, his finger still hovering. “That’s not right.”

Cho shakes her head, blinking rapidly as if she can make herself see something different, to give this a sense. “She shouldn’t-” She cuts herself off, exhaling hard through her nose. “This isn’t a normal response.”

“Okay,” Tony interjects, voice a shade tighter than usual. “Yeah, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

“Y/n?” Steve tries carefully, stepping closer, but Bucky doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t fucking care.

Because he is frozen.

Because this is so goddamn wrong.

You are looking right at him but there is nothing in your eyes. Nothing. No life.

A dry, aching squeeze inches up his neck. It constricts his throat, it leaves any desolate sound trapped inside him.

He has seen this before.

Too many times. In the mirror. In his memories. In the cold, unfeeling gazes of other soldiers.

And it’s killing him - killing him to the point where he might just drop to the floor in the matter of a second - to now see it in your eyes.

The world inside the medical wing doesn’t restart at once.

It comes back in pieces with everyone still in shock.

The turbulent, shrieking alarms dull down, monitors resetting to their normal beeping. Hushed voices return, everyone still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky still doesn’t take his eyes off you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

You’re awake. That should be a good thing. That should be everything.

But his stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. He would love to wrap himself up, fold over twice, three times - until he’s nothing but a tight, trembling knot.

Bruce speaks up, voice professional. But it holds something strained. Something uneasy. “Y/n?”

No response.

Cho tries next, moving closer, her eyes scanning over you with clinical focus. “Can you hear us?”

Still, nothing.

You don’t move.

Don’t blink.

Don’t react.

Bucky swallows hard, harder, the hardest, but his throat is closed, voice dying before it can form.

Bruce looks dismayed just the slightest bit. “Okay, that- that’s okay-” He cuts himself off, taking a slow breath. “Her vitals are stable.” He looks over at Cho, who is already checking the readings on the monitor.

“Brain activity is…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

It sounds almost accusatory like she doesn’t believe her own words.

“Then why isn’t she saying anything? Why isn’t she reacting?” Steve asks, stance stiff and voice holding something sharp.

No one has an answer.

Bucky doesn’t notice the way Bruce and Cho are moving around you, the way Tony mutters something under his breath that no one listens to. Because he can’t look away from you.

From the way, your pupils track only him.

Not Bruce. Not Cho. Not Steve or Tony.

Just him.

Bucky’s lungs pull in a sharp breath but nothing actually seems to reach them.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just waking up. You’re just a little dazed. Just trying to make sense of what is running through your veins.

But then, if he truly believes that, why isn’t his voice working? Why can’t he breathe? Why can’t he take his hands away from you?

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, adjusting the IV in your arm. “I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. Can you do that?”

Nothing.

Cho’s frown deepens. “Try squeezing my hand.” She moves closer, resting her fingers lightly against yours. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

Nothing.

A new kind of silence floods the room now. Heavier. Suffocating.

Bucky’s pulse won’t stop hammering in his ears.

“She’s awake,” Tony states flatly. “So why does she still look-” He waves a vague hand, looking almost daunt. “Out of it?”

Frustration begins to seep into Bruce’s expression, a slow breath slipping from his nose. “Y/n, if you can hear me, just- move a little. Anything.”

Another beat of silence.

Bucky can’t take this anymore.

He moves closer, his hand intertwining with yours instinctively. His voice is hoarse, rough and so, so desperate.

“Sweetheart,” he croaks out, just for you. “C’mon, baby, just- just give us something.”

You move.

It’s small. Barely anything at all.

But your fingers twitch.

Bucky doesn’t take in another breath for too long.

Something slow and dreadful sinks into him. It closes its grip around something vital.

Bruce exhales in something close to relief. “That’s good, Y/n. That’s good.”

Encouraged, Cho steps in again. “Alright, let’s try something else.” She looks at you, her voice gentle but firmer now. “Can you try moving your leg?”

Silence.

Stillness.

Bucky’s stomach turns.

“Y/n,” Bruce presses, more insistent now. “Try for me, alright?”

Nothing.

The tension is a thin string.

Bucky shifts, fingers brushing over your palm in a touch so soft.

“Baby,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Your leg moves.

A shudder ripples through Bucky’s whole body.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody breathes.

Then, finally, Tony says what they are all thinking.

“Okay,” he exhales. “That’s weird.”

It is.

It is wrong.

Cho is staring at her monitor as though it’s betrayed her. Bruce’s brow is furrowing deep in concentration, but there is a glimmer of something else behind his eyes now.

Bucky’s mind is reeling, his pulse pounding so loud, the sound crashing over everything, washing it all into nothing.

This can’t be a coincidence.

You only moved when he spoke.

Not anyone else.

Just him.

Bucky’s mouth is dry.

No.

No, no, no-

He wants to rip that aching thing out of his chest and twist it in his metal grip and throw it on the clinical floor and stomp on it with his boot.

Because deep, deep down, something agonizing in him is already understanding.

And he can’t take it.

It seems that nobody really wants to acknowledge it.

Because acknowledging it means understanding it.

And understanding it means stepping into something far, far worse.

But it’s everywhere in the room, floating around in the air, waiting to be breathed in, sinking its fangs into every pause, every silence, every failed attempt at making you respond to anyone but him.

Bucky can’t let go of you. His flesh fingers wrap carefully around yours, his metal arm braced protectively around your back. You don’t acknowledge his touch. But he also can’t help the staring. Eyes fixed on your face. Bracing himself for an answer he already knows he won’t be able to stomach. He probably should be looking for that waste bin again, but he can’t take his eyes off you.

Because this isn’t just exhaustion. This isn’t just confusion.

Something inside you is listening. Waiting.

And only for him.

Steve clears his throat quietly and speaks up again. “Try again,” he says, though there is something cautious in his voice now. “Y/n?” He takes another step closer, lowering his head slightly, like maybe you just need to see him properly. “Can you hear me?”

You don’t react.

Nothing in your shifts.

A sharp breath escapes the nose of the blonde and he glances at Bruce and Cho, in question of an answer but they don’t have one.

Cho’s expression is drawn tight, eyes scanning the monitors, because what else can she do? Bruce’s face is unreadable, but his knuckles are pressed against his chin in a way that suggests his mind is racing.

“We should test motor function,” Cho suggests, but it’s not that confident. More like she just needs to say something, anything to fill the wrongness all around them.

Bruce nods slowly. His tone is even. “Y/n, lift your left hand.”

The silence drags.

The tension is so thick, Bucky can hear it crackling. He is not breathing.

“Y/n,” Bruce says again, slower, placing his words with care. A small waver snakes into his voice. “Lift your left hand.”

Nothing.

Bucky’s stomach is a single, dense, ball that sinks heavier each second passes.

Cho adjusts something on the monitor. “Maybe- Maybe it’s still too early-”

“Buck,” Steve suddenly exclaims.

And it makes Bucky freeze.

Because there is something behind it. A test. A hesitation. Sympathy.

Bucky doesn’t even look up.

He swallows, something punching his ribs.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice so rough, it’s almost intelligible. “Your left hand. Let me see it.”

Your hand lifts.

Bucky’s stomach drops so hard, he descends with it, down to the ground, down to the earth beneath the fundamental structure of the compound.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Your hand is still in the air.

Cho stares. Bruce’s lips are parted and he rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Steve is rigid, lips pressed tightly together.

Their stares press against Bucky, against his shoulders, his skull, but he can’t look away from you.

Your face hasn’t changed.

No recognition. No emotion. No indication of independent thought.

Just that same blank, empty stillness.

Until he tells you to move.

Until he tells you what to do.

Bucky feels sick.

Nausea grows, rolling, roiling, a tide rising within, murky and sour, spiraling up his throat in a way that threatens.

Heat prickles at his skin, a damp, clammy sheen forming at the base of his neck, invasively cascading down the channel of his spine.

His head is shaking before he even realizes it. He has to be imagining this. This is one of his nightmares.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries forcing him to wake up, to snap out of this, but then Bruce’s voice comes through again.

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, voice thick. “Put your hand back down.”

Your hand stays in the air.

Bucky’s fingers flex around yours, grounding himself.

“Baby,” he wheezes, almost unwillingly, his voice a broken whisper. “Put it down.”

Your fingers lower.

And the chill that floods Bucky’s system knocks him off balance.

His ears are ringing.

His mind is splintering, breaking off into a thousand jagged thoughts he can’t grasp all at once, he doesn’t want to grasp at all because no.

No.

Utterly powerless, he looks up. Steve’s face is hard, Tony is pale, and Natasha - where did she come from - has her hand over her mouth in shock.

Bruce clears his throat. “That’s-” He glances at Cho, at Steve; and Bucky would see the war in his mind if his vision allowed him to see more than just silhouettes.

Everybody is hesitant. Everybody is unwilling to be the first one to say what they are all thinking.

It’s Tony who does it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice hollow, stunned. “She’s only listening to you.”

It sounds worse when spoken aloud.

His body is rejecting, resisting, recoiling from all of this.

Bruce is watching him now, too, something entirely pained on his face, not able to deny what is happening.

“We should-” Cho pushes out a sharp breath at the choked noise Bucky is letting out and she stops talking.

This is too much.

Tremors rack through his whole body. It’s attacking him, his lungs, his bloodstream, his bones. He is weak. On the ground. Eyes pressed together. Because he can’t look at you any longer. Can’t look at the way you are watching him.

You aren’t just listening.

You are waiting.

For his voice.

For his command.

There is nothing but obedience in your gaze.

Bucky sways on the ground, but he can’t let go of you. His grip tightens because if he lets go, he will break.

But your fingers are so loosely tangled with his, resting limply against him. They are warm. Too warm. Too soft and delicate and human to be connected to something so immensely wrong.

Bruce and Cho are talking.

Their voices are low, hushed, methodical. The cadence of their words is a tightrope between the beeps, adding more to the strain of the already fraught atmosphere.

Bucky doesn’t hear any of it.

The incessant thrum of his heart is a trapped and wild animal that scratches at the walls of his arteries and reverberates in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Because no.

This isn’t happening.

Not to you.

Steve rubs a palm over his mouth, the other on his hip, exhaling a shuddering breath, trying to process it all but he can’t.

Tony doesn’t say anything. This is bad and he is well aware. This is worse than anything any of them could have prepared for.

Bruce clears his throat, looking at Bucky. “We need to assess the extent of this,” he says carefully, words a test on his tongue before he lets them out. “There’s a possibility that this is temporary, but we-” He hesitates. Adjusts his glasses. “We need to know how deep this goes.”

Nobody speaks.

“What do you mean?” Bucky’s voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Bruce hesitates again. “We need to see if she’s responding to just motor commands, or if-” Another pause. “Or if it’s beyond that.”

Beyond that.

The words tumble into the depths of Bucky’s core.

He swallows, blinking down at you. Your breathing is even. Your expression so still. You don’t seem to be aware of anything happening around you. Only attuned to one thing. Him. Waiting for him.

Bucky clenches his jaw so hard, gritting his teeth until he tastes iron in his mouth.

Cho cuts in more firmly. “We need her to speak.”

Silence.

Bucky can’t breathe.

Tony shifts his weight, crosses his arms. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?” His voice is flat. “Seeing as she’s only listening to him.”

Bucky flinches.

Cho and Bruce exchange a glance.

“We need you to try,” Bruce says softer. “We need you to ask her to speak.”

It’s worse when it’s phrased like that.

Like a test. Like and order.

Like something he should not be doing.

His fingers tighten around yours, but you don’t react. Not yet. Not until he tells you to.

His chest constricts. He hates himself.

There is no way out of this.

Bucky exhales shakily, taking a few moments.

He swallows hard.

“Sweetheart.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I need to- I need you to say something.”

Your lips don’t part.

A spike of panic lances through his chest.

“Baby, come on. Say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bruce’s eyes dart between the two of you, then back to Bucky. His expression is pinched, calculating. “Try again.”

Bucky’s body feels wrong, his skin too tight, his stomach threatening to heave.

This is familiar.

And it is dangerous.

He wets his lips, closes his eyes for a second, letting his head drop before lifting it again.

“What’s my name?”

The room is silent.

Your lips part.

And Bucky’s blood stops flowing.

The moment drags.

Agonizingly slow.

“Soldat.”

Your voice is distant, automatic.

Bucky breaks.

His lungs lock, the walls of his throat all connect together, his mind fractures.

The room tips, crashing into the floor.

Your voice circles his mind, going round and round and round, sounding so soft and obedient and wrong, so fucking wrong.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head so fast, hands jerking. “No, no, no.”

Steve’s hands clench at his sides, his throat working as though he wants to say something, but what can he say?

Bruce’s expression is stricken.

Tony looks dazed.

Bucky gasps for breaths but none are coming.

And suddenly, all those years of struggling to escape Hydra's grasp feel completely pointless

Every breath Bucky takes feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest before he can fully inhale. Every sound is static. Tremors crawl along his arm, punching into his ribcage like something cold and crushing.

The people around him are talking about you but he can’t hear a thing. He can’t hear Banner and Cho discussing tests, or Tony insisting they need to figure this out now. The way they say it - analytic, pragmatic, like you’re some broken thing they need to fix - makes his stomach lurch violently. He has to press his jaw together to keep from retching again. The panic is worming through his veins, digging in, pulling him under.

They want to put you under observation. They want to run tests.

Like Hydra did to him.

His mind is tearing through memories he doesn’t want, old phantoms forcing their way to the surface. He sees himself strapped to a table, bright lights burning his retinas, faceless men in white coats murmuring about what they could do to him, what they could turn him into. He hears his young voice, wrecked and broken, whispering in Russian words he doesn’t understand but knows - commands drilled into him, obedience hammered into his bones.

And now he’s the one giving commands. To the love of his life.

And his friends want to do to you what has been done to him.

“No.” The word is gravel, scraping him raw on its way out.

“Bucky, we don’t have a choice,” Bruce says, rubbing a hand down his exhausted face. “She’s only responding to you. That’s not normal. We have to figure out why.”

“You’re not running tests on her,” Bucky growls, voice shaking as he grips you firmer, protectiveness boiling hot in his gut.

Steve steps in, hesitant but resolute. “We need to find out what Hydra did to her. We can’t just-”

Bucky’s breath is completely lost in pattern. „You think I don’t know that?“ he spits, voice wild and harsh. “You think I don’t want to fix this? That I don’t fucking want my girl back? But I am not-” He falters, his throat too tight, his chest heaving. His vision is a tunnel with no lights.

There is a sharp pain in his right palm. His metal fingers are clenched into a fist so tight that his right hand has to let go of you to mimic it. Nails drive into his flesh. He forces himself to breathe. To stay here. But it’s not working. The room is shrinking. His head is full of cotton. Buzzing.

“I think you’re too close to this,” Tony warns, and it’s too sharp, too fast, it sends Bucky over the edge. “You’re compromised, Barnes. We don’t even know if this is something you caused. Maybe you’re making it worse-”

Bucky doesn’t remember getting up and lunging, but suddenly Steve is between him and Tony, a hand pressed to his chest, and his breath is all but gone.

“She is not your experiment,” Bucky hisses, trying to shout, but his voice is barely holding together. His heart is pummeling against his ribs, trying to break out. “I will not let you strap her to a fucking table like some thing you get to study.” He is shaking in fury.

Steve’s hand stays against him. “That’s not what they’re trying to do, Buck.”

But Bucky can’t think rationally. He can’t think at all.

“I fucking know what this looks like, Steve.” His voice crumbles, tremors splintering them. It sounds like something trying to remember how to exist. But Bucky doesn’t care about anything other than you. “I fucking remember, alright? And I won’t let her go through this!”

“Soldat.”

It’s your voice. So dutiful. So even. So not you.

Bucky flinches. Terribly.

The sound that rips out of him is something destroyed, something that never should have existed in the first place.

He turns back to you and his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t feel it. Shaking hands are cupping your face, desolate and desperate.

“No,” he chokes, tears breaking free. “No, baby, no. Don’t- don’t call me that.”

But you just blink at him, awaiting something. Expecting something. A command.

Bruce’s voice is distant, but he is saying something urgent. Steve is stiff, his head dropped. Tony has shut his mouth. Natasha’s quickly retreating footsteps are lost to him. The entire room has turned to stone.

Bucky’s hands slide into your hair, shaking so badly he can barely hold on. “It’s me, sweetheart. Y/n, it’s me,” he pleads. “It’s Bucky. Say my name. Please, my love. Say Bucky.”

No words come from you. Not until Bucky gives them to you.

He’s going to die. He’s going to pass out.

Because he knows this. He’s lived this. But not like this. Not you.

“Y/n,” Steve says and Bucky hates him for trying again. “Do you know where you are?”

You don’t look at Steve. You don’t move. Your breath stays controlled.

Sickening devastation pools in Bucky’s gut.

“Doll,” he whispers, voice completely shattered. “Answer him.”

And then, like a machine coming to life, you turn your head slightly. You blink once. And then you speak.

“I am in the Avengers Compound.”

No hesitation. No emotion. Just compliance.

Bucky sways on his knees. Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him from collapsing.

Tony releases a heavy breath.

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest because he’s still looking at you. At the way you wait. At the way you listen.

You are waiting for him to tell you what to do.

And Bucky Barnes has never been as mortified as he is now in his entire fucking life.

****

Bucky didn’t go down easily.

It took three men to hold him back, Steve’s arms a steel cage around him while Tony was shouting and Bruce plunging the needle in with a guilty and troubled expression.

His fight was animalistic, desperation keeping him up longer than it should have been, but the drugs worked.

The last thing he saw before darkness engulfed him was you.

Silent. A body waiting for instruction.

Now, he wakes up violently. A gasp tumbles up his throat, his body lurching forward as if he can outrun the crushing weight that bears down on him the second consciousness floods back in.

His head pounds, his hands shake, his chest heaves. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t care to find out. His mind is already screaming for you.

Everything crashes back.

The way your lips parted on a breath but not a name. The way your limbs moved, not out of will, but command. The way you looked at him - not with relief, not with love - but with obedience.

The horror knocks in as he stumbles to his feet, his entire body revolting against itself. His knees nearly buckle, but he pushes forward. He has to find you. No matter how hard it pains him to see you like this.

He is sprinting down the hallways, feet pounding against the floor, muscles protesting. Passing agents give him startled looks, Steve is calling his name. But his heart is shedding itself apart inside his chest and he won’t stop.

Because he is realizing something.

This started before you even opened your eyes.

You only opened your eyes after he pleaded for you to wake up.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

That’s when you did.

Because he told you to.

That was the command you were waiting for.

Bile burns its way up his throat, that he nearly collapses mid-stride.

If they think, if they dare to treat you like an experiment, to poke and prod and study you like some object, he’ll-

He doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t even have words for the fright wringing his rips out.

But he knows he has to get to you.

****

The room is sterile. Too bright. Too cold. A place of observation, of examination.

You sit on the medical bed, motionless, exactly where they placed you. Machines drone softly around you, monitors tracking your vitals - though there is nothing irregular about them. You should be fine. But you aren’t.

Bruce and Dr. Cho move carefully, their voices quiet. Constrained. Every test they’ve run, every scan they’ve conducted, all of it comes back normal. Physically, there is nothing wrong with you. But it’s clear as day, that you aren’t here.

Not fully.

You don’t respond to their questions. You don’t react when Cho waves a light in your eyes, when Bruce takes your pulse, when Tony calls your name. Nothing. You sit, hands on your lap, back straight, waiting. Waiting.

And then the door slams open.

Without thinking, Bucky shoves past Tony, past Steve’s reaching hand, past Bruce’s protest - straight to you. The second he sees you his breath stutters, his heart cracks open. It didn’t get a tiny bit easier. Your posture is so still, it’s unnatural, your face is slack.

“Let her go,” he growls, voice shaking with anger and panic.

Bruce raises his hands, placating. “Bucky, we’re not- we’re trying to help.” Then he heaves a heavy sigh. “But she won’t react to us.”

Bucky’s whole body trembles. His jaw is tight. “She’s not some- some science project,” he spits out, voice sharp but breaking. “She’s-” His chest rises and falls harshly. His hands flex and clench. “She’s mine.”

Silence.

Cho speaks up, formal but careful. “That’s why we need you.”

He jerks his gaze to her, vision swimming with tears. “What?”

“She only listens to you.”

He knows that but he feels like he’s just been shot in the chest again.

Bruce nods solemnly. “She hasn’t done anything since you were gone. But when you walked in-” He glances at the monitor - your heart rate spiked. “She knows you’re here, Bucky. But, she’s waiting for you to tell her what to do.”

Bucky is afraid his legs will stop holding him up.

You are waiting for his command. Just like he used to.

His stomach clenches, nausea twirling through it.

“Bucky,” Bruce tries again, insistent. His tone is heavy. “Try it. Please.”

The very idea makes Bucky want to scream. But he looks back at you - his girl, his angel, his whole damn world - sitting there, looking so empty.

And the trepidation in him is so bone-deep that he has no choice.

He swallows, kneels in front of you, hands quivering as they ghost over your knees. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, and the others remain silent. “Look at me.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly it almost makes him rear back. Your eyes are on him and he wants to vomit.

A choked noise catches in his throat.

Bruce watches intently, making notes. “Try something more complex,” he suggests carefully.

Bucky hesitates. He hates this. He’s forced to feed into what Hydra did to you and he hates it.

“Stand up,” he breathes. It’s just a croaked whisper but you stand. Effortlessly, fluidly, like there was never any doubt that you would.

Bucky breathes roughly.

The others are waiting, you are waiting, but Bucky can’t continue.

His eyes press together tightly, head dropping.

“Bucky,” Cho voices, a little gentler. “We can’t help her if we don’t know the rules of this.”

The rules.

As though you are some equation to be solved.

He swallows. His throat is sore and blistering. His heart is a fractured thing.

Slowly, he forces words from his mouth, but they burn on his tongue. “Take three steps forward.”

You do.

Gracefully. Like a soldier. As if you’ve done this million times before.

Dr. Cho looks up from her clipboard. “Make her sit down again.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. His hands flex. He takes a second to compose himself.

“Sit down.” His voice is guttural and broken.

You do.

Every cell in his body is to simply tell you to run and leave but that won’t help anybody.

Bruce nods, mumbling something about autonomous commands. But Bucky doesn’t listen.

He feels like he is standing in the middle of a nightmare, watching himself from the outside, stuck in a loop that Hydra is responsible for.

Bucky owns your movements.

And it’s killing him.

“Try something even bigger. Make her-” Cho says.

“No.”

“Bucky-”

“No.”

They don’t understand.

They don’t get it.

This is not just an experiment to see how much control he has.

This is Hydra, ripping through you, ripping through him.

And he can’t be the one to do it.

Bruce steps forward. “We need to know if she’ll perform an action without you watching. If she’ll listen even if you leave the room. If-”

“If she’s really gone.”

They don’t say it, but that’s what they think.

Bruce looks concerned. “Bucky, I know this is hard-”

“Hard?” Bucky laughs but it is a miserable sound. “Hard is losing your fucking arm. Hard is clawing your way out of your own damn head. But this?” He gestures wildly to you, still waiting, still watching him with hollow submissiveness. “This is fucking sick - and I won’t do it anymore.”

Because they are asking him to cross a line.

A line that has been crossed before.

Not by him, but through him.

By them. Hydra.

And he doesn’t want you anywhere near that.

He can’t be the one to steal your independence.

Not when he knows exactly what it feels like.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that made him a better person.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that is truly and wholly good.

He hears the voices in his head, voices from the past that aren’t really past pouncing in his mind, telling him that he’s done this before and that this is nothing new.

Bucky squeezes his hands into a fist and shoves the thoughts down so deep he hopes they never see the light again.

Bucky was not their scientist. He was not their programmer.

He was their weapon.

And he knows exactly how far this goes.

He knows how much a single word from a commander can do.

Bucky takes a step back. And another. His breaths are coming way too fast, his lungs ache, his vision is a hot and messy blur. He is in two places at once, here in this room, and there, in that cold metal chair, ears ringing with words meant to shatter a mind.

His mind places you in that metallic and rusty thing, meant to scorch your memories, making you scream, making you forget, making you-

He stumbles, his body fighting itself.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out and his hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

But he doesn’t feel it.

His body is trembling. Everything. Metal and flesh and every defeated thing in between, shaking, breaking.

Because they are wanting and waiting for him to keep this sick game going. To finish what Hydra started. To slip into a role and make you perform. He can’t do it.

A strangled and grating sound rushes out of his mouth.

He jerks away from Steve’s hand, knocking over a tray of medical tools. They clatter against the tile with a sharp clang. His fingers tangle into his hair, clutching, pulling, as if he can rip himself out of his skin.

He turns blindly, heart slamming into his ribs, chest turning inward.

Tony steps forward.

Wrong move.

The moment is too much, too fast, too fucking much.

Tony’s voice is sharp. “Barnes, pull yourself together-”

He gets closer, almost touching Bucky and he really should not have done that.

You move.

Swiftly. Too swiftly.

A blur, a strike, a threat eliminated.

Tony is on the ground before anyone can stop you.

There’s a heavy, shattered silence.

Bucky freezes.

No, no, no.

His heart slips up his throat. Then it stops.

He looks at you, standing in front of him, shielding him from Tony, hands still half-raised from where you struck him down, muscles tensed, like a soldier defending her commander.

Like you are his.

Like he is yours.

He never told you to move but you did it anyway.

This is loyalty.

Every inch of him is drowning in horror.

In your broken, conditioned mind, Bucky is your handler.

And you are protecting him.

Bucky staggers back, body moving out of sheer shock. If he stays too close he will suffocate. In the shame, the self-loathing, the fear that he is the one keeping you like this.

Nobody speaks. It’s a silence so thick it sucks the air out of the room, drags the world into a vacuum where nothing exists except this.

You.

Standing like an asset between Bucky and a man you saw as a threat to him.

On the ground, Tony is groaning, already pushing himself up with a curse, clutching his ribs.

Bucky feels only sick, wrenching numbness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring at you, staring at what you just did. He feels like he’s lost time again. Sliding through cracks he thought he’d sealed shut, falling back into something that should have stayed dead.

Steve is speaking, Tony is swearing, Bruce is moving, and Bucky is still staring.

“Bucky.”

It’s Bruce. His tone is a warning.

Bucky takes a step back and you shift with him.

His knees grow weak. He wants the floor to open up so he can let himself fall into the depths of the unknown.

He can feel their eyes on him. Steve. Bruce. Tony. Cho. He doesn’t look at them. He can’t.

Because he knows what they are seeing.

A room filled with people and only one person you will listen to.

And once again, he is back in that cold chair, arms bound, mind split wide open for them to rewrite.

Once again, he watches himself from the outside, being a handler who forces his puppet onto the very same chair. Watching his sweet and brave girl writher and scream while her will is taken from her.

He himself is screaming internally.

His voice strains as he pushes the words out, even as his throat tries to close around them. “Stand down.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hoarse, throaty, gutted.

You obey.

Bucky watches as the tension in your frame bleeds out in a way that is too immediate. Too conditioned. Like a wire was pulled, a switch flipped, a button pressed.

Like this is just another mission.

Bile rises. His face is cleanly sucked off any color.

Steve moves closer, tentatively. “Buck-”

“No,” he snarls, his voice raw. “Don’t.”

Steve's going to tell him it’s gonna be okay.

He’s going to tell him they’ll figure this out.

He’s going to tell him you’re still in there.

But Bucky already knows you are.

You’re still there. You’re there with every command he gives you.

Bucky’s breaths are shallow and broken gasps. He has to get out of here. He has to get you out of here. Has to stop whatever this is before it turns into something he can’t ever get back.

Bruce and Cho are murmuring. He catches bits and pieces - neurological imprinting, post-hypnotic triggers, synaptic conditioning.

Words that are too impersonal. Too detached. As though you are not the most important person in his life.

And he snaps.

His feet are moving. Straight to you. Straight to the one thing in this room that is his.

You blink up at him. Tilt your head the tiniest bit. But he knows. You are waiting again.

Bucky exhales, sharp and shaking. “Come with me.”

You follow.

Because you have no other choice.

And Bucky can feel it, all of it, this thing you’ve become, this thing he’s made you.

And it’s enough to put him to an end.

You walk behind him like a shadow.

You don’t take in the hallways you once knew, the place you called home. Your gaze stays steadfastly on his back.

An ugly, queasy gnarl grows in his stomach.

He tells himself this is progress. That getting you out of that sterile, white-washed room is a step forward. That walking through the compound with you means something.

But whatever Hydra did to you remains in effect.

You are not walking beside him and swinging his hand between your bodies, laughing freely.

You are glued to his back, watching his every step with hollow eyes.

And you aren’t asking where he is taking you.

You don’t react to the feel of the air shifting, to the faint smell of coffee in the halls, to the voices in the distance.

You just watch him.

As if nothing else exists.

As if he is all there is.

And usually, he loves it when you look at him like he is everything. All that matters to you. But never, never in all his years on earth and beyond, did he want it to be like that.

He swallows back the bile in his throat, but he nearly chokes on it.

He reaches the common area with you.

He doesn’t even know why he brings you here. Maybe because it’s lived in. Warm. Maybe because there are blankets still piled on the couch from the last movie night. Maybe because there are still used pans sitting on the counter by the dishwasher. Maybe because he needs to see all that for himself.

You stopped walking when he did. Standing perfectly still, shoulders relaxed, back straight. Too straight.

And your eyes - your too-wide, too-focused eyes - never leave him.

His fingers jerk at his sides.

“You know this place.” The tightness in his throat fights him, but he shoves the words out. They sound rough and thick. Exhausted. His hands press against his thighs, his whole body stretched to the breaking point. “You live here.”

Nothing.

He drops his head for a moment, closing his eyes, to keep the tears from falling. Then he turns his head, pointing toward the couch. “We sit here a lot of times,” he sniffs. “You’d curl up next to me, and we’d fight over the blanket.”

You do not look.

Not even a glint of acknowledgment.

He swallows hard.

Bucky gestures toward the kitchen. “You love cooking,” he continues, voice strained. “We do it together. Breakfast. Dinner. You love breakfast food. Pancakes. I make them for you every morning. You tease me about burning them every time I'm too damn distracted by you to look at the pan.”

You don’t even glance toward it.

His heart pounds.

It’s not just that you’re unresponsive. It’s that you’re responding to the wrong thing.

You are waiting for something he has to give. For something he has to command.

His breath trips out of him. His voice sounds like it is scraping its way free. “Look at the couch.”

You do immediately.

His lungs feel like they are collapsing.

“Look at the kitchen.”

Your head turns.

His fingers curl into fists.

He’s shaking, metal hand twitching, flesh hand clenched so tight his knuckles turn white.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t you.

But then your eyes snap back to the couch. It’s so fast, they are fixed on the kitchen counter again when he blinks, but he saw. He saw that they shifted. Just for a millisecond.

His breath catches. Hope flares. It’s a fragile and small flame caught in the wind, a breath away from being snuffed out. But it is there.

His lungs burn with the force of his held breath. He doesn’t dare to exhale, doesn’t dare to move too fast, or say the wrong thing. You are still here. Somewhere. He just has to reach you.

Timidly, he reaches for your hand. It’s warm and soft. Limp.

He squeezes gently, his touch featherlight. “Come with me, doll,” he whispers.

You do not respond in words, but you follow again.

Another tremor is sent through his being, but he has to push through.

He doesn’t take you back to the medical wing. He doesn’t lead you to the labs or around the common area. He takes you somewhere safe. Somewhere yours.

Your shared room.

His hand tightens around yours as he guides you down the hall. Every step feels unstable. He is scarcely keeping it together, scarcely keeping himself from shattering apart at the seams. His body is exhausted, but his mind is in overdrive, running over every single memory the two of you built in that room.

The nights tangled in the sheets.

The mornings where neither of you wanted to get up, staying cuddled together.

The whispered confessions at 2 am.

The way you always fit against and around him so perfectly.

He swallows.

He hesitates at reaching the door. His fingers shake against the handle before he tugs it open and steps inside.

The air is still. The scent of you is everywhere.

The blankets are still rumpled from when he tried to wake you up but couldn’t. Your clothes are still tucked into the open dresser, your favorite sweater draped over the chair. Little things - your things - are scattered across the nightstand, untouched since the last time you were here.

He turns to you, his heart thumping so loud he can hear it in his ears.

Please, he thinks. Remember this. Remember me.

But you only stand in the doorway, rigid, still.

A breath shivers through his lungs and he moves. He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you forward, into his arms.

And you go. Easily.

Your body folds against his. Malleable. Pliable. Not how you should be.

With a stifled gasp, he buries his face into your hair. His fingers tremble against your back, pressing into the fabric of the hospital shirt they forced you into. He hates this. Hates that it reminds him of a patient.

He wants you in his shirt. Wants you tangled in his arms, his sheets. Wants you to look at him like you.

His throat is sore.

He presses closer, desperate, needy, ruined.

Then his hands go to cup your face, tilting it upward, trying to make you meet his gaze without having to tell you to. “Doll,” he chokes, voice cracking, breaking, falling apart. “You- you’re safe. I swear. You’re here, with me.”

Your eyes are still locked onto him in all the wrong ways.

They don’t shift to your surroundings. Not to the bed. Not to the room. Just him.

His forehead lands on yours almost roughly and he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip tightening just a little. A tear falls onto your skin, but you seem entirely indifferent to it.

“This is our home,” he wheezes through his tears. “You’re living with me.” His fingers brush against your cheek, still trembling. “You chose me. Because you love me. And I love you. I love you so fucking much, baby. It’s killing me.”

You don’t give him anything.

His ribs feel like they might splinter.

He feels like he is losing you.

No. No.

He pulls back, enough to see your face properly. His eyes sting, red-rimmed, desolate. He won’t lose you.

“You’re in there, I know it,” he continues and he doesn’t know how his voice is still working. “You know me, sweetheart. You know me better than anyone.” His thumbs sweep your cheek.

But you don’t react to his touch. And it wrecks him. Because you used to lean into him. You would tilt your face into his palm like you were drawn to him, nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

There is a tilt of your head.

But it destroys him.

Because this is instinct. Not you.

His words taste like ash. “Remember when I brought you that stupid bear from Coney Island?” A humorless and tiny chuckle falls out of him but it only makes him feel drier. “The one with the crooked smile? You loved that thing.”

You stare at him unblinking.

His fingers trace along your temple, down to your jaw. So softly. So hypnotic.

“I love when you’re wearing my shirts.” The pressure in his throat tries to steal his voice but he pushes through. “They’re too big on you. Always make you look so endearing. So perfect. You don’t like me call you cute when you’re wearing ‘em but you keep stealing them anyway.” He has to pause to let his tears fall. “God, I love seeing you in my clothes.”

A strangled sound bolts up his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re always bossin’ me around, doll.” His forehead is back to yours. His eyes burn. “You’re the only person in this world who can boss me around. And I let you. ‘Cause I love you. ‘Cause I’d do anything for you.”

His fingers skim quickly over your jaw, your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips like you are something fleeting.

“I know you’re there. I know I can get you out. Y/n, please,” he begs, wantonly, the roughness of his voice all over the place. “Come back to me. Come back.”

Desperation is not a strong enough word for what is happening inside Bucky. Not even close.

It is deeper. Darker. It is a force that grabs at his rips and wrenches. A gaping, bottomless chasm inside him that is growing wider by the second.

And you stand in the eye of the storm.

Not lifeless. But not alive.

Bucky is breaking rapidly. His hands are all over you - cupping your cheeks, holding your wrists, squeezing your shoulders, smoothing through your hair. If he stops touching you, you might vanish into that void Hydra left behind.

His quivering fingers are at your jaw. “Come on, doll,” he whispers, his voice so unbelievably undone. “Please. Please just- just say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bucky sobs.

Bucky shifts closer, chest against yours, forehead pressed firmly to your temple. His breathing comes in short bursts, stuttering over every inhale. “You’re okay,” he cries, over and over and over again. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. You just- you just gotta come back to me.”

Your muscles don’t shift. Your breathing does not change. You only watch him.

Not seeing. Not processing, just observing.

His panic nearly makes him double over. His vision is foggy, his body fights with the effort to stay upright.

“Come on,” he whimpers. He tugs and crushes you further against him, forcing your body to mold against his own. His nose drags along your hairline, his lips moving over your ear. “You love me,” he pleads. “I know you do.”

His arms are a vice. A shield. A cage.

The air is too thick. It clogs his throat, his chest, a heavy hand squeezing his rips together, determined to extinguish his breath. His lungs seize with the force of it, panic rising in his throat, bending tight and tight and tight until he is sure it will strangle him.

“You love me,” he repeats as if trying to remind you. As if you simply have forgotten.

A sob escapes his mouth.

He cannot do this. He cannot lose you like this. He’s not strong enough.

His body is curling over yours, shielding you from everything. He clings to you.

But when he goes to look at your face again, to continue pleading, he halts. Stalls. Stops. Freezes.

Because you are not looking at him.

Your head is tilted, gaze wandering past his shoulder. Fixed on something.

Something small. Something yours.

A mug.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.

It’s your favorite mug. The one you use every morning, the one you refuse to replace even though the paint is chipping at the rim. The one Bucky gifted you in his first year at the compound, before you got together.

It sits abandoned on the nightstand.

And you are looking at it.

Not at him. At it.

A slow, almost undetectable furrow forms between your brows.

Bucky’s entire body is on edge. Focused so insanely.

His breath is stolen, his fingers dig into your sides.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, please.

His lip trembles. His face crumbles.

“Tea,” he breathes.

A glint. A twitch of your fingers.

Bucky sobs. It’s short and uncontrollable and it startles from his body in an almost aggressive way.

He doesn’t dare disturb your fixed gaze, but he presses in closer again.

“You remember,” he beseeches, his lips parting in something between a cry and a prayer. “You- you know that mug, don’t you? It’s yours, doll. You drink tea from it every day.”

You blink.

Bucky laughs. It is a gruff, uneven, broken sound, and it hurts.

But you blinked.

And he saw it. He saw it. Because it happened. You did it.

He clutches you to his chest, laughing and crying, sobbing and gasping, trembling and breaking all at once. His entire body feels too tight, too much, too everything.

But you blinked.

You saw something that wasn’t him.

And you frowned.

A reaction. A real, actual, human reaction.

“Okay,” he lets out shakily, his fingers threading through your hair, clutching, gripping, grounding. His heart is hammering, his lungs are burning. But he does not care. You are still here.

And now he knows how to find you.

His hands are on your face now. “You got this, baby. You can do this. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and you will snap out of this.”

You look back at him and Bucky crowds into you, terrified to let even an inch of space remain between you.

“You’re gonna come back to me, you hear me?” he tells you with a strained voice. His eyes move over your face so rapidly, fingers wiping at your skin.

There is something in your eyes.

A fight.

And Bucky starts nodding. He gasps. “Yes, that’s it, baby. That’s it! God, I'm so proud of you. Fuck, I'm so proud of you. You’ll make it, Y/n. Come on!” He laughs wetly. It verges on hysterical.

He sees it beginning.

Like the first crack of sunlight over the horizon. Like the slow, agonizing change of winter to spring. Like life struggling to emerge from a place it was never intended to leave.

Your mouth parts. Just a little bit. Your lashes lower, then rise again. And Bucky watches - watches like a man starved, like a dying thing gasping for air.

“Doll,” he pleads, forehead pressing to yours but he keeps his eyes on yours, thumbs stroking frantically over your cheeks, trying to memorize everything. “Please, sweetheart. Come on. Come back. Come home.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

And the third time is different.

The third time, there is recognition.

Faint. Flimsy. Almost not there. But Bucky sees it, and it hits him.

A vehement shudder ripples through his chest, vibrating you as well.

You are coming back.

Piece by piece, tiny fraction by tiny fraction, you are coming back.

“Come on, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. You got this.” His eyes are so intensely fixed on you, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t care. “Feel me. Feels my hands. My body. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky.”

He needs you.

God, he needs you.

You breathe.

And the sound is so normal. So absolutely, painfully, beautifully normal that Bucky almost doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

Your lips part.

Your eyes start moving over his face, studying, seeing.

“Bucky.”

A sound punches out of his throat - something agonizing, something animal, something beyond human comprehension.

His knees buckle.

He goes down - hard, his entire weight dragging you with him, hitting the ground with an impact he barely feels. Because you just said his name.

You spoke. And you know who he is.

His arms wind around you, pressing you close, cinching tight. His hands clutch at your back, at your shoulders, at your hair - clinging, grasping, as though he needs to feel your heartbeat to remember his own. As though he is bracing against a storm and you are the only shelter he’s got.

Because you are something he can’t afford to lose. But he almost did today.

He gasps incoherent, cracking words into your hair, your neck, burying inside it. They barely make it past the ragged breaths and shudders tearing through him. It only sounds something like you’re here on a loop.

His chest heaves. His fingers are digging into you, pressing you against him, needing you closer, closer, closer.

Your arms move immediately.

Your hands rise.

Without him telling you to.

And for the first time since you woke up, you actually touch him.

Your palms press against his back, against his neck, against him.

And it is everything.

It is the dam breaking, the world shifting back onto its axis, the breath of air after drowning.

Bucky cries.

The tears don’t stop. They just keep coming, breaking past every wall, every defense, every piece of him that ever tried to hold anything in.

And you are watching him.

Seeing him.

Holding him.

Speaking to him.

“Buck-”

His name.

And this time it sounds even more like you. So soft. So incredibly concerned. You.

He collapses deeper into you, losing himself completely.

He feels your hands trembling against him, but they are moving.

Not because he made you.

Not because of an order coming from his mouth.

Because you want to.

Because Bucky is falling apart in your arms and you cannot let that happen.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, fisting the material. Your other hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head, pulling him in, as close as he can get.

He is gasping, sobbing - breaking. His whole body quakes. His breath stutters between cries, hauled from the deepest part of him.

And you don’t hesitate.

Your lips press to the top of his head, over and over, again and again and again. Whispering into him. Murmuring soothing nonsense, anything, anything.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Your voice is soft, achingly tender. A touch in the darkness.

His grip almost hurts, almost suffocates, but you don’t pull away.

And he clings to you like he will never let go.

Because he is afraid. Afraid that if he lets go, if he blinks, if he breathes too hard - you will be gone.

Even with your hands on him, even with your voice in his ears - your real voice - even with your lips brushing against his skin, he is still afraid. So fucking afraid.

It’s an abyss of fear, not a momentary plunge, but an endless descent into the very structure of his being.

It’s a poison seeping into his system, crystallizing in his bones, becoming a part of him.

He doesn’t think it will ever go away.

So he clutches you tightly.

And you hold him right back.

Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing, soothing. Your lips press to the part of his temple you can reach.

“I’m here. I’m okay, honey.” Another soft whisper against his skin. “It’s okay.”

Still, he sobs.

Still, he shakes.

Still, he clings.

His chest heaves wildly against yours. His pulse is unstable. He can’t tone it down. He can’t control himself.

His forehead presses deeply into your neck. His breath is hot, damp, shaking.

And you keep holding him, keep murmuring, keep soothing.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay,” you hush, so patient, so loving, so sweet - everything he’s missed so incredibly bad. A kiss to his hairline. Your hand trails up and down his back. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

A painful and gravelly wail bursts from his chest. His fingers twitch frantically against you.

And he hears the way it’s hurting you. It’s in your voice. He hears how concerned you are. And he hates himself for it. But there is nothing he can do but crumble.

His frame shudders so violently you think he might collapse in on himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m right here.”

He believes you.

Because otherwise, he would not survive.

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

- Terry Pratchett

Taglist: @cheekybarnes @gotminho @rlphunter @normanreedus-blog @winterelfqueen @hello-lisa1026 @lilulo-12 @nikt-wazny-y @reemoony @orangeheliophile @seolahhh @oikawasbuddy @dancer3205 @yourstupidblues @greatmistakes @inf4ntdeath @hoe-for-writing @sept3mberchild @mrsnikstan @augustjoy

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skmhlml · 3 months ago

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Note: I’m gonna be so sad when people aren’t obsessed with this thing anymore.

𝑬𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏(s) 𝑿 𝑭!𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓

You just hear him—in your head. Static, distorted whispers that slither around your brain like cobwebs. Sometimes they sound like your own thoughts. Sometimes they’re commands.

He first noticed you when you looked directly into his eyes during a stormy night. That accidental glance marked you as his. From that moment, he began watching. From trees, behind blocks, in your dreams.

You keep finding little blocks missing from around your house—then reappearing in places that don’t make sense. A flower you planted is now on your bed. Your favorite tool is buried in the floor. He’s nesting.

You made the mistake of looking into an Enderman’s eyes too long. But instead of just attacking you and leaving you to respawn, he didn’t kill you. He froze, twitched… and followed you. Then another one began to follow. And another. You’ve been… claimed. Now you live in a strange place between dimensions. You don’t know how long it’s been. You don’t know if you’re alone anymore..

Endermen don’t communicate in words, but in strange, vibrating hums and pulses.

They steal blocks from the Overworld and recreate your home (or a twisted version of it) in The End for you to live in. It’s uncanny. Nothing is quite right. The walls breathe sometimes…

If you try to leave, one will teleport right in front of you, grabbing you with unnatural limbs that seem longer than physics should allow. Another will be waiting behind you. Their teleportation makes escape impossible.

They stare at you constantly. Even when you’re asleep. They don’t blink. You’ve stopped trying to cover your eyes.

Their form shifts slightly when aroused. The black void skin gets slick and twitchy. Sometimes you can hear the inside of their bodies, like static and clicking bone.

They don’t have traditional anatomy, but that doesn’t stop them. Tentacle-like limbs emerge from the swirling shadows of their torsos. Long, pulsing, ink-black tendrils that move like they’re tasting the air… or your skin.

They touch with terrifying reverence—dragging long, clawed fingers along your body, humming like they’re worshipping a pet. You.

One of them “marks” you by biting—gently at first, then deeper until you’re bleeding. The other Endermen grow aggressive with each other if the scent fades. They take turns keeping it fresh.

If more than one is with you, they restrain you with inky tendrils, murmuring in broken echoes, repeating phrases they’ve absorbed from your voice: “Stay… stay… forever… mate… warm…”

They try to mimic affection, but they don’t understand it. They’ll bring you random items: bones, eyes of other players, bloodied armor. Gifts. Offerings.

You’re collared with an obsidian band that you can’t remove. It marks you as claimed—and it glows faintly when they get aroused. You feel it buzz against your throat when they’re watching.

They don’t fuck like humans. Their anatomy warps and writhes—long, shifting tentacles with glowing ends, slick and hot. They pierce, fill, and stretch you until you’re choking on your own cries. And they don’t stop.

They purr when you cry. Whine. Scream. The sounds seem to excite them. You’ve seen them shudder, glitching in place, twitching in arousal from the sound of your sobs.

They lift you like a doll—never speaking, but chittering to each other in some broken dimension-code language before deciding together what to do with you.

They use their size against you. You’re completely engulfed by their height, their limbs, their cold, grasping touch. You don’t walk anymore. You’re carried. Dragged. Positioned.

They don’t ask. They simply fill. No prep. No patience. Just pure need.

If you fight, they don’t stop. They tighten restraints. Slam you harder. The only thing that slows them is you passing out.

#horror #enderman x reader minecraft #yandere enderman #enderman x player #endermen x reader #enderman x reader #enderman headcannons #endermen minecraft #endermen #yandere minecraft #minecraft x reader #minecraft x player #pet pl@y #size difference #monster fucker #breeding kink cw

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player042 · 5 months ago

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A NIGHT FORGOTTEN | kang dae-ho.

pairing: kang dae-ho (player 388) x reader

summary: the aftermath of a one-night stand with a beautiful stranger (who just so happens to be kang dae-ho but shhh). or, as you’ll soon realize, a very different kind of walk of shame home.

warning: one night stand, alcohol, sexual but not explicit content, mention of debt and financial stress, emotional distress, slight hwang jun-ho cameo.

word count: 3k

You woke to the soft hum of a city not yet fully awake. For what felt like an eternity, you lay frozen, staring into the darkness, unable to move. Slowly, the world began to take shape around you, faint colors and forms bleeding into the void. A strange, droning hum filled your head, loud and unrelenting, like the wail of a distant siren. It took another long, grueling moment before you began to piece together your surroundings.

The sheets beneath you were cool, crisp, and smelled faintly of detergent mixed with something distinctly masculine, cedarwood, maybe. For a brief, disorienting moment, you thought you were dreaming, but right then, a chill crept down your spine, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. The slow, sinking realization set in: this wasn't your bed. And then you felt it, a warm breath against your skin, followed by the unmistakable sensation of a body pressed against yours from behind. Your breathing quickened instantly, tripling in pace as an icy shiver raced down your back.

Someone… was in your bed. Or rather, you were in someone's bed.

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, you told yourself, clinging to the thought that it could be one of your friends you stayed over. But the moment you realized that the body pressed against you felt distinctly naked, you bolted upright, spinning around to face the sleeping figure beside you.

Your jaw dropped, and your mouth went dry, as though you hadn't had a sip of water in days.

There was a man with you in bed. A very attractive, very naked, and most alarmingly, very unfamiliar man.

Your eyes stayed fixed on him, panic clawing at your chest as you fought the overwhelming urge to scream. Who was this guy, for crying out loud? You couldn't remember a single thing about him, let alone going home with him, you'd never—

Oh.

You blinked as bits and snippets of your memories flashed before your eyes all at once as if waiting for your realization, as if your head wasn't already pounding slightly from the drinks you'd downed the night before. A dimly lit bar, the faint bass of the music, the way laughter had bubbled out of you in ways it hadn't in months. And then... him.

Your stomach flipped as the memories sharpened. His warm smile, the effortless charm in the way he'd leaned toward you, his words like a gentle pull. The way his voice had dipped, low and rough, as he murmured things that still made your stomach flutter. The way his dark eyes had pinned you in place, gleaming with something between lust, mischief, and desire, as if he knew exactly how to unravel you. Or the faint trace of stubble that had scraped against your inner thigh. And then his hands, oh, God, his hands, on your waist, on your skin, everywhere, guiding you and steadying you through the night, and—

Your breath hitched. You didn't even know his name.

Panicking slightly, you turned your head, taking in more of the room. It was small but tidy, with just enough personality to feel lived-in, an open laptop on a desk, a gym bag slouched against the corner, a few books stacked haphazardly on a nightstand.

Your hand searched blindly for the edge of the blanket, and you managed to push it aside. But when you tried to lift yourself from the mattress, your body refused. It felt as if you were made of lead, every muscle bound tight, the room spinning around you.

After a few careful breaths, you tried again and, this time, managed to sit up. You winced as the motion sent a dull throb through your temples. Your clothes were folded neatly on the chair by the window, and for a moment, you wondered if you'd done that yourself or if he had. Either way, you needed to get out of here before he woke up.

Sliding out of bed as quietly as you could, you wanted to gather your things. Your body felt alien to you, unsteady and unfamiliar. Your knees trembled as you groped your way through the room, pausing only when you couldn't find your bag. A quick glance around confirmed it wasn't there, and you cursed under your breath. You'd deal with it later. Right now, you needed to leave.

Your gaze flicked back to him, despite yourself. He lay sprawled on his stomach, the blanket twisted around his hips, his bare back rising and falling with deep, even breaths. How could someone look so completely at ease, so maddeningly perfect, even now? His hair was a mess, his breathing slow, his entire body radiating the kind of relaxed confidence that had drawn you to him in the first place. You could still hear his laugh echoing in your mind, soft and teasing as he'd leaned in close to whisper something you couldn't even remember anymore; because the heat in his gaze had consumed everything else.

"Didn't think I'd find a babycat in a place like this."

You turned, raising an eyebrow at the man leaning casually against the bar beside you. His smile was lazy, confident, as if he'd already won a game you didn't even know you were playing. Dark eyes glinted under the dim lights, and his tousled hair framed his face in a way that felt infuriatingly perfect.

"Babycat?" you echoed flatly, unimpressed. "That's the best you've got?"

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, like he wasn't fazed by your deadpan response. "What, you don't like it?"

"It's dumb," you shot back, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward just slightly.

"Nah," he grinned, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. "You're just not used to people seeing through that tough act."

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat. Because damn it, there was something about him, the way he looked at you like he wasn't afraid of the walls you'd built. Like he knew exactly how to slip through the cracks.

"What makes you think it's an act?" you challenged, lifting your glass to mask the sudden heat in your cheeks.

He shrugged, that same infuriating grin playing on his lips. "Because you're still talking to me."

You shook your head, trying to shake away the memory. You couldn't let yourself dwell on this. It had been a moment, a single lapse in judgment. That was all.

His face was turned away from you as he lay there on his bed, sleeping peacefully, but you didn't need to see it to remember how he'd smiled at you, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. The memory alone was enough to make your cheeks burn again, but worse was the way your body betrayed you, the dull ache of satisfaction mingling with a longing you didn't want to acknowledge. You pressed your thighs together, glancing away from the sight of him.

"Dance with me, babycat."

You should've said no. You were good at saying no. But something in the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the room, made your heart stutter. So, against your better judgment, you set your glass down and slipped your hand into his.

The second he pulled you onto the dance floor, the world seemed to blur at the edges. The music thudded in your chest, but all you could focus on was the way his hands found your waist, the heat of his body pressing against yours as you moved in sync with the rhythm. The music was fast, but every brush of his fingers against your skin felt deliberate, sending sparks through you in ways you hadn't expected.

You weren't sure when the teasing stopped and the tension started to simmer, but suddenly his lips were just a breath away from yours, his dark eyes searching your face like he was waiting for permission.

"Still think it's dumb?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music.

"Absolutely," you whispered back, but your hands tightened around his shirt, pulling him closer.

You needed to leave before the rest of your memories came flooding back.

The apartment door clicked shut behind you, and you exhaled, the cool morning air hitting your face as you stepped outside, a sharp contrast to the heat of his room that still lingered on your skin. It was early, too early. Probably just before sunrise, the sky was still painted in deep navy hues, with the faintest hint of orange creeping along the horizon. The city felt eerily still at this hour, too early for the morning rush and too late for anyone sober to still be out.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill biting at your bare legs. You cursed yourself silently. Your phone was dead, your bag was missing, you had no money, and the nearest subway station wouldn't open for another hour. Perfect.

Your feet ached in your heels as you walked briskly down the quiet street, arms crossed tightly over your chest, walking toward the nearest subway station to check if it was open yet. The nightlife had left its mark on the streets: empty soju bottles, cigarette butts, and the occasional drunk still stumbling home. You were hoping to blend into the background, just another ghost of the night, but your attire, and your circumstances, made that impossible. Honestly, you just wanted to disappear. To get home without drawing attention, without facing anyone who might give you a second glance. The events of the night before involuntarily replayed in your mind, and you shook your head, half-amused, half-mortified. What the hell had you been thinking? You didn't even do one-night stands. And yet…

You felt your cheeks heat at the memory of how he'd whispered "You can take more, can't you? Just one more, for me" against the shell of your ear, and how you'd answered with a breathless, trembling "Yes." God, you'd barely recognized yourself. You'd never thought you were capable of surrendering to someone like that; completely, shamelessly, and without reservation. But with him, it had felt... easy. Natural. Like he'd peeled away every layer of resistance until you were bare in every sense of the word.

"Look at me," his voice was low, commanding but not harsh, a gentle tug that drew your gaze back to him. His dark eyes burned with desire, and it made your pulse race in a way you couldn't control. "I want to see your face."

You tried to hold his gaze, but the way his hand slid down your waist, his fingertips pressing into your skin as he moved against you, made your head tilt back instead, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

"Don't look away," he murmured, leaning in to press his lips to your neck, "I want to see everything."

"You're-" Your voice broke as a sharp wave of pleasure rippled through you, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You're so... good at this."

He chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, his breath warm against your ear. "Good? Just good? Come on, beautiful, I think I deserve better than that."

Your thoughts were interrupted abruptly by the screech of tires, followed by the blare of a horn. You froze mid-step, headlights blinding you as a sleek black car screeched to a halt just inches from where you stood.

"Are you insane?!" the driver yelled out the window, his face red and voice slurred. "Watch where you're going!"

You stumbled back onto the curb, your heart racing as the car sped off. The adrenaline left your knees weak, and you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing. You barely had time to collect yourself before you heard a voice behind you.

"Close call."

You turned to see two traffic police officers standing near a parked patrol car. The older one leaned casually against the door, his dark eyes fixed on you with an unreadable expression. He was sharp-featured, with an air of quiet authority that seemed to keep his younger colleague in check. The younger officer stood a step behind him, his posture slightly awkward, his gaze darting between you and the empty street.

"You alright, miss?" the younger one asked, his voice kind but hesitant.

"I'm fine," you replied curtly, brushing invisible dust off your dress. "Just need to get home."

The older officer didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered on you, assessing. It made your skin prickle, though not in an overtly threatening way. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure you out, and his silence felt heavier than any words could.

The younger officer stepped forward cautiously, his expression softening as he glanced at your bare legs and disheveled hair. "The subways don't run this early," he said gently. "Do you live nearby?"

"Not far," you lied, tightening your arms around yourself. The way they were looking at you, with a mix of concern and curiosity, made you feel exposed in more ways than one. You glanced at your reflection in a nearby shop window and winced suddenly hyperaware of your look. With your short dress, smudged makeup, and bare legs, you looked every bit like someone staggering home after a questionable night. And in a way, that wasn't far from the truth. You could feel their judgment, or at least you thought you could. Hooker. It was written all over their faces, even if they didn't say it aloud.

The younger officer hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the older one, who remained quiet. "Maybe we could give you a ride? It's really not safe to be out here alone."

You stiffened, your instinct to reject any offer immediately kicking in. "No, thank you," you said, your tone clipped. "I'll manage."

"It's not a bad idea," the older officer said, finally breaking his silence. His voice was calm, steady, but it carried an authority that made you pause. He gestured vaguely toward the empty street. "There aren't a lot of people around right now. Better to be safe."

His words weren't unkind, but there was a weight to them that made your stomach twist. He wasn't trying to convince you, not really. He was just stating a fact, one you couldn't ignore. You looked between the two of them, the younger one's earnest concern clashing with the older one's quiet detachment.

"You're not going to arrest me, are you?" you asked, half-joking but fully defensive.

The younger officer's eyes widened, his face flushing with embarrassment. "No, of course not! We just-"

"She doesn't want to take the ride," the older officer cut him off smoothly, pushing off the car door and stepping closer. His gaze met yours briefly, piercing and unreadable, before he turned back to his colleague. "Let's not make her uncomfortable."

You felt a pang of guilt, though you weren't sure why. He had given you an out, but there was something in his tone that made you feel foolish for rejecting their help. You glanced down the street, the thought of walking alone in the dark suddenly far less appealing.

With a resigned sigh, you relented. "Fine. I accept the offer. But no detours."

The younger officer broke into a relieved smile, nodding eagerly. "Of course! Just hop in, miss."

The older one didn't say anything as he opened the car door for you, his movements efficient but unhurried. You got a glance of his name tag then, Hwang Jun-ho, before you slid into the backseat, the leather cool against your skin. You tried to ignore the way your reflection in the rearview mirror made you cringe. The car smelled faintly of coffee and leather, and as the younger officer started the engine, you caught a glimpse of the older officer glancing at you in the mirror.

"What's your name?" the younger officer asked as they pulled onto the street.

You hesitated for a moment before answering, keeping your tone neutral. "Does it matter?"

"Just making conversation," he replied, his smile faltering slightly.

You leaned back in the seat, watching the city lights blur past. "Thanks for the ride," you muttered after a beat of silence, your voice barely above a whisper.

The older officer's gaze flickered toward the mirror again, but he didn't respond. The quiet tension in the car was palpable, stretching thin but never breaking. When they finally pulled up to your building, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Stay safe," the younger officer said, his tone bright but sincere as you stepped out of the car.

The older officer nodded once, his expression still unreadable. "Goodnight."

You watched them drive off, the taillights disappearing into the early morning haze. There was something about the older officer, officer Hwang Jun-ho, that lingered in your mind, but you pushed the thought aside as you climbed the stairs to your apartment, your body aching with exhaustion.

The sight that greeted you, once you opened the door, was painfully familiar: a sink full of dishes, a stack of unopened bills on the table, and the faint hum of the refrigerator struggling to stay alive. You were about to collapse onto the couch, too drained to even think about cleaning up, as your gaze fell onto your coffee table. A plain card with a circle, triangle, and square printed on the front was on it.

Your stomach dropped as you picked it up, turning it over in your hands. You remembered. The man with the suit. It all came back and it felt like a fever dream. You remembered the day you had encountered him a few days ago. There was a number printed on the back of the card, nothing else. Your fingers trembled as you reached for your phone, plugging it into the charger and waiting impatiently for it to power on.

When it did, you dialed the number before you could change your mind. The line clicked, and a smooth voice answered.

"Would you like to participate in a game?"

a/n: sooooooo… would you? 🤭

604 notes · View notes

mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

red, white and blue [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: you slept while the world moved on without you. someone left flowers. someone turned on the news. and when you finally woke, it wasn’t peace that greeted you. it was rain. it was confusion. it was something in your chest breaking open again. so you ran—before anyone could stop you.

word count: 5500

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mentions of male masturbation, enemies to lovers, the blossoming of a love triangle, trauma/void room descriptions, family death, blood mention, guns, canon typical violence/action, angst, bucky/sam still aren’t friends, misunderstandings that might make you want to scream, details of injury, hospital-setting, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter

ONE WEEK LATER.

The med bay was quiet, save for the gentle hum of machines and the steady blip of your heart monitor. Night had long swallowed the city, and the world outside was still. Inside, it was just you and Bob.

He sat slouched in the chair beside your bed, his hoodie wrinkled, sneakers kicked off beneath him. One of John’s protein bars was melting on the table, untouched, a ‘get well soon’ gift from the US Agent that he had so unwillingly agreed to part with. Bob’s clipboard rested on his knee, but he hadn’t written a single note in the last forty minutes.

Your vitals were steady. Oxygen, normal. No neural spikes, no warnings. Still, you hadn’t stirred.

Bob rubbed the bridge of his nose and glanced at you, eyes narrowing behind the IV. He didn’t like this—not the silence, not the unknown.

“You know,” he muttered into the dark, “no one really knows who you are.”

He glanced toward the door. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft breathing of the Tower itself.

“Sam just… brought you in. Said you were important. Said we needed you.” Bob’s voice was low, like he was trying not to wake you. “And that was it. No briefing. No intel drop. Just... boom. You’re on the team.”

He swallowed.

“I’m not even an Avenger. I’m just here, helping out. If it wasn’t for Yelena, they probably wouldn’t waste their time on me,” Bob frowned. “I just try and work out which pieces of Stark’s technology in the tower are worth saving, and I do the dishes, most of the time. But somehow I’ve been sitting here watching you breathe for the past week like I’m your goddamn guardian angel.”

A little edge in his tone, darkness even. The blinding feeling of still not being good enough nearly tipped through. His eyes flicked to your hand resting beside the blanket. Still. Pale. Calm.

“I’ve seen what everyone else hasn’t.” His tone softened, became unsure. “You... talk in your sleep sometimes. Weird words. You cry, too. Just once. I heard you. I can’t stop thinking about when Sam and I watched Redwing’s surveillance of the fight. Your scream. The way you saved Bucky. What you said… ‘He’s not yours to kill’, what does that mean?”

Bob stood, pacing now, rubbing his palms together like trying to warm himself from a chill that wouldn’t leave.

“You hate him. But not in a surface-level, ego-clash kinda way. It’s deeper. Like you’ve known him in another life. Or like he took something from you.” He turned to look at you again, then scoffed. “He doesn’t even know, does he?”

He lingered by your side again, hands twitching at his sides. The Void buzzed faintly beneath his skin. That old temptation.

“Just a glimpse,” he whispered. “Not to violate anything. Just... clarity. That’s all.”

Bob stared at your hand, then at his own, flexing his fingers.

“No, no, no, bad idea. Bob, this is literally the reason they said you shouldn’t touch people when they’re unconscious.”

But his fingers hovered. Trembled. And finally—made contact.

The moment your skin met his, the air snapped inward.

The machines dimmed, the walls folded in on themselves—and the world fell away.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood now in a black void, pulsing softly around him like the inside of a heartbeat. But even as he steadied himself, colour bled in. The space reshaped, forming the vague contours of a place that wasn’t real, yet felt terrifyingly familiar.

It was your Void Room.

Personal. Raw. Truthful.

Not memory. Not dream. Something deeper.

“…Whoa,” Bob whispered, heart kicking into a gallop. “Okay, okay... so you’ve got layers.”

But already, something in the atmosphere was shifting. A flicker of heat. A burst of rage. A ghost of sorrow so thick it strangled the air. Then, through the haze—

A younger you.

A flash of something sharp.

A silhouette with a metal arm.

And a truth he hadn’t been prepared to see.

Bob could hardly breathe. The Void rippled like a curtain torn loose in a storm, warping around you, around your unconscious form as it lay still beside him. He hadn’t meant to see this. He hadn’t meant to feel this. But here he was, standing in the memory your soul had buried deepest.

The scene unfolded with dreamlike clarity, yet carried the unmistakable weight of truth.

A modest banquet hall—walls lined with cheap tinsel and flickering string lights. A rented space in a nondescript city building, made special only by the people inside it. A birthday. Homemade cake. Laughter. Friends pressed close, holding paper plates and plastic forks, warmth radiating off the small crowd.

You were only eight, maybe nine, all limbs and excitement. You ducked under tables and tugged on adults’ hands, giggling, clutching a handmade card in sparkly glue. At the centre of the room stood your brother, eighteen today. Bright-eyed. Laughing. The kind of boy who made people feel safe just by existing.

Bob recognised the kind of room this was. Family-built. Naive in its joy.

But not everyone in that room was meant to be there.

Bob’s gaze shifted as your father shook hands with a guest in a tailored suit—older, composed, and far too serious for the occasion. Senator Harold Myles. A moderate voice rising in Congress. Recently outspoken against certain defence contracts that fed HYDRA’s shell corporations. The kind of man who wouldn’t live long once his name showed up on their list.

Hydra wanted him gone.

And so, they'd sent their ghost.

The door burst open with metallic finality. Screams burst like shrapnel.

Enter the Winter Soldier.

Black tactical gear. Silver arm adorned with a red star. No mask this time, only long dark hair damp with rain, clinging to his cheekbones. He didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten. Just walked—slow, direct, surgical.

The Senator had maybe three seconds to recognise the spectre from whispered D.C. legends before the Soldier raised his rifle.

But your brother got there first.

Bob saw it in horrifying detail—your brother lunging forward, pushing a friend down behind a table, hands up, shouting something like, “Wait, he’s just a—” before the gun fired.

No hesitation. No remorse.

Just cold training.

Your brother collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. A silence fell in the room that no music could recover from.

You screamed.

Bob saw your mother throw her arms around you, trying to shield you from the scene. But power bloomed inside you—raw, ancient, untapped. It cracked from your chest like glass under pressure, flooding the air with a low hum of impossible energy.

And then—

Light.

Heat.

Screams swallowed in a wave of radiance.

Everyone—your parents, the guests, even the Senator—obliterated in a surge of aura. The Winter Soldier alone had made it out. You, sobbing in the rubble, glowing like something divine and shattered, didn’t know it yet.

Didn’t know what had happened.

Didn’t know what you were.

And you didn’t know the man who walked away into the night was the one who’d started it all.

Bob stood frozen, stomach churning. The smell of ash and scorched memory lingered in the Void.

He looked at you now, unconscious in the medbay. Strong. Fierce. So certain in your hate.

He understood.

Because the Winter Soldier didn’t just kill your brother.

He made you.

Bob’s eyes snapped open, lungs seizing with the sudden rush of cold, sterile air. The harsh fluorescent lights of the medbay flickered overhead like ghosts trying to blink away the images now burned into his brain.

He was still holding your hand.

He dropped it like it had burned him.

Heart hammering, he stumbled back, nearly knocking over a tray of gauze and saline as he braced himself against the nearest wall. He gripped the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white, trying to find something—anything—solid beneath him. But there was nothing solid left. Not after what he’d just seen.

Not after what he now knew.

You weren’t just some mysterious recruit plucked from the wind by Sam Wilson.

You were trauma wrapped in silence. A living wound with teeth. A ghost shaped like a girl who had once screamed hard enough to erase a room.

And the Winter Soldier—Bucky Barnes—was at the centre of it all.

Bob stared at your face, still peaceful in sleep. Your vitals beeped steady. Your breathing was calm. Anyone else would think you were just healing. But he knew better now.

He swallowed, throat dry and tight. His stomach turned. The image of your brother’s body collapsing—the sheer horror in your scream, that moment your powers ignited like wildfire—it would haunt him. Not because of what you did, but because of what had been done to you.

Bob pressed his trembling hands to his eyes and breathed. In. Out. Again.

He’d seen darkness before. He was darkness, in a way. The Void was a cruel place that showed people their worst. But this? This had been something else.

It had been human.

And now… what was he supposed to do with this?

Tell Sam? Warn Bucky? Warn you, when you woke up?

No.

He looked at you again, this time with something softer beneath the shock—grief, maybe. Sympathy. A gnawing understanding.

Bob wasn’t an Avenger.

He was a janitor of memory. A gatekeeper of ghosts.

And for now, this ghost… this truth… would remain his burden to carry.

He turned back to his console, fingers moving stiffly as he checked your vitals again. Heart rate steady. Brain activity… shifting. You were healing. Slowly.

Outside your room, the world kept turning. Plans moved forward. So did people.

Bucky didn’t.

The second night you were unconscious in the medbay, he sat at the edge of your bed long after the others had gone. Sam had stopped by briefly, saying something about Reed Richards and Johnny Storm needing to be brought in before the press caught wind of the failed mission. But Bucky barely listened. His eyes stayed on you. You were still pale. Still too quiet.

He left at dawn, jaw locked, and returned a few hours later. His knuckles were bruised.

By the third day, Reed and Johnny were back—less enemies now, more reluctant allies. Apparently, the moment Bucky told them Sue Storm and Ben Grimm were safe, Reed’s entire stance shifted. Johnny rolled his eyes, muttered something cocky, but followed without protest. No power struggles. No fireballs. Just tired agreement. They’d seen enough.

But their cooperation didn’t ease the knot in Bucky’s chest. Not when he passed your room and saw Bob still stationed there like a quiet sentinel. Not when he stepped inside and found you still lying there, unmoving.

He hovered by the door some days. Other times, he sat again. Said nothing. Thought too much.

Sam noticed. On the fifth night, he caught Bucky in the hallway.

“You need sleep,” he said. Not harsh, not gentle. Just a statement. Like a friend who saw the unravelling.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Sam’s expression cracked a little then, the frustration bleeding through. “She nearly died, Buck. You think sitting by her bedside every night’s gonna change that? You can’t make up for it that way.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He just turned away.

Behind him, Sam sighed. “I know you care about her. But beating yourself up won’t fix her. Or you.”

That night, Bucky stood under the shower too long. Water scalding. Steam swallowing him whole. He let it burn the guilt out of him—or tried to. But just like clockwork, he felt it, the way his body yearned for you. Like a primal need, and urge that he just couldn’t bite down. Your soft lips on his scarred skin and God, Bucky knew nothing would ever happen. He knew that you’d rather die than touch him.

Somehow, that only made him want you more. So he curled his fingers around his cock, grunting and moaning as the water splashed against the tiles, his stomach pooling with arousal as he neared his release. And then he’d choke out a cry as he came undone, promising to never do that again. His desire for you once again buried in shame and guilt — left unspoken. The way it needed to be.

He still came back to the med bay, hair damp, hoodie clinging to his skin. He didn’t go in this time. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the closed door like it held all the answers.

It didn’t.

So, after gentle consideration, Bucky slipped through the door like he’d done every morning and every night that week—silent, steady, careful. He didn’t need to be here. And yet, he showed up. Without fail. Always in the same dark clothes, always with that same guarded look on his face.

In his hand was a loosely tied bundle of flowers, snatched from the rooftop garden, still damp from the morning dew. An array of white lillies, red roses and bluebells, planted by Ava and Bob at the start of the season.

He placed them on the side table, then dragged the chair closer to your bed, leather creaking under his weight as he sat. You looked the same. Still. Distant. Like you were in a dream you hadn’t decided to wake up from.

His jaw shifted slightly before he spoke.

“You’re gonna mess up the team dynamic if you don’t wake up soon.”

He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a fact. Or maybe a plea dressed up in military detachment.

“They’re trying to figure out how to rebuild the Avengers lineup,” he continued, voice low. “Sam’s already talking about public image. Optics. You know how it goes. ‘What’ll the people think?’” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And I’m sitting there like… ‘you’re part of the team too, you should be here as we decide these things.’”

He let out a dry breath, shaking his head. “We got the Fantastic Four. They’re willing to cooperate. Sam and I… we know some people too. Some old friends. I just—”

Another beat of silence. Bucky changed the subject without warning, revealing the pressure that had been eating him alive.

“I keep thinking I know you.”

He looked up at you then, really looked. His eyes didn’t waver, even when his mouth tightened like he hated admitting it.

“It’s crazy. I know it is. But sometimes when I walk past you… when I hear your voice, or see the way you look at me like I’m something you already buried…” He swallowed. “It’s like I’ve seen you before. Like we’ve done this. Been here. Somewhere else. Somewhere... worse.”

His fingers fidgeted with the seam of his glove.

“I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But something’s off about this. About you. About the way I can’t stop wondering what you’d say if you were awake right now. Probably something scathing. Probably something that would make me laugh after you leave the room.”

His throat bobbed.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

It was out before he could swallow it back.

“That’s what this is. I know I’m not supposed to say it. Hell, I’m not even supposed to feel it. But I don’t care.” His voice dropped. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He stood, slowly, like anything louder than a breath would disturb whatever fragile thread was holding this moment together.

The flowers stayed. The chair creaked back into place.

But Bucky—he paused at the door, glancing back at you one more time, his metal hand curled into a fist at his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

────✪────

Bob tapped the side of the monitor gently with two fingers, watching your vitals flicker to life on the screen. Still steady. Still slow. He exhaled through his nose and scribbled something on the clipboard tucked under his arm. The medbay had become a second home over the past few days — white walls, humming machines, and you, lying silent in the center of it all like a ghost that hadn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

He stepped to your side, fingers brushing the inside of your wrist. Warm. Good. He recorded your pulse next, muttering to himself as he did. “No change. Still stable. Still you.”

But then, his gaze snagged on something new.

Sitting just beside the monitor — a small glass vase that hadn’t been there earlier. Fresh flowers. Red, white, and blue, arranged with a surprising amount of care. Bob narrowed his eyes, setting the clipboard aside and reaching toward the vase. Nestled among the stems was a small card.

He plucked it free.

"From Bucky."

He stared at the handwriting for a long time. His fingers tensed, crumpling the edge of the card slightly.

“Seriously?”

A hollow laugh escaped him, humourless. He looked at you again — unconscious, brow furrowed in some distant dream, breath slow and even — and he imagined what it would be like if you woke up and saw this first. The flowers. That name. The very person who had shattered your life with the same cold precision he used to break bones and silence witnesses.

Bob had seen it now. Lived it, in your void room. The memory pressed at the backs of his eyes like it was still happening — the birthday, the scream, the body falling. And Bucky Barnes, expression blank behind the Winter Soldier’s mask, walking away from your brother’s blood.

Bob turned the card over. Nothing else. No apology. No explanation. Just that name — a name too heavy to leave lying on your bedside like a get-well-soon balloon.

He folded it once, then again, and slid it into his back pocket.

A knock came from the doorframe — Yelena, arms filled with grocery bags, one dangling precariously from her pinky. “Hey, Robert. Mind giving me a hand before the oat milk crushes my spleen?”

Bob hesitated, eyes darting back to your still form.

“I’ll be five minutes,” he murmured. He reached for the TV remote to give the room some noise — a habit more than anything else — and flicked it on low. A news anchor’s voice filtered through the speakers.

“Later this evening, O.X.E. CEO Valentina Allegra de Fontaine and New Avengers Team Leader Bucky Barnes will give a formal update on the status of the Fantastic Four—”

He winced, already annoyed, and lowered the volume even more. Then he followed Yelena out, shooting one last look at you over his shoulder. Still asleep. Still unaware.

He didn’t like this. Something in his gut said that when you woke up, you were going to wake up wrong. And all of this — the flowers, the card, the quiet hum of the news behind him — would only make it worse.

But for now, the room remained still. The flowers sat at your side. And the TV kept talking.

And so, the first thing you heard when you finally woke up was the murmur of voices. Not close ones. Not real ones. Filtered and distant, like they were being spoken through cotton. A woman’s voice — polished, assertive. Familiar.

Then the sting of fluorescent light behind your eyelids. The sterile scent of antiseptic in your nose.

You blinked awake.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. Not Sam’s place. Machines beeped beside you in steady rhythm, and something cold tugged at your arm. You looked down — an IV. Monitors. Your wrist wrapped in a soft cuff. Hospital. No — medbay.

Your chest fluttered with a breath, shallow and aching. Everything felt like it had happened hours ago and years ago, all at once. You tried to sit, but a tight pull in your side made you wince. Slowly, carefully, you turned your head.

And saw the television.

Your heart climbed into your throat before your brain caught up.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine stood at a podium, flanked by flags and security detail, her sleek black suit catching the glint of the press lights. She was mid-sentence, one hand confidently on her hip as she addressed the sea of cameras and reporters.

“—and we’re proud to confirm that, thanks to the tireless effort of Barnes and the New Avengers, Reed Richards, Jonathan Storm, Sue Storm and Ben Grimm have officially joined the team. We’re thrilled about what this means for the future of global protection.”

The crowd applauded. Reporters shouted questions. And then — him.

Bucky.

You sucked in a breath at the sight of him, stepping up beside Val, expression unreadable but handsome as ever in a dark navy suit, clean-cut and so Congressman-like. There was a stiffness in his jaw. The camera lingered on him, and you found yourself leaning forward before you could stop.

Val beamed at him. “All of this is only possible because of his leadership,” she said, placing a hand on his chest like she owned him. “Bucky Barnes is proof that people deserve a second chance, and that’s what the New Avengers Initiative is all about.”

No. What does she know about second chances?

Then — she kissed him.

Your stomach dropped.

It was quick. Clean. One of those polished political kisses meant for cameras and headlines. But Bucky didn’t pull away. He stilled for a beat… almost like he was deciding his next move, and then kissed her back. Mouth opened, leaned in, nose pressed into her face.

Your hand trembled as it reached for the remote. You turned the TV off. Silence crashed into the room.

For a long moment, you just stared at the black screen, trying to breathe. It didn’t make sense. You hated him. He was your enemy. The Winter Soldier. He had murdered your brother. He had carved out the centre of your life with a bullet and vanished into history.

So why did your heart feel like it was splintering?

You let your head drop back against the pillow. Your eyes stung.

And then — you noticed the flowers.

They sat on the table by your bedside, radiant and arranged with surprising delicacy. Red, white, and blue. Patriotic, almost. They looked so out of place in this sterile room. You reached for them, wincing as you moved, and searched for a card. Nothing.

But the colours… the warmth of the gesture…

You swallowed, your throat tight. Sam. You told yourself it must’ve been Sam. Sweet, thoughtful Sam — the one who took you in, trusted you when no one else would. If he brought you these, it meant he cared. Meant someone still did.

A fresh well of emotion spilled into your chest. You couldn’t stay here.

You reached for the IV and ripped it out with a hiss. The machines beeped in protest, but you were already swinging your legs over the bed, finding your balance. You grabbed the hospital blanket and wrapped it around your shoulders, dizzy but moving.

You didn’t want to be here when someone came in. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want answers. You wanted—

Sam.

Barefoot, shivering, you slipped out the door and into the corridor. No one noticed. No one stopped you. You left the medbay behind.

And ran.

You pushed the door open and stumbled into the night.

The city hit you like a wave — noise, lights, motion — all muffled beneath the steady drum of rain. Cold, relentless, it soaked through the thin hospital gown clinging to your skin in seconds. The blanket you’d taken from the bed trailed behind you like a forgotten flag, heavy and useless now. You let it fall to the ground.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just away.

Your bare feet slapped against the concrete, slipping a little as you ran across the sidewalk and through the streets of Manhattan, the rain burning against your skin like ice. No one stopped you. No one even looked. New York had seen stranger things.

But inside your head, it was chaos.

Your mind flitted from image to image like radio static — Bucky in that press conference, his mouth against hers, the way he didn’t even flinch. Bucky lying on his back in the tunnels underground, after being hit by a blast of Johnny Storm’s fire. Him holding you upright when you fell off the kitchen counter, that one night after playing Never Have I Ever, when he lifted you to reach the vents with so much ease and all the touching during training. You had pushed him off you, time and time again, but now you reminisced the feeling of his hands on your body. Warmth. Comfort. Care. All of it, every single thought, was him. You were consumed.

And then darkness.

That week-long sleep, the one no one thought you’d wake from… it hadn’t felt like sleep. It had felt like falling. Floating. Like you were back in the Void again — no walls, no sound, just weightlessness. But there had been something different this time. Someone. A hand in yours. A voice. Bob?

You tried to remember but it was like chasing smoke.

You shook your head. It didn’t matter.

You kept running. Across avenues, past honking cars and glowing storefronts. Your breath came ragged, and your body was shaking, but you couldn’t stop. Not until you saw the building. Sam’s place. A low-rise brownstone that didn’t scream Avenger, tucked away between a deli and a laundry shop like it belonged to someone normal.

Like he was normal.

Like you could be.

You stopped across the street and stared at the windows, lit warm from inside. You imagined him there, in his hoodie and socks, maybe eating cereal at night like he did when he couldn’t sleep. The thought made your throat tighten.

Sam had taken you in when no one else even looked twice. Gave you a room. A chance. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t expect perfection. He just… cared.

Maybe that’s why, deep down, you’d assumed the flowers were from him. Because Sam was the kind of person who would’ve left them. Who would’ve wanted you to wake up to something kind. Who saw something in you, even when you couldn’t see it in yourself.

You crossed the street and climbed the steps, every movement aching from cold and exhaustion. Your hair was plastered to your face, rain dripping from your chin. You knocked — softly, then again, louder.

Please be home, Sam. Please.

Your legs trembled.

You knocked a third time, then pressed your forehead to the door, whispering his name like a prayer.

────✪────

Bucky wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand the moment the elevator doors sealed shut behind him. Val’s lipstick smeared red across his knuckles — a stubborn, perfect imprint of something he hadn’t asked for. Something that didn’t belong to him.

He scrubbed harder, jaw clenched, his reflection flashing in the chrome walls as the elevator ascended toward the medbay.

All he wanted was to see you.

He hadn’t meant to be gone that long. Just a press conference. Just a few words about the Fantastic Four’s arrival. But the moment the cameras turned off, Val had stepped in like she always did — sharp smile, flawless posture, and just enough power in her voice to make it hard to say no. He didn’t expect the kiss. Didn’t want it. Didn’t know what to do when it happened, so he froze and kissed her back. Impulse.

And that was caught on camera too.

He hated this game.

Maybe you were awake now. Or maybe still sleeping. He just needed to see you. That would make it better. Ground him again.

The doors slid open and Bucky stepped into the medbay.

His boots stopped cold.

The bed was empty.

No heart monitor beeping. No shallow rise of breath beneath thin sheets. The wires — the IV, the vitals monitor — were all ripped out, discarded like a storm had passed through. The bed wasn’t even made. The blanket was tangled and damp, still slightly warm.

His stomach dropped.

The only thing left untouched… was the bouquet.

He stepped toward it slowly, the bright red, white, and blue petals still dewy.

He turned sharply, panic clawing into his ribs, and spoke to the artificial intelligence system that Tony Stark had once installed in every room in the Avengers Tower. “FRIDAY,” he snapped. “Where is she?”

There was a pause. “Unknown. The subject is no longer in the building.”

Bucky was already sprinting for the door.

He reached the living quarters like a man on fire, shoulder-checking the door open. “She’s gone,” he gasped, nearly breathless. “She’s not in the medbay—she’s gone.”

The room fell silent.

Yelena dropped her cards. Ava looked up mid-laugh. Alexei’s brow furrowed, and Bob stood so fast his chair toppled behind him.

“What do you mean, gone?” Bob asked, voice sharper than usual. “I just checked in on her a couple hours ago.”

Bucky’s eyes were wild. “The bed’s empty. IVs torn out. No one’s seen her.”

Yelena cursed under her breath and immediately started pulling on her jacket. “She wouldn’t just leave like that.”

“We don’t know that,” Bob muttered, but his mind was already racing. He was seeing pieces — flashes — of you blinking awake, alone, confused, coming straight out of your void-room.

John was already flipping a notepad open, sharp and strategic. “We split up. We don’t panic. Bob, you and Ava check the perimeter of the building, rooftops too. Yelena, take the underground. Alexei, go street level. She couldn’t have gotten far if she left recently.”

“And me?” Bucky asked, voice a touch hoarse.

John looked up, then nodded slowly. “You know her better than we do.”

Bob hesitated. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?”

Bucky blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

Bob didn’t answer at first. He saw the way Bucky’s hand clenched at his side, like he didn’t even realise he was trembling.

“I just mean…” Bob exhaled. “You might not be the first face she wants to see.”

Bucky stiffened, confusion etched across his features. “She saved my life,” he said quietly. “Why wouldn’t she—?”

Bucky faltered at his words, and Bob offered him a softened look. Empathy, almost.

Because the truth hung too heavy in the room to say aloud.

Still, Bucky squared his shoulders. “I’m going to Sam’s. If she’s scared, that’s where she’d go.”

Bob nodded, finally. “Then go.”

And without another word, Bucky disappeared through the door, heart hammering and rain already streaking the glass beyond.

────✪────

The door had barely opened before you collapsed into Sam’s arms.

You didn’t cry — not really. But your hands trembled as they clung to him, your skin soaked through from the storm. Your hair was plastered to your face, your hospital gown drenched and clinging to every angle of you. You looked like you’d run through a warzone, and in your head, you had.

Sam was shirtless, grey sweatpants sitting at his waist and cuffing at his ankles.

“I—I’m sorry,” you rasped, still shaking. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Sam didn’t ask questions. He just pulled you inside.

A blanket was wrapped around your shoulders before you even noticed him move, and a mug of tea sat untouched on the coffee table between you as you sat curled on the edge of the couch. He knelt in front of you, brow furrowed, eyes scanning your face like it might crack under the weight of your silence.

“I thought you were still in the medbay,” he said, voice soft.

“I was.”

“What happened?”

Your eyes flickered to the muted TV in the corner. The same broadcast was frozen on screen — Valentina’s red lips pressed to Bucky’s, her hand possessively clutching his lapel as he stilled.

You didn’t want to explain it. Not when it sounded ridiculous aloud. Not when your hatred for Bucky had always been louder than anything else, and yet here you were… gutted.

So instead, you just whispered, “I just needed to be somewhere safe.”

Sam nodded, slow and patient. “This is your home and you’re safe here. Always.”

That should’ve calmed you.

But it didn’t.

Because your chest felt like it was caving in, and the only thing keeping you upright was the grounding pressure of Sam’s hand against your knee — warm, steady, solid. The way he always was. He was the one who found you, who vouched for you, who believed in you when no one else would.

Your lip trembled, and you reached out, touching his face like it was the only thing tethering you to this world. His breath caught.

“Sam,” you murmured, barely audible.

His eyes met yours, and for a long, tense second, nothing moved between you.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn’t slow or tentative — it was desperate. Full of aching, confused, fire-cracked need. You lay your hands flat against his panels of his chest as if it could anchor you, pouring every twisted knot in your body into the kiss.

Sam didn’t hesitate. He wanted this too. His hand slid to the back of your neck, lips moving with yours, unsure but warm, and—

The front door had been left open.

Bucky.

He’d stood there long enough.

He’d come with a purpose — to apologise, to explain, maybe even to plead — but now, on the other side of the threshold, he couldn’t breathe.

He saw everything.

The kiss.

The desperation in it.

Sam, half naked and holding you like you belonged there.

Bucky’s heart stopped. For a long, frozen second, he just watched — drenched from the rain, jaw slack, fingers twitching at his sides like he’d been shot.

Then he stepped back into the darkness of the hallway, closing the door behind him.

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Author's note: SO nervous to post this one... bucky barnes sam wilson x f!reader -- don't worry, she will end up with the right person, i just live for a little drama first. <3

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Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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