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marvelstoriesepic · 26 days ago

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Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

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prythianpages · 3 months ago

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The Mark You Left Behind | Eris Masterlist

Eris x Reader ft. Azriel | Eris breaks your heart, unaware that you’re carrying his child. Now, both of you are left to grapple with the consequences of his actions, as your lives spiral in unexpected directions.

warnings: angst, hidden pregnancy, (other warnings will be specified by part)

a/n: The title is inspired by the song Que No Quede Huella (a classic), which is why the banner has the spanish lyrics. These parts are listed in chronological order. The parts with ৡ are kind of like bonus parts. For better context, I do recommend reading this starting with I. Stuck.

(I will say this will most likely be a set of fics/drabbles that center around a story but not necessarily a plot? Idk if this makes sense. Basically me writing a series but without the full detailed commitment? I'm just happy that after dealing with a rough writer's block, I'm actually getting the inspo/urge to write something.)

ৡ Jealousy, Jealousy | Eris finds himself comforting you after a failed attempt at a courtship.

ৡ Down To You | The more Eris lets you in, the more he finds himself being pushed and pulled into feelings he's scared to accept. aka the beginning of it all

ৡ Tell Me I've Been Lied To | Eris didn't know that three simple words could change the course of your lives.

I. Stuck | After breaking your heart, Eris thinks you have moved on.

II. Think of You | Eris is unaware of how wrong he was. You're still picking up the pieces of your shattered heart. You find that it does not matter how far you distance yourself from Eris, a part of him will always be with you.

III. Something I Wait For | You're still overridden with stress over your unexpected pregnancy when an unexpected guest turns up at Day Court.

IV. Silver Soul | Azriel finds himself meddling in your business.

V. Lost in the Dark | Eris wants you back in Autumn. Meanwhile, you find yourself confiding in Azriel.

here is a little meme/post I made over one of the scenes from pt V.

VI. How Did We Get Here? | Things get heated at the High Lord's meeting and Azriel accidentally lets something slip.

VII. Protect Me From What I Want | After finding out you're carrying his child, Eris makes a sudden & unexpected visit to Day Court.

VIII. I'd Be There | Growing desperate in his search for you, Eris reaches out to Lucien, only to be settled over with more worry. sneak peak kinda

IX. If Only | Azriel is there to comfort you after taking you away from Day Court. aka your pov after pt VII

ৡ And It's All In My Head | Eris has a nightmare.

X. Come Back To Me | Experiencing some pregnancy complications, Azriel is left with no choice but to seek out Eris for help.

XI. So Much To Prove | Feeling much better now, you begin to crave Autumn pastries and find yourself missing home.

XII. No One Like You | Eris and you finally talk.

XIII. Untitled | still brainstorming some ideas but this might involve the part in ACOSF where Eris gets kidnapped by that angry queen

ৡ moodboard

fire gremlin | 2 |

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamarancianne, @daemyratwst, @ratgirl2020 @balufy

if you asked to be on the tag list & don't see your name here or on my general one, pls let me know! I'll keep track of them here.

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris vanserra fanfiction #eris vanserra x reader #eris angst #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar x you #the mark eris left behind

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phantomwithbreakfast · 6 months ago

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~ 𝐀𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 ~

⟢ One-shot Danny Phantom — Genre: Angst / Hurt — TW: Emotional Distress — Rating: T — AU? — First Person’s POV

———————

There he was—there it was.

My reflection stared back, the green glow of my eyes erratic, flickering like a faulty lightbulb. I wasn’t just looking at myself—I was looking through myself, and I hated what I saw. Not just the face staring back, but the endless spiral behind it—pulling me deeper into some unknowable abyss.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the battle. That one battle. Not with a ghost, not with some lurking threat—but with myself.

The dark part of… me.

The part that had escaped.

Again.

I’d won, of course—I had to believe that. I was the good side of myself, wasn’t I?

The hero.

But winning didn’t feel like triumph. It felt like a delay. Some whispers of the future lingering behind me, leaning over my shoulders, suffocating me with their burden.

I was afraid of becoming him.

That dangerous, older me. That monstrous version of myself that had been waiting all along.

All the—what ifs—it claws at the edges of my thoughts, unraveling my already frayed mind.

What if I couldn’t stop it? What if I was already becoming that monster? What if it was inevitable?

I stared deeper into the mirror, my fists tightening until my nails bit into my palms through my white gloves. I thought about my family, my friends—the people who had always been there. I’d already pushed them away, hadn’t I?

Maybe they aren’t even my friends anymore. Maybe I don’t deserve them.

Sam and Tucker had gone to college, following their dreams like normal people. Jazz was too busy carving her own path to stay. And me? I had stayed behind in the crumbling town I couldn’t abandon, giving up my dream of going to space. Protecting people was my purpose now. At least, that’s what I told myself. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Was it a noble choice—or a coward’s excuse?

You could still go. You could leave. You could be an astronaut. Fly into space. Fulfill the dream. Your dream.

But it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing ever would.

I gritted my teeth, my reflection rippling in the glass like a warped painting.

Happy thoughts, I told myself. But they didn’t come. They never did anymore. It was always easier to sink into the darker ones, to let them drag myself down into the undertow.

The mocking voices of ghosts, the weight of battles fought and won—none of it mattered in the face of the gnawing feeling in my chest.

My core.

It purred softly, a dissonant hum, both comforting and sinister.

It felt… so freaking wrong.

As if it didn’t belong to me anymore. As if Phantom—him was bleeding into me, hollowing me out from the inside.

My breath hitched. My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the sink. My eyes clenched shut, but it didn’t block out the image of myself—the warped, flickering, monstrous reflection staring back. I felt like a glass that was about to shatter, cracks spidering across my soul.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

I punched my palms tighter until the pain jolted me back. But the ache in my chest was worse. Phantom wasn’t just part of me. Phantom was me.

My breath staggered in my throat—a sob trembling on the edge of release. My knuckles ached, my chest burned, and that pressure—that suffocating pressure—kept building on.

“Get out of my head!” I screamed, my voice raw, ripping through the suffocating silence.

The sound reverberated in the tiny room, crashing into the walls and returning to me like a ghostly echo. My reflection flickered again—glowing red of Phantom’s eyes overtaking my own for the briefest moment before fading back into green.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted again, this time so forcefully that my throat hurt, as though I was tearing myself apart. The sound cracked into a wail—an uncontrollable, heart-shattering release.

Green tears left cold trails down my cheeks as I screamed again, and again, and again… until the room seemed to quake.

The mirror shattered.

Shards exploded outward, raining onto the counter, the floor, my arms. A jagged piece nicked my cheek, drawing a thin line of green that dripped down onto my trembling hand.

I didn’t care.

My reflection was gone—splintered into a thousand fractured pieces scattered at my feet.

My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the sink. My hands shivered, slipping on the porcelain.

I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the cold tile, knees pulled to my chest. My hands tangled in my snow-white hair as sobs wracked my body. Every shuddering breath felt like it might break me further.

The shards of glass caught the dim light, a kaleidoscope of chaos surrounding me, reflecting parts of me I couldn’t escape from.

I clutched my chest, my core still purring that discordant frequency—like a faint, mocking laugh echoing from deep within.

“I’m scared,” I whispered to—no one. My voice cracked. “I don’t want to become… him.”

My words dissolved into another sob as I curled tighter, the shattered mirror fragments glinting like stars against the dark void I felt, pulling me under.

“I will never turn into you.”

———————

Okay. First time I drew Dan. I was scared. Scared of those eyes. Those eyes that pierced the whole time into mine—no, through mine. I should’ve waited with his eyes until the end, but of course, I didn’t.

———————

⟢ You can find my Phan fics here.

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hamiltonaf · 1 month ago

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Just A Friend | Max Verstappen

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Female Reader

Word Count: 1073

Warnings: None just fluff

A/N: Another TikTok trend lol. The only thing keeping me away from writers block atm. Surprised I’ve never written for Max on here before so I hope I did this justice. Enjoy .xx

Life of a content creator means being active on my socials. “Okay, I think we’re live now,” I smiled at the screen as my phone lit up with notifications. “Hi guys ! Welcome to this very chaotic, very last-minute ‘Get Ready With Me’ because I have no time management skills and I’ve got somewhere to be in—” I glanced at the clock on the wall, “—an hour. Great.”

I sat at my vanity with my makeup splayed out, Max’ oversized hoodie on and a few strands of hair already clipped back. The chat was moving fast, comments rolling in about my skin care, questions about where I was going, and the usual: “Are you dating anyone ?” “Why haven’t we seen you post with that guy again ?”. Max and I have been together for 6 months now and I’ve soft launched him once on my story - nothing official on our accounts, let people continue to speculate.

Just as I picked up my concealer, a shadow moved behind me in the doorway, and I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Max. He was shirtless of course, and casually strolling past, like he didn’t just interrupt a live in front of thousands of viewers who were now collectively losing their minds.

I froze mid-blend as the chat exploded.

WHO WAS THAT? HELLO??? MA’AM THAT’S MAX VERSTAPPEN?? BACK UP. WHO WAS THAT MAN? IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND? DON’T LIE TO US, Y/N.

I choked on a laugh and quickly looked back over my shoulder. “Don’t mind him,” I said with the most dismissive wave I could muster. “That’s just a friend.” A friend. Yep. Sure. Just a friend who slept in my bed last night and stole all the covers and kissed me breathless in the kitchen this morning. From the hallway, I heard a quiet, almost stunned voice repeat, “Friend ?”

I pretended not to hear him. “Anyway !” I said way too brightly, dabbing under my eyes. “We’re doing something soft and glowy today because I have no time for winged liner. I’m meeting up with a friend after a while for dinner so I’m quite excited.. and hungry.” Behind the doorframe, Max’s head poked out again, his brows drawn together in an expression that clearly read are you kidding me ? He whispered it again—louder this time. “Friend ?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I could feel his stare like heat on my skin.

I went on with my makeup, brushing blush onto my cheeks while my chat continued to spiral in all caps. Max had disappeared again, but I knew that was not the end of it. He wasn’t going to let this go.

Fifteen minutes later, I wrapped up, did a little pose for the camera, and waved. “Okay! That’s it for today, I love you guys. Thanks for watching. I’ll see you soon, byeeee!” I ended the live, set my phone down, and barely had time to stretch before— “Friend ?” Max said from behind me, full offence in his voice.

I turned around slowly, trying not to laugh at the look on his face, arms crossed over his chest, hair tucked under his backwards cap, that adorable little crease between his brows when he was confused or annoyed… or both. I blinked innocently. “Hi.” “Don’t ‘hi’ me,” he said, stepping into the room. “Friend ? That’s what we are now ?”

I shrugged, biting my bottom lip. “I mean, technically, you are my friend.” “Technically, I’m your boyfriend,” he countered.“Right, but the internet doesn’t know that,” I teased, as I got dressed. “I’m preserving the mystery. Building intrigue. It’s part of the brand.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “So I’m just part of your branding strategy now?” “You knew what this was,” I joked, grinning as he crossed the room in a few long strides. “I let you steal my last hoodie,” he said, gesturing dramatically toward the one I was just wearing. “I made you breakfast. I watched that awful romcom you love with the dog that dies. That’s not something friends do.”

I tilted my head playfully as I slipped on my heels. “You’re saying friends can’t watch movies together ?” “Not while you’re sitting in their lap and feeding them popcorn like that,” he shot back, leaning in closer. He was dangerously close now, and I was starting to lose my composure, my smirk faltering slightly. “And friends definitely don’t do this,” he added, voice dropping low as his hands found my waist.

I gasped, caught completely off guard as he pulled me in flushed against his chest. He leaned down and kissed me - soft, slow, and far too thorough to be innocent. I melted into it instantly, hands finding his shoulders, fingers curling into his skin. His kiss was familiar and warm and completely wrecked any illusion I had of teasing him further.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly, his lips still brushed mine as he whispered, “Still just a friend ?” I huffed out a breathless laugh. “Okay, fine. You’ve made your point.” He smiled, triumphant, resting his forehead against mine. “Good. Because if one more person asks if I’m your roommate, I might lose my mind.” I giggled, wrapping my arms around his neck, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.” I pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You know I was just messing around, right ?” “Yeah,” he said, grin softening. “But I still like hearing you say I’m yours.” My heart did that ridiculous flutter thing it always did when he looked at me like that. “You are,” I said as I squeezed his face. “Mine.”

He kissed me again, gentle this time, all affection and no heat. Then he pulled me into a hug, arms wrapping tightly around me like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting go. “I guess I should warn you,” I mumbled against his chest, “my DMs are about to be a warzone.” He laughed, low and amused. “You should’ve just told them the truth.”

“Oh yeah ?” I teased. “And what’s the truth?” “That I’m your very attractive, very patient, very not platonic boyfriend who is now going to steal that hoodie back as payment for emotional damage.” “Max!” But he caught me off guard as he carried me over his shoulder and slapped my butt.

Definitely not just a friend.

And I was totally fine with the world knowing that now.

#f1 #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #formula 1 #max verstappen angst #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen smut

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misctf · 2 months ago

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Finding a New Role

“You’ve fucked up now, Chet.”

“Fuck off Brad.” Chet slammed the door to his locker shut, “And wipe that fuckin’ grin off your face.”

The back-up quarterback stayed smiling, “Three in a row now? How many more losses do you think coach is gonna...”

“McClane in my office. Now!”

Chet closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. His body was sore, coated in sweat from an intense game. Each muscle aching. His head pounding. All he wanted was to be back in his dorm, watching a movie with his girlfriend.

“Better go.” Brad patted Chet’s back with feigned sympathy, “Can’t wait for my promotion.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Chet walked off towards coach’s office, his mind racing. Was coach going to throw him off the team? What would happen to his scholarship? What would his dad say? His father always pushed him to be the best football player he could be. A pang of guilt welled up inside the young man.

“How could I have fucked up so badly?” He muttered, thinking back to several interceptions, sacks, and overall just poor leadership on his part.

Was it nerves? Was it Brad’s palpable ambition to replace him? Was it coach’s stern look? His angry shouts? This was a big game. Their rivals. Coach’s dream was to destroy them- make them look like shit. Turn them into their bitches- as coach had said during his pregame pep talk. But that was far from what happened on the field.

“This was a big game.” Coach Johnson said- his voice low- as Chet entered, “What the fuck, McClane?” Chet shivered- Johnson’s voice was low, inconsistent with the rage Chet knew simmered behind those eyes.

“I... I just...” Chet took a seat in front of his coach’s desk.

“Some people aren’t meant to lead a team.” Coach Johnson cut him off.

Chet could feel his heart sink. This was it. This was him getting kicked off the team. Demoted. He wanted to say something. To stop Coach Johnson from uttering those words. Yet, he couldn’t make a sound.

“But everyone has a use. Don’t you agree?”

Chet nodded slowly. What did Coach mean by that? Was he still going to be on the team? Maybe in a different capacity? But he wanted to play- he wanted to be a quarterback. He wanted to prove to everyone he wasn’t going to let them down.

“Coach, I don’t...”

Coach Johnson stood up and smiled, “Chet...” He was holding something. It was black and shiny- and to the young football player, it looked to be made of a latex material, “I’m not wasteful. And I think you have some real potential.”

Chet’s heart was beating fast now and he tried to stand up- a part of him yelling to get out of there fast. But Coach Johnson placed a hand on the young man’s bare shoulder and kept him seated. And before Chet was able to say anything else- he felt something wrap around his head. He let out a pained cry as the material wrapped tightly across his eyes and ears.

“Oh fuck! Wh-what the fuck is this!?” Chet cried out gripping at the latex material that blocked his vision, “It won’t come off!” He tried desperately to pull it away- the material unrelenting.

Coach Johnson remained quiet, watching as Chet stood up and stumbled around as he gripped desperately at the mask covering his head. Unable to pull it off, Chet tried to feel around with his arms as he moved across the room, trying desperately to escape.

“Please Coach! It hurts!”

But then he saw it. The inky blackness broke, and Chet saw a spiral flashing before him. And as the spiral swirled in front of him, he heard a voice. The portion of the mask covering his ears screeching alive, blocking out the sound around him.

“You are a slut.”

“You are a cum dumpster.”

“You live to suck cock.”

“You are a gay slut.”

Chet fell to his knees, grasping again at the mask and letting out a whimper as the voice pounded into his eardrums. This wasn’t true. This was all a lie. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t a slut. And fuck no he wasn’t a cum dumpster.

“You live to service cock.”

“You have no thoughts. No goals.”

“You have no other purpose.”

“Cum dumpster.”

Chet tried to close his eyes. To block out the spiral. But no matter what, it occupied his vision. He tried to cover his ears, but there was no relief from the voice. Instead, he fought against the voice. He wasn’t some slut... he wasn’t going to service cocks... he had goals... dreams... to make his father proud... to be... he wanted to... to be a...?

“No stop...” Chet mumbled weakly as drool fell from his mouth. He shuddered as he felt something being tightened around his neck- the smell of coach’s musk entering his nose.

“You live to suck cock and get fucked.”

“I live to suck cock and get fucked”

Chet winced. The voice in his head- his own voice- repeated the words that echoed in his brain. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized he couldn’t picture his future, but worse yet that his past was getting hazier. It was hard to think... hard to...

“Your mind is empty. You have no thoughts.”

“My mind is empty. I have no thoughts.”

“You have no name. You have no free will.”

“I have no... Che... no... My name... No name. I have no free will.”

“You love to suck cock. You love being a slut.”

“I... love to suck cock. I love being a slut.”

“Obey. Serve. Cum dumpster.”

“I obey. I serve. I am... I am...No...stop... I....no........."

“I am... I am a cum dump... dumpster...” The drone whispered as the last of his resistance crumbled away.

_______________

“Matthews get in here!”

Brad smirked as he walked towards Coach’s office. He had a feeling. No, he knew that this was it. He was getting promoted to starting quarterback. He was going to lead this team to victory. He was going to make them champions. And as for that fuck up Chet? Well, he could cheer from the sidelines. It wasn’t like...

“What the fuck?”

“Well?”

Brad took a step back, not really sure what he was seeing. He could recognize Chet- even with the strange latex mask around his face. But the collar? The drool? Coach’s hand teasing Chet’s mouth? And the fact that Chet was desperately sucking on coach’s fingers?

“Wh-what the...?”

“You’re the new starting quarterback, kid.” Coach Johnson smiled, “As for Chet, he’ll be helping the team in a new way.” Coach Johnson withdrew his fingers from its mouth and the drone moaned in desperation, “Have fun.” Brad looked down at the drone as it crawled to him and started rubbing its face against his jockstrap, trying desperately to suck his hardening cock through the thin fabric, “Oh! And if you fuck up, well... I’m sure you get the idea.”

Brad gulped as Coach Johnson left the two of them alone. The new starting quarterback had many thoughts. Many concerns. And many questions. But he couldn’t deny that his cock was getting harder, nor that it was the team’s new cum dumpster that was to blame. Brad didn’t really know what he was getting himself into, but figured that could wait.

“You ready, bitch?” He smirked and released his thick cock, letting it slap the drone’s face, “I know you want this, slut.” He pushed into the drone’s open, desperate mouth.

Gluuuckgluck shlooooooshhh

#male tf #male transformation #drone tf #straight to gay #mental change #personality tf #gay hypnosis #dumber tf

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tikitakatia · 2 months ago

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Wrong Chat Capi! — A. Putellas x Reader

WC: 1.2k

Summary: Alexia makes a small mistake when sending a suggestive text, chaos ensues.

Alexia is not usually reckless.

She's calculated and careful. A team captain and the kind of woman who triple-checks texts before sending them.

But today?

Today she’s feeling herself.

Post-training endorphins. Shower steam is still clinging to her skin. You’d sent her the photo right before she went for her shower. It was innocent, technically, but the way her hoodie hung off your shoulder, your thighs just barely showing beneath it? She'd lost all rational thought.

She opens the photo again and exhales sharply through her nose. The rest of the locker room is loud with laughter, towel snaps and music but all she hears is the blood rushing to her head.

And lower.

You didn’t say much. Just typed out:

“I miss you. Hurry up perezosa!”

Alexia quickly swipes to her camera. Then with her towel low, hips cocked and lips wet from biting them, she snaps a single photo of her: washboard abs, the hard line of her hipbone and her hand gripping the towel’s edge.

Then she types:

“When I get there, I’ll have you standing with your cheek pressed against the window, hands behind your back and begging loud enough that the whole block knows who you belong to. Hoodie stays on.”

Send.

There´s a few seconds of peace and then..

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, ALEXIA!!”

Mapi’s voice cuts through the locker room like a fire alarm and everyone freezes.

Alexia blinks in confusion and checks her screen.

She didn’t send the message to you.

She sent it to Barça Team Group Chat.

All. Twenty. Players.

“No. No no no no no.” Alexia groans.

“Did she just? She did. Oh my God.” Irene’s already doubled over.

“Cheek pressed to the window??” Salma gasps. “SHE WROTE THAT??”

“Hoodie stays on?” Ona shrieks. “This is a professional football club!”

Mapi’s on the floor, wheezing. “Capitana. CAPITANA. There are children in this chat!”

Alexia stares down at her phone in horror. Her towel threatens to slip as she scrambles to type.

[Alexia]: WRONG CHAT. DELETE THIS IMMEDIATELY.

[Patri]: She said ‘begging loud enough the block knows.’ I’m calling the mossos.

[Pina]: *gif of someone diving into holy water*

[Aitana]: I can't tell if I'm traumatized or wildly impressed.

Alexia slams her locker shut.

“I’m leaving the country,” she mutters.

“Leaving the planet,” Jana corrects. “Pack your things. Go to mars. I’ll cover for you.”

“The neighbors. THE NEIGHBORS?? Imagine looking out to water your plants and seeing Alexia Putellas, two-time Ballon d´Or Winner doggying someone while standing.” Irene cries out.

Then Patri adds a poll:

Mapi checks all of them.

And then your name lights up on her screen.

[You]: Nice aim, Cap. I mean, I’m flattered. But your team’s gonna need a lot of therapy.

She nearly groans out loud.

[Alexia]: I’m deleting myself.

Just when Alexia thought that it probably couldn't get any worse, it did.

“I just…” Frido starts, frowning like she's trying to solve a 1000 piece puzzle.

“I can’t believe she’s into that.” The room goes dead quiet.

“She’s been with you since what? 2019?” Salma says, already spiraling.

“I’ve literally seen her knit in public.”

“She brings muffins to away matches,” Ona blurts.

“Like. With napkins. Real napkins.”

“She once asked me if I needed help carrying my groceries,” Patri says.

“That’s not window sex energy, Alexia!”

Alexia hides her face in her hands.

“She’s the one who made that playlist for when we’re feeling anxious,” Aitana says, horrified.

“Now I find out she’s out here steam-printing her ass on the glass like a decal?!” She shrieks.

“She taught my little cousin how to make pancakes,” Ingrid adds quietly.

“And now I know she’s out here getting flipped like one.” She whispers in disbelief.

“I saw her organize your spice rack alphabetically,” Kika says.

“That’s a woman who makes her bed every morning. That’s a woman who thanks the bus driver. That is not a woman who begs loud enough the block knows.”

“She sent me a TED Talk once,” Irene adds, staring at the wall.

“About emotional intelligence.”

“She used to be one of us! Now she’s fucking window décor?!” Mapi’s already losing it.

“She offered me a lozenge after I lost my voice!” Ona yells.

“A LOZENGE, ALEXIA.”

Alexia, still towel-wrapped, mutters,

“She’s still the same person.”

“NO SHE’S NOT,” Mapi shrieks.

“SHE HAS SAFE WORD NOW.”

There’s a loud thud as Salma dramatically drops onto a yoga mat.

“I just remembered she made everyone custom Christmas gift tags. She used calligraphy, bro.”

“She has bookmarks,” Ingrid says.

“Physical bookmarks. She reads with a blanket.”

“She makes soup,” Frido whispers.

“Not from a can.”

“I’ve seen her wear matching pajamas,” Aitana adds.

“With socks. And now she’s being folded like a lawn chair?”

“She’s not just folded. She’s a mountable furniture.” Mapi wheezes, half-coughing.

Alexia doesn’t even fight it now. She just sits there, towel over her face, letting it happen.

Then Patri drops an image into the chat: Alexia, edited into the Titanic scene except instead of Jack and Rose, it’s her gripping the towel and you, face half-hidden, pressed against a fogged-up window with a caption that says: “I’ll never let go… unless it’s your throat.”

Mapi chokes and Pina types like her life depends on it,

[Pina]: New idea. Barça Media Day, but every player has to answer one question.

Alexia doesn’t even look up. “Don’t.”

“Too late,” she says.

[Pina]: What does hoodie stays on mean to you?

[Aitana]: Someone take her phone. Take all our phones.

Patri strikes again, she sends a fake Google Calendar screenshot, zoomed in on Thursday evening:

🗓️ Event: Hoodie Stays On

🕒 Time: 8:30 PM

🪟 Location: Against the Window

💥 Guests: Alexia + You Ft. The Neighborhood

Alexia sits frozen, towel clutched like it might protect her from divine judgment. She's not moving. She’s not blinking.

“Why are you all like this?” she finally whispers.

“Because you sexted the entire team, Capi!” Mapi throws an arm around her, grinning.

And then comes the kill shot, Jana posts a fake book cover.

Title: Oh Capitana, Mi Capitana

Subtitle: How I Tactical-Fouled My Girlfriend Into A Glass Window

Cover: That cursed abs-and-towel thirst trap, filtered in soft vignette like a budget romance novel. The font was sinister looking with gold foil.

Alexia exhales like she’s aged ten years.

“I need to go into witness protection.”

No one disagrees.

Later that night, Alexia gets home to find you exactly as she left you. Curled up on the couch, legs bare, the same hoodie hanging off your shoulder like a weaponized memory.

You're holding your phone, clearly mid-scroll. Clearly reading the group chat.

You glance up, all fake innocence. “So… how was training?”

Alexia drops her bag with a dramatic thud. “I hate everyone.”

You smile. “Happens to the best of us.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “Did you know they made a book cover?”

“I saw.” You pause. “Strong branding, honestly.”

Alexia just stares at you. “I sexted the entire team.”

You nod solemnly.

She narrows her eyes, steps closer. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You tilt your head. “You said ‘hoodie stays on.’ That’s iconic. That’s gonna be in the locker room forever.”

Alexia leans over you, hands on either side of your thighs, her presence suddenly a little heavier, darker.

“I should be mortified.”

“You are mortified,” you say, smiling up at her.

She kisses the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, but I still meant every word.”

Your breath hitches.

“Oh?” you ask, voice softer now.

“Still planning to follow through?”

She grins, wicked and unrepentant.

“Window’s clean, right?”

845 notes · View notes

aestherin · 6 months ago

Text

KEEP MY HEART

epilogue: where's the trophy

NOTE: ending the year with the very last update for kmh 🙇‍♀️ thank you very much for being patient and waiting for more than a year!! i'm so thankful and grateful for all of you 💗 i hope everyone has a great year ahead ^^ - ri <3

Short of breath, Scaramouche's eyes paced back and forth, from one direction to another, rapid blinks in between.

The timer.

03:00

Then the scoreboard.

TNU UI 1 1

He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

He has very little time to seal the game. What's worse, it's the opponent's ball right now. They're at a disadvantage. If someone from the other team manages to score, it's all over.

They're going to lose. Even in his last game.

He could hear the roaring drums from the two cheering teams. He could hear the clashing cheers from both sides. He could hear the narrations of the game commentators.

Hell, he could even hear his own heart.

It was beating—no, it was ringing. Whether it was due to adrenaline, exhaustion, or anxiousness, he couldn't tell.

He took deep breaths. Get your head back in the game, stupid.

He was near the mid-field line, making his position decent. He was quite confident in his ability to make himself available for both options — he can aid in defense, if need be, or he can go for the offensive if the ball manages to get near the goal.

Everyone in the field, including himself, is already exhausted. Every single one of them is running on adrenaline alone.

01:37

"Fuck," he uttered once he noticed that TNU's ace and forward, Xiao, has already managed to position himself near the penalty area. "You better fucking stop him, Heizou."

As if Heizou heard his captain's orders from a distance, he dashed, speedily locking on to the teal-haired male. "No you don't."

"Calm down. I don't even have the ball yet," Xiao replied.

Heizou could not help laughing at how one of Xiao's teammates attempted to pass the ball to him moments after he just said that.

"'Yet?' It's not 'you don't have the ball yet'." He flashed a smile so warm yet so sinister. "You won't even be touching it."

01:01

Xiao moved, intending to receive the pass. Heizou did too. Xiao sped up, Heizou did too. Xiao blocked Heizou with one arm as he ran, the other did too.

"You're annoying."

"Well, thank you." Heizou grinned. "It's my job to annoy strikers, you see."

"You're doing a very good job."

"You're really flattering me here, you know. I'd blush if you weren't my opponent."

Despite a certain someone making it hard for him, Xiao had managed to make his way near the ball. 'Only a hair's breadth away,' he thought. 'I can reach it.'

A much more solid block from Heizou.

Then a heavy, foreign-sounding, decisive step.

In the blink of an eye, Xiao's clear view of the ball was replaced with a blinding scene — one that radiated of long, golden hair. The only thing that came between him and the goal that he was so close to scoring.

"I'll be taking this now, ace," Aether declared with a smirk. "I'm afraid our captain wasn't really blessed with patience."

Heizou beamed. "Nice save, Ae."

The blonde nodded in response.

00:39

Scaramouche, being aware of what had just transpired, positioned himself a little closer to the area where he knew it'd be possible to for him to score.

It was a little farther, yes. But he trusted in Aether and his ability to send him the ball, wherever he is.

00:32

"Scara!" Aether's yell pierced from across the stadium, followed by a resounding noise from the intensity of his kick. The crowd collectively gasped in awe; eyes locked onto the ball that is now spiraling from one side of the field to the other.

Scaramouche leaped into the air, flawlessly cushioning the ball with his torso. "Good fucking boy," Scaramouche whispered with a grin.

00:28

00:24

00:20

Scaramouche could not feel nor hear nor see anything else, except himself, the ball, and the goal. He was now on the left side of the penalty area. He swore he managed to pass by a man with teal braids who tried to block him earlier too, but everything was a blur.

All he knows is he has to get this one shot in.

00:18

And there he was, Scaramouche's last hurdle.

Looking as big of an annoyance as ever. The dependable captain of the other team. The notable and talented goalkeeper. His greatest obstacle.

Kaedehara Kazuha.

Your older brother.