fallen-w1ngs

[fallen-w1ngs]

how would the crew get along with someone who was basically a mild germaphobe and needed/ really wanted to deep clean the tower before they could be comfortable moving in?

i might just be dumb, i might just be too autistic to picl this up, but what crew do you want me to writr abt? 😭 like.. the og avengers? the thunderbolts*? perhaps this is an mha req and you want me to write abt the dekusquad or bakusquad? maybe the howling commandos or guardians of thr galaxy in marvel?

im sorry if this is passive aggressive, i dont mean for that, but i just genuinely am a bit confused

[fallen-w1ngs]

“That’s Not Me… Is It?” ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

||Part 2: softvibraniumdaydreams||

The night had started so peacefully.

You’d had the rare luxury of an empty common room at the Avengers compound, a warm blanket over your legs, and a mug of peppermint tea steaming gently at your side. The lights were dimmed low. Outside, New York traffic whispered beyond the windows. The tower was asleep.

And so was your dignity.

Your fingers hovered over your laptop’s touchpad, scrolling down a page littered with pink fonts, emojis, and hearts. Tumblr.

But not just Tumblr.

Your blog. Your secret, sacred space. A fanfic archive so shamelessly devoted to one James Buchanan Barnes, you were surprised it didn’t explode every time he entered the room.

Your eyes trailed the text you’d been reading — a new fic from your favorite writer, updated only an hour ago. Your cheeks heated as your brain processed the paragraph:

“He growled, metal fingers curling around your wrist like it was the most delicate thing in the world — dangerous, yes, but reverent. Possessive. Like he’d tear the world apart just to protect what was his.”

You choked lightly on your tea.

“Jesus,” you whispered, adjusting your blanket. “Who writes this stuff?”

A beat.

You bookmarked it.

Instantly.

You were mid-way through a scene involving Bucky in a henley and nothing else when your stomach gave an ill-timed grumble. You paused. The craving hit like a freight train: popcorn. Chocolate. Something salty and sweet to match the spicy chaos on screen.

“Screw it,” you muttered, pausing the scroll.

You set the laptop gently on the coffee table — still glowing, still open to the very sentence where fictional Bucky was threatening to ruin the reader against a fridge — and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

You didn’t hear the footsteps in the hall.

Didn’t hear the water droplets hitting the floor from a damp towel.

Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath as a certain ex-assassin entered the room.

But he saw everything.

⸻

Bucky Barnes had only been looking for water.

Fresh out of the shower, his hair damp and sticking to his temples, he was still towel-draped and low-energy when he stepped into the common area — expecting it to be empty. He planned to grab a drink, maybe sneak back to his room without interacting with anyone.

What he didn’t expect was the open laptop glowing like a beacon of doom.

Curious, he stepped closer.

At first, he thought it was some kind of classified document. A mission report maybe. The layout was unfamiliar. A little… glittery.

Pink font?

He squinted.

There were hearts in the sidebar. Tags. Gifs of himself shirtless.

And then he saw the title:

“Touch Me and Die (or Don’t): A Bucky Barnes x Reader Smutty Slowburn”

Bucky froze.

“…What the hell is Tumblr?”

The site had a comment section. Notes. Hundreds of little usernames like wintersdaddy89 and metalarmforyou reblogging the post with keysmashes and emojis.

He frowned and scrolled.

“He moved with lethal grace, metal hand clamping down on your thigh as he whispered, ‘You belong to me.’”

“…Oh hell no,” he muttered.

He blinked, face growing steadily redder as the next sentence described something involving whipped cream and the kitchen counter. His name was in it. HIS NAME.

He scrolled back to the top.

soft!Bucky | angst!bucky | daddy!bucky | yandere!bucky | one bed trope | SMUT

“WHAT THE FUCK IS A YANDERE—?”

“Hey, Buck, I—OH MY GOD!”

The popcorn bowl in your hands launched itself into the air like a missile. Kernels rained down over the rug in a sad cascade of snack death.

You looked from the screen to Bucky’s wide-eyed stare. He was clutching your laptop like it had just insulted his mother.

“…What is this?” he asked, voice pitched halfway between horror and betrayal.

Your soul departed your body.

“Nope,” you said, lunging forward. “Give it!”

He dodged you with the grace of a man who once assassinated heads of state. “Y/N,” he said, holding the laptop above his head. “Are these—stories? About me?”

You froze mid-lunge. “…I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“They’re… fanfictions.”

He blinked. “Which is…?”

You sighed and sat down, burying your face in your hands. “Made-up stories. People write them about characters. Sometimes real people. It’s a thing.”

Bucky stared at the screen again.

“Do I actually growl this much?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “I didn’t think you’d see it.”

He sat down beside you, laptop still in his lap. His expression was unreadable.

“So you do read this stuff?”

You mumbled, “Sometimes.”

He nodded slowly.

“…Alright,” he said. “Educate me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned back on the couch, scrolling slowly. “We’re reading them together now.”

—

An hour later, Bucky Barnes was deep into his seventh trope.

He’d read fluff.

He’d read angst.

He’d been a florist, a mechanic, a single father with a child named Muffin, and at least three different versions of himself with memory loss and deep emotional trauma.

And now, apparently, he was in a story where you died in his arms.

“He held her close, trembling, whispering promises he’d never get to keep. Her blood stained his hands. Again.”

You sniffled. “That one gets me every time.”

He looked shaken. “Why do they keep killing you?”

“I dunno. Feels poetic?”

“It feels like a gut punch.”

He kept scrolling.

“Oh god. Here’s another one with a baby.”

He sighed, reading aloud:

“Bucky held little Muffin to his chest, whispering, ‘You have her eyes, you know.’”

“…This is the third Muffin.”

“Don’t question it,” you whispered. “Just let it happen.”

He read the soulmate one next. The one where he sees color the moment he meets you. You had to pause halfway because he stopped breathing at the sunrise scene.

And then came the dark!Bucky tag.

He clicked with a gleam in his eye.

“This one says I kidnap you.”

“That’s a popular trope,” you said weakly. “Dubcon is… a thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You read that?”

You turned bright red. “Not often!”

“…You bookmarked it.”

“BETRAYED BY THE NOTES COUNT.”

—

You should’ve known better.

Really. Truly. Deep down, some part of your soul knew the second Bucky Barnes sat beside you with your Tumblr blog open, it was only a matter of time before he stumbled into… the abyss.

And stumble, he did.

One misclick. That’s all it took.

You were busy defending Muffin’s existence when Bucky’s finger landed — fatefully, tragically — on a fic tagged simply:

soft dom!bucky | smut | praise kink | ‘gonna ruin you’ energy

A pause.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…What is this?” he asked cautiously, eyes scanning the screen. “Why is it tagged NSFW?”

You choked. “It’s… not for—uh—well, it’s for adults.”

He started reading.

“‘His voice dipped low, gravel against silk, as he leaned in close—’”

He blinked again.

“‘—his metal fingers tightening around your throat with possessive hunger—’”

You lunged. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THAT—”

“No,” he said, like a man on a mission. “I need to know what people think I do with my fingers.”

You slapped your hand over your face.

The silence that followed was broken only by scrolling.

A beat.

Two.

Then:

“…Am I biting someone’s thigh?”

You squeaked. “It’s fiction! It’s not real! That’s artistic license!”

“Artistic—?” He turned red. So, so red. “I say that in this?!”

He pointed at the screen.

“‘Gonna ruin you for anyone else, sweetheart.’”

You nodded meekly. “That one’s pretty popular.”

He slowly turned his head toward you.

“…Have you read this one?”

“…No.” (You had.) “Okay, yes.” (Multiple times.) “Don’t judge me, okay?!”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Then—his hand lifted. And he hurled a couch pillow straight at your face.

You burst into laughter so loud it echoed.

—

Somehow, it was now 2 a.m.

You and Bucky were draped over the couch like two feral creatures surviving on popcorn, emotional trauma, and fanfiction-induced whiplash.

The laptop was balanced between you.

You’d read every trope imaginable.

Amnesia Bucky? ✔️

Fake dating Bucky? ✔️

Accidental baby acquisition? ✔️

Soulmates, reincarnation, enemies-to-lovers? ✔️✔️✔️

One bed? You nearly passed out.

Bucky had started keeping score.

“Okay,” he said, finishing another fic. “That’s nine times I’ve died, three Muffins, and two bathtub confessions.”

You wiped a tear. “You forgot the cowboy AU.”

He groaned. “I blacked that one out.”

“No, you lassoed me with a flannel and said, ‘You’re mine, darlin’.’ I remember it vividly.”

His face fell into his hands. “Why is Tumblr allowed.”

⸻

You leaned back, stretching your arms with a yawn, when Bucky suddenly stilled.

“…Wait.”

You turned. “What?”

He clicked.

Another tab. Another fic.

You peered over.

And there it was.

A new fic, different author, different tags.

But the pairing?

Sam Wilson x Reader

Bucky blinked.

He gasped. “SAM HAS FANFIC?!”

Y/n clicked faster.

The fic started sweet. You were a new recruit. Sam was your guide. There were coffee shop scenes. Shared smiles. Mutual pining.

Then—fireworks on a rooftop.

“And this time, he finally stayed.”

The two of you squealed.

Like children.

Like banshees.

Bucky grabbed a pillow and shouted into it. You kicked your legs like it was 2009 and this was One Direction.

Which is exactly when Sam walked in.

The water bottle crinkled in Sam’s hand as he stopped in the doorway.

He stared.

You and Bucky were tangled up under a blanket, laptop glowing between you, eyes misty with emotion.

“…Are you crying over fanfiction?”

Bucky looked up, wild-eyed. “No.”

You sniffled. “Yes.”

Sam slowly took a sip of water.

Then—deadpan:

“You guys are so weird.”

He turned and walked out.

Neither of you could stop laughing for ten minutes.

—

It started subtle.

Bucky’s phone usage increased. He was asking more questions.

“Hey, what’s a ‘slowburn’?”

“Why do I keep dying in the ‘hurt/comfort’ tag?”

“Do people really like the ‘knife kink’ thing or are they just messing with me?”

Then came the moment you found him sitting in the compound kitchen — coffee untouched — staring intently at his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

He looked up.

Paused.

Then flipped the screen toward you.

Tumblr.

A blank blog page.

Username: @softvibraniumdaydreams

Bio: “Not a writer. Just a man who needs closure.”

Header: A low-res photo of a cat holding a knife.

Icon: Your Bitmoji. He’d clearly stolen it.

“…You made a blog?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Had ideas.”

You leaned over, scrolling through his first posts.

• Post #1: “Why do people keep giving me a tragic backstory? I already have one.”

• Post #2: 450-word drabble about holding hands in silence after a mission

• Post #3: “Stop killing my fictional girlfriends 2k25.”

You grinned. “You’re one of us now.”

He smirked, that familiar glint in his eye. “God help me.”

—

Three days later, he posted it.

“First fic is live. Be kind.”

You clicked on the link.

It was… beautiful. Quiet. Poetic.

Set after the war. The reader couldn’t sleep. Bucky made tea. He held her hand. They didn’t kiss. They just sat — their shadows stretching across the floor as dawn began to rise.

“He didn’t say ‘I love you,’ but it echoed anyway, loud in the silence between their palms.”

You stared at the screen.

Breathed out.

And then reblogged it.

Your comment:

“Sorry (not sorry) for making you read smut at 1 a.m. 💕 Let’s write one where you get a happy ending.”

Minutes later, he tagged you in a new post:

Collab coming soon:

Bucky finally gets the girl. And this time, no one dies. 💌

-to be continued

[fallen-w1ngs]

[fallen-w1ngs]

Introducing the yearly summer men!

2023

2024

2025

also…. might be making a jinu x reader x kenji fic. but you didn’t hear that from me. reqs open for kpop dh

[fallen-w1ngs]

I can't express how obsessed I am with your Bucky series omg they scratch the itch in my brain just right. And I know they're all gender neutral but I was wondering if maybe you'd make something with a post-op (recent or long healed) FTM reader? That might be... oddly specific, but I'm just tired of all trans reader content always being so sad :(. I want to see ftm!reader just living his life proud and comfortable :')

|| EEE im super glad you liked my series :)! and duuudee hell yeah ftm reader!! i, myself, am genderfluid and have gone thru a hell of a journey to find that out, idk why im saying this, im js really excited w this !!

'' PRETTY BOY ,,

|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x ftm!husband!reader

|| warnings : pure fluff, a bit suggestive at the end but that's it

|| wc : 0.8k

The night was young as you wandered through the empty apartment, the one you and Bucky had bought once you both gotten married. It wasn't a big ceremony, not by any means. Only a close friends and family from your side, and some of the Wilsons and Isaiah Bradley from Bucky's invitations.

As the time went on after your wedding, you watched as Bucky grew into being a congressman... Something that did not last long, but you didn't mind. Now, he was a 'New Avenger.' Your stance on the idea wasn't something you wanted to think of right now. With all the craziness that's happened, it's no question why you put off getting top surgery. Money wasn't the biggest issue, Bucky, after being a congressman, offered to pay up the whole thing, though you fought to split it.

However, now him being on a new team and the fact there weren't as much world-ending calamaties in the past few months, you decided to go for it. You've been taking T a long time even before meeting Bucky, so it was no issue.

"Hun?" Bucky's voice cut through the silence as you walked through the halls of your apartment, going down memory lane just for the hell of it. "You still awake?"

"Yeah! I'm here!" You called out as you walked over to the front. Theres where your husband stood, his hair tied half-up half-down, his tactical gear already half off, only a black t shirt and a pair of jeans. His tire blue eyes softening as he sees you and a love-sick puppy dog smile tugged at his lips once he held you in his arms.

"Shouldn't you be laying down, babe?" He asked with a small grin before pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Doctor said you can't exert yourself."

"I'm fine, Buck," You grinned, putting your hands on his chest. "Plus, it's been long enough.. Doc said I could take my bandages off by now"

Bucky raised a brow at your words before grinning. "Wanna take them off now?"

"Why d'you think I stayed up waiting for you instead of sleeping?"

With a chuckle, Bucky led the both of you into your shared bedroom, your white, doe eyed cat Alpine following in suite. Peppering in a few kisses and small updates of how the New Avengers were doing, both you and your husband made it to your bedroom. Standing in front of the tall mirror, you stared at yourself.

"God, I look old." You muttered.

"If you look old, I look ancient."

You shot a playful glare at him. "You don't count, you're 110 yet don't look a day over 30."

"Shut up and just take your shirt off." Bucky grumbled and pushed a kiss against the crook of your neck from behind.

"Someone's eager." You quipped.

"Not like that- Jesus, baby, just lemme see my pretty boy's body?"

Okay, yup, that did it. You smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of his head and tugged your shirt off. Hesitating as you reached for the bandages. Thoughts swirling in your head as you unwrapped yourself, what if it looked bad? What if you hated it? What if it didn't make you feel.. Like you?

But your worries dissipated as you looked to your chest, now flat. Faint scars underneath your pecs, ghosts of the surgery that took place just a few weeks ago. You heard Bucky let out a small exhale as he looked at you placing a soft kiss to your neck.

"There you are, my gorgeous boy." He whispered into your ear. "How do you feel?"

You grinned, your hands reaching up to trace lightly at the scars. It didn't hurt, no it felt.. Good. Your body finally felt like your own, finally something you can look at in the mirror, and instead of cringing and looking away, you can smile.

"Good, really really good."

"Yeah?" Your husband hugged your waist, the contrast of his warm human arm and his cold vibranium one sending a shiver up your back. "Good. 'Cause you look so handsome, baby. God, I love you so much, my pretty boy." You could feel his smile on your bare shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're so good-lookin' it feels like my hearts gonna stop, make me go into cardiac arrest or somethin'. How lucky am I to have such a handsome husband like you?" He said in a hushed tone, peppering kisses into your neck.

Unlike all those times from the past where he'd help you through body dysmorphia, those peppered kisses and the reassurances that you tried to believe.. This time was different. Because you finally felt what he'd been saying. You felt handsome, you felt good. You felt like.. You felt like you.

"Oh, Bucky," You whispered tilting your head ever so slightly to take his lips into yours. "Show me how much you love your husband?"

"With pleasure."

|| i indulged in this sm, ty anon for requesting this <3 i hope this was good enough TEEHEE

[fallen-w1ngs]

[ flower shop of new feelings ]

[ 10 : finally ]

|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x florist!reader

|| warning : none, other than the fact this is the last part of my series <3

|| wc: 3.0k

Bucky, like the gentleman he is, brought you to the Tower via motorcycle. Instructing you to hold on tight as he drove you both in the short time it took to get there. You did as he said, your arms nicely wrapped around his waist as you hid your face into his back.

Once you reached there, with wobbly knees you stepped off the vehicle. Almost stumbling down to ‘gracefully’ face plant into the cement, Bucky grabbed your shoulders and hugged you close to his chest. “Woah there, doll.”

“Sorry- sorry! I’ve never been on a.. Anything like that before.” You chuckled as you let yourself get held by him as he guided you into the building. His arm squeezes around you protectively. You almost allowed yourself to fantasize. Almost.

“You ready to meet them?” Bucky asked, though it felt more like he was asking himself as you both stepped into the elevator. “It’ll just be Steve, Sam ‘n Natalia.”

“I.. Suppose I have to be ready!”

“I can drive you home if you want,” The words he spoke had no indication of shaming you. “The last thing I want is for y’to get uncomfortable.”

You looked up at him and smiled softly at him. Taking his hand into yours and squeezing it as comfort. “I’ll never be uncomfortable around you. Plus, I’m your friend, they’re your friends, we should probably meet.”

Right. Right! Of course, this was.. A friend's meeting. Not like you’re his partner or anything.

Bucky nodded and pulled his arm away from you. Pushing his hands into his pockets as he muttered. “‘Course, ‘course.”

A small silence fell upon the both of you as you waited for the elevator to get to the floor where the dinner was held. Like Bucky said, it wasn’t fancy, not like those Stark parties you’d seen on the news. No. It’s just a friend get-together.. Where you only knew one person.. And the other three were world renowned heroes. This.. This’ll be fine.

“Stop overthinkin’.” Bucky shot a slight smirk your way, though softened as he nudged you with his shoulder. “They’ll like you.. A lot.”

“I hope so.”

Just like that, the elevator door whirred open and you were subjected to the bright light of the.. Massive area. It was a living room, big TV on the left and a big couch that could probably fit 15 people if you tried hard enough. The walls weren’t actual walls, but windows, giving the best view of NYC, and to the right was the kitchen and dining table.. There, a pot of what smelled like spaghetti sat on the table and Sam, Steve and Natasha (or Natalia as James called her) sat, all engulfed in their own conversations before turning to both you and Bucky.

Steve, the star spangled man himself, stood up first, the brightest smile on his face as he approached you both. “If it isn’t Buck’s secret! It’s nice to meet you, [Name]!”

“Ha.. You’re Captain America..” You muttered to yourself as you put your hand out for the blonde to shake. Which he ended up ignoring and instead went in for a hug. Much to your surprise, you had no complaints though.. He was very warm, and it felt like you were being trapped in a bear hug.

“Let them go, Steve, you’ll scare them.” A woman’s voice cut through the silence of the hug that was very much straining your lungs. Steve hesitated before letting you go, his cheeks pinked from embarrassment as he backed away, meeting his friends. That’s when Bucky put his hand on the small of your back, something that always seemed to make your heart start beating faster.

“[Name],” Your eyes flickered between Bucky and his friends as he introduced you all. “This is Steve, Natalia, and Sam.”

“Just call me Nat.” Natasha opted for the more normal approach of shaking your hand. Her grip was strong, very firm, and she had the softest hands with just the smallest bit of roughness.

“Will do, Nat.”

You were pulled away from the handshake as you heard a small hum from Sam, when you fully looked at him, he had his eyes narrowed to you. Looking you up and down- not in a weird way, no, but as a.. Skeptical way. Maybe just a hint of curiosity.

“.. You’re so.. Normal.” He muttered, earning a light smack on his arm and a glare from Steve. “Ow! Hey- what?”

“Don’t be rude, Sam.” Nat teased.

“It’s true!” He huffed and smiled at you. “I mean, Buck’s so.. Closed off and all. How’d a normal person like you wiggle your way into his heart?”

“Okay! That’s enough, Sam.” Bucky grabbed the man by the arm and dragged him into the dining area. The three of you, you, Steve, and Nat, followed them both. Taking this as a sign to start eating.

“.. Do you have strawberries in there?” Steve asked in a hushed voice, pointing to the bowl covered in saran wrap in one of your arms. Honestly, you forgot you even had them.

“Oh! Oh, yeah. Yeah, do you like them?”

“Yeah, they’re good.” He grinned before his eyes flickered over to Bucky. “They’re Buck’s favourite though.”

—

“So, I heard you’re a florist?” Sam asked as he munched down on Wanda’s leftover lasagna, much too nervous to even try a bite out of Bucky’s spaghetti. The same went for Natasha and Steve, though Steve had some untouched noodles on his plate. Bucky even had more lasagna than spaghetti, made you confused. The spaghetti was delicious.

“Yes, I own a shop like.. 15 minutes away from here? I-I think.” You poked the noodles on your plate with your fork as you answered, much too nervous to even make eye contact for more than 5 seconds. Thank god, you were seated besides Bucky. He nudged your foot underneath the table with his, a way to ground you. “I’ve had it for a couple of years now.”

“Yeah? How’d you get into that business?” Nat piped up as she took a bite out of the garlic bread. Perfectly seasoned, nice and crunchy on the outside but soft on the inside.

“Oh, my mom loved to garden when I was a kid and she taught me how to grow my own flowers. I think that’s where my small obsession started.” You chuckled, giving a lazy shrug.

“My mom kept a small garden in our backyard when I was a kid.” Steve said with a grin with those pearly whites. Man, he’s such a golden retriever. “I could barely help, not a green thumb like you.”

“That’s also ‘cause you couldn’t lift a bucket of fertilizer, Steve” Bucky had a smug grin on his face as he recounted the old times. You loved hearing about his life back in the 20s-40s, yes, you knew that man wasn’t your Bucky.. But come on, it’s so interesting to even think about his past. “You had the smallest twig arms.”

“You weren’t any better!” The blonde laughed, throwing his head back as he did. “You had small arms too!”

“Yeah, but I was the fastest runner. You couldn’t even breathe right, punk.”

As if a small kid, Steve stuck his tongue out to the other super soldier with a grin before munching back down on some more lasagna. “Jerk.”

The table fell silent after that, not uncomfortable, not tense.. Nothing like your past family reunion dinners, it just flowed nicely as everyone calmly ate the food. As that happened, under the table, Bucky’s hand found yours. Giving a small squeeze of comfort or encouragement. Quickly, you twisted your hands around, pressing them together in a tight hold. He was so warm. Something that made the warmth in your chest grow hotter.

—

By the time dinner had ended, the four of you all migrated over to the living room where Natasha held a flute filled with, you’re guessing, white wine. Both Sam and Steve held beer cans, despite only one of the duo having the ability to get drunk off of beer alone. No, Steve needed the special stuff from Thor… A small part of you was curious on what the effects were, but you decided not to dig further.

All of you were kinda scattered in the living room, Steve sat on the recliner chair, as if an old grandpa.. God, he’s old enough to be someone’s grandpa, it’s crazy. Natasha sat on one side of the couch as Sam sat on the opposite, while you and Bucky shared a beanbag. As inconspicuous as Bucky could be, his arm was wrapped around your waist, his metal one holding up his own soda can. He.. Didn’t like the taste of beer.

“Wait, wait, wait,” You snorted as you took another sip of the white wine and a munch on one of the fruits you’d broughten. “So you’re telling me, Sam had to go undercover.. As a dancer for one of your missions?”

“I’m a great dancer!” Sam huffed out.

“No denying it, Wilson?”

“Hey, I’m an open house, all my secrets are out in the open.”

“I’m sure you were great, Sam.” You chuckled behind your glass. “What type of dancer did you have to go undercover as? Tap? Hip-hop? Swing?”

“We should go swinging sometime..” You heard Bucky mutter, which.. Made your cheeks flush, but you paid no mind to it.

“You wanna tell them, Wilson?” Steve grinned as Sam groaned, biting the inside of his cheek as he muttered something unintelligible. Steve, in turn, laughed. “Couldn’t quite hear ya, buddy!”

“Ballet.”

To that, the three Avengers started laughing loudly. It confused you, why would they be laughing at this? Ballet dancers were graceful, beautiful. And Sam seemed to match those two categories with what you’ve watched on TV. Bucky leaned close to you, still chuckling as he whispered.

“He had to dance with sixth graders.. And he still looked like a duckling learning to fly!” He snorted, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he laughed. You started to laugh, though small and quiet, still there. Just the idea of an AVENGER having to dance with a bunch of 10 year olds was so comical, especially for a mission.

Once everyone calmed down, Sam sighed loudly and rolled his eyes in mock annoyance.. But you could see the small smile on his face.

Conversation flowed like a river between the four of you. Speaking of past memories, good times, families and such. You shared how you had to babysit Peter and how he used to make a mess of everything when you attempted to feed him. Steve shared how he had to babysit Bucky’s sister at one point, and she hid in the tree in the backyard, nearly giving him a heart attack.

In the whole time you all spoke, Bucky had the softest smile on his face, whenever you weren’t looking at him, he was staring at you.. The most love in his eyes as he watched you laugh, speak with your hands and gossip with the rest of his friends.

This.

This was what he’d always dreamt of.

Someone to have by his side, someone who got along with the most important people in his life. Someone who he could go steady with, be soft with. His arm wrapped around your waist as he leaned back in the beanbag. Oh, how he had to fight himself from dragging you outside and kiss you senseless.

Ah, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever, god, he’d never want to do anything you didn’t like. That’s what he’s scared of, disappointing you, making you uncomfortable.. Making you scared of him. That’s the last thing he’d ever want.

“How’d you guys meet?” Natasha pointed between both you and Bucky, snapping him out of his own head.

“He came into my shop and needed a gift for his friend uh.. Clint, right?” You turned to him and he nodded in confirmation. “After that we just.. Couldn’t stop running into each other!”

“More like he couldn’t keep himself from them.” Natasha whispered over to Steve, only loud enough for both the super soldiers to hear. You and Sam on the other hand were oblivious to this and started your own conversation, talking about the best places to visit for vacation. Something neither you, nor him, had the privilege of having since.. Well, for a long time.

—

The rest of the night went without a hitch, and once it hit 11:00 PM, everyone decided.. Yeah, okay, it’s late enough and everyone was tired, so you’d head home. Of course, only being dropped off by Bucky, ever the gentleman.

You made your goodbyes, exchanged numbers with everyone and spared a hug for all of them before you and Bucky headed for the elevator. His hand was still holding yours as you watched the light go down each floor. You leaned against him, you didn’t drink enough wine to be all drunk or even tipsy. Just enough to feel tired though. He didn’t mind, nor did he say anything. He just let you lean on him, hold his arm tightly as you let your eyes close for a moment.

When you both reached the car, he helped you in. Muttering “There you go, sweetheart.” as he buckled you up into the passenger seat. God, if your cheeks weren’t already flushed, that would’ve done it.

Instead of the motorbike he drove you in, he opted to use one of Starks cars. Grumbling something along the lines of cars being safer or something. Apparently, all the Avengers were allowed to use one of his cars. Man, this is one of the times you wished you were an Avenger, just to have the ability to use one of Starks’ cars.

The drive back was quiet, the low hum of the radio only filling the silence. With how late it was, there weren’t many people out, traffic was low. You swore you heard him hum along to a slow song. Maybe it was a modern song Sam showed him, maybe it was a throwback song to the 40s. You didn’t know.

What you did know was that his voice was so calming. Calming enough for you to drift to sleep, even on this quick drive.

In a blink of an eye, you were parked in front of your apartment complex. Bucky had the back of his head resting on his headrest, his eyes still awake and watching you. “Hey, sweetheart.” He said in a hushed tone as he saw you wake up. “Y’have a good nap?”

“Sorry, James,” You ran a hand through your hair, pushing the strands out of your face. “Guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

“Y’want me to walk you up? Make sure you don’t fall asleep on the stairs?”

You let out a quiet snort as your nose scrunched up. “My hero.”

“You know it.” He said with a smug grin before climbing out of the car and walking around the front to open your door. “A gentleman too.”

“I’m swooning.” You giggled and held onto his hand as he lead you into the building. Using his keycard to get in, the spare one you insisted he keep.

As you both walked to the elevator to go up to your floor, your mind raced. Just realizing how Bucky had intigrated into your life.. How seamless it was. He had a spare outfit in your apartment, spare toothbrush, you kept some snacks you knew he loved, and he made sure to leave a henley or hoodie for you to keep, since he knew how you loved them.

“James..” You said in a hushed tone, looking up to him as you both listened to the shitty elevator music. He hummed in response, and you continued. “Y’know.. I dunno if this is the wine making me emotional, but.. I just wanted to say I’m happy you’re in my life.”

Bucky smiled at you, rubbing the top of your hand with his thumb. “Yeah? The same goes with me, doll.”

The elevator opened with a ding and Bucky lead you down the hallway as you kept rambling, your voice hushed as you both reached your apartment door. “You.. You’re like.. My best friend. You’re everywhere in my life, I always think of you, I wonder about you a lot.”

“Is.. That a good thing?” He grinned down at you as he opened your door, the both of you standing in front of it.

“Very good thing.. But I’m scared.” You whispered, looking down at your interlocked hands. He stayed silent, hanging on your words. “.. I had a really good night today.. Like, crazy good. Not just ‘cause I met your friends, but because I was with you. I’m always happy around you.. I..”

You paused, looking up at him.. Your heart was beating quicker by the second as you realized what you were doing. Something you’ve thought of so much, but never expected to do. A possibility, no a fantasy, never expecting it to be a reality.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

That’s when Bucky’s brain short-circuited. He knew he’s been flirty, that you’ve been flirty at times too.. But god, he never realized he’d hear those words leave your lips.

“Really?” He mumbled in disbelief. His hands squeezing around yours.

“Y.. Yeah.” You said with a small smile, lettinh out a small chuckle as you nodded quickly. “Yeah.. I am.”

Before either you or him could say anything, his lips were on top of yours. Warmth flooding your body as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. The kiss wasn’t quick or sensual, no.. It was slow, steady, something new but something not unwelcomed. You only pulled away to take a breath, but not far, his forehead was pressed against yours as you both took a second.

“I think I’m in love with you too.” He said with a grin, his voice soft and teasing as you kept yourself pressed against him.

And that’s all you needed. Just those small words to make your world feel full again. Your issues, your outside problems felt so small at this moment. Because now?

Finally, finally, you could give your flowers to a man you love instead of a customer.

– the end.

|| MARK THE DAY BOYS, FLOWER SHOP OF NEW FEELINGS IS OFFICIALLY FINISHED!!

|| i just wanna say, thank you to everyone who was invested in this story and supported this :)! im glad to have brought some fluff into this world, and don't expect this is the last you see of me!!!! with summer, i'll be writing a bunch of fics, oneshots, new series, im working on 'escapism' right now too! anyways. Thank you for reading <3

taglist : @iyskgd , @highhopes1008 , @purplefluffycows , @averagetmblrusser , @herejustforbuckybarnes , @turbulentwreck

[fallen-w1ngs]

THIS IS SO GOOD? THIS IS SO GOOD.

Mr & Mrs Barnes

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis Two elite assassins. One explosive marriage. They were both assigned to kill each other—then accidentally fell in love. Now, years later, the truth comes out, bullets fly, and their home life turns into a war zone.

Word Count 10.9k

Themes + Warnings Enemies to lovers (to enemies.. to lovers, AGAIN) , Domesticity & Violence , Secrets & Betrayal , Intense violence , Suggestive content , Strong language , Sexual Tenison , 'I Love Yous' through violence , Mature themes , Toxic Relationship Dynamics (initially) , Blood , Weapons & Explosives , Hand to Hand combat

— Mr & Mrs Barnes "‘Til death do us part’ wasn’t supposed to be a mission objective.

M. List | Request (open)

The house on Hemlock Street was pristine.

Too pristine.

The grass never dared to grow out of line. The paint on the shutters hadn’t chipped once in five years. The mailbox was stainless steel, polished daily by some unseen force. It was a neighborhood built for appearances. Safe. Sterile.

The neighborhood was suspiciously perfect. White picket fences, pastel-colored mailboxes, and neighbors who waved like they practiced it in the mirror. Someone’s kid was learning to ride a bike. Someone else was grilling at 10 a.m.

The kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.

Which made it perfect for hiding two of the deadliest people on earth.

The house was cozy, two stories, too many windows. The grass was always freshly cut. The cat always had full bowls. There was always coffee. It was, on the surface, the picture of domestic bliss.

Underneath, it was landmines in every room.

Inside, the kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and deception.

You stood barefoot on the cold tile, staring out the window while pretending to stir your mug. The spoon clinked too softly to distract from the war in your chest.

Behind you, the TV murmured the morning news. A weatherman warned about showers rolling in later this afternoon. You already knew. You had checked the Doppler at 4 a.m. when your nerves wouldn’t let you sleep.

The creak of a chair. A soft thud. A book being closed.

“Coffee smells good today,” Bucky said, voice smooth, casual, like his hands weren’t trained to kill in forty-seven different ways.

You didn’t turn around.

“Used the good beans,” you said instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

You could feel his smile.

He strolled into the kitchen in gray sweatpants and a black shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His metal arm was bare, glinting in the morning sun. His hair was messy from sleep—or maybe a restless night. Either way, he looked effortlessly beautiful.

Which made this harder.

He came up behind you. Pressed a kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered a beat too long, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

You didn’t react. You couldn’t. If you did, you’d crack.

He passed you his empty mug.

You filled it, handed it back. His fingers brushed yours.

Too warm.

Too familiar.

You both sat at the breakfast table like any married couple would. Two people who loved each other once. Maybe still did. Maybe never stopped.

Alpine, your white cat, sat on the windowsill watching you both with judgmental, ancient eyes. She blinked slowly. As if she knew.

And maybe she did.

The white cat purred with unbothered approval, like she ran the house. You weren’t convinced she didn’t.

“You make this with the good beans or the emergency ones?” Bucky asked without looking up.

You didn’t smile, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re going to annoy me today.”

He huffed a soft laugh, dog-eared the page, and sat up. “Well now I have to annoy you. That’s the law.”

He stood, crossed the kitchen like he’d been doing it for years (because he had), and kissed your cheek in passing. It was warm. Familiar. Safe.

It made your chest ache.

Because routine was how people like you got killed.

You poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to him. His hand brushed yours—calloused, warm, steady.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, leaning against the counter.

“What look?”

“The one that usually ends in someone needing a lawyer.”

You gave him nothing but a long, unreadable blink. He grinned.

“Are you flirting with me?” you asked.

“I’m married,” he said, mock-scandalized. “Happily.”

You let yourself smile then. Just for a second. He still looked at you like you hung the damn stars.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

SIX YEARS AGO

Atlantic City.

Thunder rolled overhead, but the boardwalk glittered.

The first time you saw him, he was leaning against a hot dog cart, soaking wet, grinning like he had no business being that gorgeous. His shirt clung to his chest. A toothpick hung between his lips.

He was watching you. He’d been watching you from across the ring toss game.

Not subtly. Not politely.

You sauntered past him, boots clicking, umbrella untouched.

Sharp jaw. Leather jacket. Glove on one hand. Blue eyes like a storm at sea.

You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the way he looked at you.

Like a dare.

He followed.

At the shooting game, he stepped beside you just as you raised your plastic rifle. A row of tin ducks spun in circles.

“You any good?” he asked.

“The best,” you said.

“I’m a better shot than you,” you said, cocking the air rifle one-handed.

He smirked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He beat you.

Not by much—but enough to win the oversized teddy bear.

It was hideous. Blue and lopsided. One of its eyes was crooked.

He held it out to you like it was a bouquet of flowers.

You took it. Smiling for real that time.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“James,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Try not to fall in love with me,” you warned.

“No promises, doll.”

PRESENT DAY

You sat across from him at the breakfast table, Alpine curled on the third chair like a smug little supervisor.

“You got any showings today?” he asked.

“Two. Midtown and Brooklyn Heights.”

“Sounds romantic.”

You smiled thinly. “They’ll hate each other within a year.”

He chuckled. “You’re such an optimist, sweetheart.”

“What about you?” you asked, voice smooth. “Got a client?”

“Mm. Just checking security systems today. Corporate stuff.”

More lies.

He didn’t even blink when he said it.

Neither did you.

He sipped his coffee. “Take the umbrella. Looks like rain.”

You nodded. “What about you? Anything exciting?”

“Just a few follow-ups. Same old.”

Another lie.

Another smile.

You wondered if he noticed the way your hand tightened around the mug. You wondered if he noticed you’d noticed that he hadn’t worn his wedding ring the past two nights.

You wondered how long it had been fake.

The screen of your second phone buzzed in your pocket.

You excused yourself to the upstairs bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the edge of the tub.

The encrypted message loaded.

Your fingers trembled.

TARGET: BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN.

STATUS: ACTIVE ELIMINATION.

TIMESTAMP: 48 HOURS.

METHOD: QUIET. PERSONAL.

Your mouth went dry.

You stared.

You blinked.

You read it again.

You’d killed dozens. You’d buried names and burned identities. But you’d never been asked to kill him.

Your husband.

Your partner.

The man who knew every freckle on your skin, who held you when you had nightmares, who made you pancakes shaped like hearts when you were mad at him.

Your mission.

Your… what? Your heart? Your lie?

You stared into the mirror and didn’t recognize the look in your own eyes.

And now you had to kill him.

Or die first.

You stepped back downstairs. He was washing dishes. Humming something. The cat brushed against his leg.

His phone—his second phone—was gone from the counter now.

You looked at him.

He looked back.

He smiled.

You smiled, too.

“Love you,” he said.

You nodded.

“Love you more.”

The morning light was golden.

The cat purred.

The house was quiet.

You went to change. To arm yourself beneath your clothes. He did the same.

You were both pretending not to know the other was planning to kill you in 48 hours.

Two agents. Two weapons. One shared bed.

The mission clock had already started ticking.

Marriage was complicated like that.

7:03 P.M. — THE DINNER TABLE

You used to love Thursday nights.

Slow jazz playing softly. Roast in the oven. The scent of rosemary drifting between you. Bucky reaching for your hand across the table with his thumb brushing your ring, the one he slipped on your finger under Italian moonlight.

But tonight?

The roast is dry. The knife is missing from the drawer. And he hasn’t looked you in the eye once since sitting down.

The tension between you crackles like an electric wire sparking in water.

“Quiet day?” he asks, voice too smooth.

You nod. “You?”

He hesitates. “Nothing worth remembering.”

Lie.

You force a smile. “Shame. Seems like we’re both having a lot of those lately.”

His jaw flexes. The fork twirls in his fingers, but he’s not eating.

Neither are you.

Your hand inches under the table. To the handle of your chair. To the spot where you’ve taped a hidden blade.

You see it in his eyes, that flicker of guilt he’s too late to hide.

You both know.

You’re each other’s next mark.

The fork clinks against his plate. The silence screams.

The last moment of normality dies in that breath.

The candle flickers.

You drop your fork.

He stands.

In unison—

You both move.

OPERATION: NEUTRALIZE

The air explodes with movement.

The dinner chair crashes behind you as you sprint down the hallway, breathing fast. Your hand slides under the table where you’d hidden a pistol. You flip the kitchen switch—lights off. Shadows become allies.

Bucky ducks behind the couch, pulls a throwing knife from the flower vase. His eyes scan the corners. He’s muttering under his breath:

“Goddamn it, why her…”

You lunge left, knock the chair down behind you, and roll into the hallway. He moves right, flipping the table, plates shattering. A bullet sings past your shoulder.

You don’t think. You react.

You vault over the back of the couch, kick the lamp out of your path, and grab the pistol from the emergency stash under the floorboard.

He’s on your six.

You fire backward—glass explodes, the vase you hated finally shatters.

He ducks behind the kitchen island. “YOU’RE SHOOTING AT ME?!”

“You shot FIRST!”

“That was the WALL!”

“I LIVE HERE TOO, BUCKY!”

FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

The phone call came in during your anniversary dinner.

You were wearing that black dress—the one he said made his brain melt. He had a sparkler candle jammed into your favorite cheesecake.

And then your handler called. Code Black.

You stepped into the hallway.

“Target identified: Codename Winter. Double-agent. Eliminate upon confirmation.”

You’d frozen. You’d laughed. “He’s not a double-agent. He’s my husband.”

Silence.

Then:

“Which is why they sent you.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

And two days later, you intercepted a message on his burner.

"Subject: Widow. Classified intel breach. Authority cleared to terminate."

He got the same order.

7:12 P.M. — PRESENT

You tear down the hallway. A bullet rips past your temple.

Bucky shouts, “You DON’T have to run!”

“You DON’T get to gaslight me while SHOOTING AT ME!”

You crash through the back door, sprint to the car, dive into the driver’s seat. Tires screech. The windshield cracks—

Gunshot.

The bullet tears through the glass an inch from your head.

You slam the brakes.

Outside, Bucky stands in the middle of the road. Gun lowered.

Horrified.

“DOLL!” he shouts. “Baby, my love—I didn’t mean to hit you—!”

You climb out of the sunroof, furious, face wild. “YOU ASSHOLE!”

He flinches. “Please—just LISTEN—!”

You stalk toward him. “You SHOT at my HEAD!”

“I MISSED!”

“ON PURPOSE?!”

His mouth opens. Closes.

You SCREAM.

Then—

You get in the car.

You floor the gas.

You run him over.

The car jerks. Bucky’s body rolls up and over the hood, landing hard on the roof.

Not fatally—but enough to knock him up and over the hood. He groans, flailing, and lands on the roof of the moving car, gripping the sides like a rodeo stuntman.

“DOLL WAIT—!” he groans, fists pounding the metal.

You draw your pistol, aim straight at the roof.

“Call me 'doll' one more time and I SWEAR—!”

BLAM.

BLAM.

You shoot twice through the roof.

He howls, clutching the roof rails. “I’M TRYING TO APOLOGIZE!”

“You TRIED TO KILL ME.”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO! IT WASN’T ON PURPOSE!”

BLAM. He punches the side window, shattering it, glass flying into the wind.

You’re yelling. Swerving. Cursing.

He’s crawling halfway into the passenger seat, panting.

“I didn’t know it was YOU,” he shouts through the cracked glass. “It’s not my fault! This is—!”

You veer hard.

He grabs the steering wheel.

The car jerks violently.

“Get OFF, you metal-armed gaslighting son of a—!”

“Let me explain,” he says. “Please—”

You veer the car off the road.

“What are you doing—?”

You yank the door open, throw yourself out onto the gravel shoulder. Your elbow hits hard. You roll. Dust in your mouth.

Behind you—

The car flies off the cliff.

The car—now missing a driver—goes airborne.

Bucky’s still in it.

It launches off the cliff’s edge in slow motion.

Your heart stutters.

The vehicle flips mid-air. Sparks ignite.

It explodes.

Glass. Metal. A blue fireball.

Bucky.

Gone.

You lie on your back, breathing hard.

Alone.

—

It’s raining. Hard.

Rain falls in sheets. Flashlights sweep through your living room. A private cleanup team in black balaclavas tears apart the place—ripping files, smashing hard drives, vacuuming the house like it’s infected.

Glass crunches under your boots. Ripped furniture. Dismantled picture frames.

You make it to the bedroom.

You lean against the wall in silence, blank. Hollow.

The wedding photo on the mantle cracks under a boot. You look away.

One man is in the bedroom now. He opens drawers, rips out bedsheets, slams down a pillow. The closet’s ransacked.

One of them opens the closet. Another grabs a bag.

The last one reaches for the teddy bear.

The one he won you.

That stupid, fluffy bear with a bowtie and mismatched eyes. From a county fair. From a time before kill orders and betrayal.

“Put it down,” you say. Cold.

The agent looks at you.

“I SAID—put it down.”

“I’ll handle this room.”

The men leave. Wordlessly.

You collapse on the ruined bed, bear in your arms.

Bullet holes in the comforter. Ash in your hair.

You hold the bear tight, like it’s a limb of the past you can’t cut off.

Your eyes drift to the old TV you kept in the bedroom. And then the screen flickers to life.

A static crackle. Then—

A wedding video.

Bucky spinning you under fairy lights. Your laughter. His hand on your waist. His smile—so rare, so soft.

You stare at the screen.

Breath shaking. Jaw clenched.

You can’t look away.

You don’t know if you want to kill him or run to him.

But you do know one thing:

This isn’t over.

—

The industrial-grade door hissed open. Bucky staggered in, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, dried blood staining his temple. His metal arm twitched with residual static.

Steve stepped forward instinctively. “Jesus, Buck…”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, but the bruise on his jaw begged to differ. Bucky stumbled inside, his shirt torn and blood soaking through the sleeve of his Henley. His left eye was swollen. His knuckles scraped raw.

Sam was seated at the table, halfway through polishing a pistol. “You look like you got hit by a freight train.”

“Close. A Cadillac.”

He tossed a burnt USB onto the table. His voice was flat, brittle. “She’s the mission. I was hers.”

Steve’s face paled. “You mean—Y/N?”

Bucky nodded once.

Bucky nodded once. “They sent us to kill each other. We walked into it blind.”

Sam blinked. “Your wife?”

“You’re saying they—both your agencies—set you up?”

“They set us against each other. You know what that means?”

Sam straightened, suddenly serious. “Means they want one of you dead. No survivors. No witnesses.”

Bucky sat heavily, the weight of years behind his eyes. “I couldn’t shoot her. Even when she had me in her sights. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

Steve exchanged a quiet look with Sam. Then pulled up a chair. “We’ll figure this out.”

—

The place was already in its final moments. Shredded files, purged drives, shredded identities.

You moved through the burning paper like a ghost, face unreadable.

Natasha stood in the middle of your office, watching you wipe the last computer.

“You look like shit,” she said.

You didn’t even blink. “Thanks.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you torch file after file. “He showed up here this morning.”

“I know.”

“He didn’t shoot.”

“I know.”

“He was stalling. He was trying to talk.”

You finally looked at her, and your voice cracked. “He was here to kill me.”

Natasha stepped forward. “No. He was here because he didn’t want to.”

You paused. Just for a second. Then shook your head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You hesitated,” she said softly. “When you had the shot, back on the ridge. You hesitated.”

“I aimed for the engine, not his head,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t smile. “You think the people who gave that order are gonna care?”

Silence.

Then: “Zip-lines are rigged?”

You nodded. “We move in 60.”

You turned away, fighting the tremble in your chest.

“You hesitated,” Nat added softly. “You never hesitate.”

—

“Sir, I’m sorry, you can’t just walk in here—”

Bucky marched down the hallway, ignoring the terrified assistant behind him, hoodie pulled low, his voice steady.

“Ma’am, he just walked in—!”

“I’m not here to fight,” he said to the surveillance camera. “Just talk.”

You watched from the shadows, lips pressed into a thin line, already moving toward the escape gear.

“I don’t want a war,” Bucky called into the hallway. “I just want you.”

You whispered into the mic. “He’s here.”

“Should we terminate?” someone asked.

“No,” you said. “We go silent.”

Bucky’s voice filled the hallway. “Y/N—doll—I know you’re watching.”

You slipped on the harness.

“Doll, listen—”

You turned to the window, hooked your harness, looked back one last time.

“Fuck, doll!!”

You gave him a tight smirk and leapt.

“ASSHOLE!” your voice echoed through the wind as you vanished across the sky.

Bucky bolted to the window too late.

Sam’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “Well, that went well.”

—

He ripped apart the house with surgical precision. Not in rage—but desperation.

“She left something behind,” he muttered.

Sam held up a baby photo album. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Click. The drawer popped open.

Inside: a drive. Disguised beneath fake birth certificates and a keychain with your initials.

“You’re telling me she had a hidden drive under a drawer labeled ‘baby photos’?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky dropped it onto the table. “She knew I’d find it.”

“Can you crack it?” Bucky asked.

Sam smirked. “Does Alpine shed on every black sweater you own?”

Steve’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “There’s encrypted files, agency records, asset profiles. This isn’t just your marriage.”

Sam leaned closer. “This is every asset she’s protected… or been ordered to eliminate.”

Bucky’s face hardened. “She’s not just a weapon. They turned her into one.”

“She still hesitated,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky glanced at him.

“She didn’t want to kill you,” Steve added.

Bucky said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes far away.

He paused on one image—Bucky in a café. You watching from a rooftop. A sniper rifle in your hands… but your finger not on the trigger.

The unfinished skyscraper creaked under the weight of its own silence.

You sat in the food van with Natasha and your ops team. Cameras everywhere. Blueprints open on the dash.

“There,” one of your ops whispered. “He's infiltrating. Vest, clipboard. Real subtle.”

Nat crossed her arms. “Does he think we’re stupid?”

You picked up the mic. “James Buchanan Barnes. Get out of the elevator.”

His voice came in low. “Nice to hear my full name again, sweetheart.”

You chewed on your bottom lip “Bucky. Get out.”

His voice crackled back, smug. “You always did like telling me what to do.”

“I will drop it.”

“I know.”

“It’s unstable.”

“So am I.”

Nat’s head dropped. “God. He’s flirting again.”

“I will kill you,” you warned.

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I drop it.”

“Come on, sweetheart—”

“It’s leaking coolant. Dual-cable’s fried. If it doesn’t collapse, I will collapse it.”

“Still bossy.”

“You think I’m bluffing?” you hissed.

“You’re not bluffing,” he said softly. “That’s what scares me.”

Silence.

You didn’t answer.

He looked up at the camera, exhaustion and defiance swimming in his expression.

“I love you. Still. Even now.”

Then, he sighed.

“Alright. I’m done. I give up. If you really want me gone… do it.”

You hesitated.

He looked up at the camera. “I love you. I still fucking love you.”

You choked back the ache.

“Goodbye, honey,” you whispered.

Then someone hit the button.

The elevator plummeted.

You screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK—WHO PRESSED THAT?!”

“You said goodbye—”

“NOT LIKE THAT, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS—!”

You tore out of the van. Sprinting. Boots slamming concrete. Air thick in your lungs.

Your heart punched against your ribs. You couldn’t breathe.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t be dead…”

Twisted steel. Smoke. Shattered concrete.

You hit your knees.

“HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE!”

Natasha’s hand found your back. You shoved it off.

“What the hell did you do?!”

“You said goodbye!”

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO PRESS IT—”

Then the camera feed flickered. Another shaft. Another elevator. A man pulling off a helmet, lips twitching in a smirk.

Another elevator shaft.

Movement.

The screen flickered—Bucky, whole, peeling off a hard hat.

“Still got it,” he muttered.

Back in the van, Natasha smiled. “Well… someone’s still stupid in love.”

—

It was stupid to come here.

You told yourself that with every step along the rain-slicked cobblestone street. The mist wasn’t gentle—it was thick, oppressive, clinging to your skin like guilt. The umbrella you carried dangled uselessly by your side. You were soaked to the bone, yet you hardly noticed. Your pulse was too loud.

Your feet led you here before your head caught up.

La Trattoria di Marco.

The little restaurant tucked between a flower shop and a used bookstore. Italian bistro, low lighting, red-checkered tablecloths. Too quaint for a world of lies. But this was the place. The place where Bucky proposed, where your marriage began with candlelight and real promises.

You sat at the same table.

Corner booth. Under the stained-glass window of a faceless saint.

Your fingers twisted Alpine’s engraved name tag on your keychain. The metal bit into your skin. You welcomed it. Pain was easier than remembering.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A memory? A ghost? Closure? But as you stared down at the untouched breadbasket, something in your chest ached.

You told yourself he was dead. You wanted him to be dead. But your heart—the traitor—refused to believe it.

That’s when the waiter approached.

“Wine, ma’am?”

The voice hit your ears like a blade. Low. Familiar.

You froze.

Slowly, you looked up.

Bucky.

Dressed in black, towel slung over his shoulder, hair slicked back. His blue eyes held mischief. Pain. Relief.

You were on your feet in a heartbeat.

“You son of a—”

He caught your wrist before your slap landed. “Easy, sweetheart. Let’s not make a scene.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You asshole. I dropped an elevator on you.”

“Missed the real one by a floor and a half.” He smirked. “Better luck next time.”

“I oughta put a bullet in your damn skull.”

“You already tried that.”

Your hand trembled. You couldn’t hide it fast enough.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly.

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to see my wife.”

“I’m not your wife.”

He looked at you like that meant nothing. “Funny. You wore the ring until a week ago.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “How would you—?”

“Camera. In the dresser lamp. Bedroom. You really should sweep better.”

You stared at him.

“You were spying on me?”

“Call it... checking in.”

“Checking in?! After you tried to kill me?”

“You tried to kill me first.”

“Bucky, I swear—”

“Dance with me.”

The words knocked the wind out of you.

You blinked. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

You laughed. “You don’t dance.”

His eyes crinkled. “Apparently I do a lot of things you don’t know about.”

The restaurant’s live trio started playing something slow. Old Sinatra, maybe. The violin hummed beneath your skin.

You hesitated.

But then your feet moved.

He took your hand—warm, calloused. The other slid to your waist. Your breath caught. The last time you danced was your fifth anniversary. He’d held you close that night, swayed to no music in your living room. He’d kissed your forehead and whispered that he couldn’t live without you.

You hadn’t realized how true that was until you pulled the trigger.

“This feels familiar,” he whispered.

“This feels fake.”

His jaw clenched.

You stared up at him. “Everything we built—it’s crumbling.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Our marriage was real. Maybe the missions were lies. But us? You were my truth. You still are.”

“You felt just enough to track me?”

“I felt enough to hesitate. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

You turned your face away. His hand tightened on your waist. He was warm. Too warm. You didn’t want to feel it.

“Why are you really here?” you whispered.

He leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear. “Because I still love you, and I’d rather die in your arms than kill you with my own hands.”

You inhaled sharply.

And then you slipped the bomb into the lining of his blazer.

Quick. Seamless. You’d practiced a hundred times. Not on him. But still—muscle memory didn’t falter.

He pulled back. Didn’t notice.

You smiled sadly. “Don’t follow me.”

“I always follow you.”

You stepped back.

The bomb beeped once.

His fingers reached into his blazer. Froze.

His face changed.

“Shit—” he hissed. “You—”

“I warned you.”

He yanked the device free. “CLEAR THE RESTAURANT!” he bellowed.

People screamed. Ducked under tables. He sprinted out the front door, jacket flaring.

You followed at a distance. From the shadows.

He hurled the bomb into a nearby mailbox.

BOOM.

Glass rained from the streetlamps. Car alarms wailed.

You ducked, heart thudding.

When you looked up—he was gone.

—

It started with a race

You were behind the wheel of your car, tires screeching, wind howling through the open window. The rain slicked the pavement as your eyes narrowed on the glowing headlights in your rearview mirror. Him.

Rubber screamed against asphalt as your car fishtailed around the corner, Alpine’s crate strapped in the back with the soft clink of her collar the only sound over your ragged breathing. In the rearview mirror—headlights. Close. Too close.

Bucky.

You gritted your teeth, shifted gears.

He wasn’t getting there first.

Not tonight.

The moment you saw your shared home glowing like a beacon at the end of the darkened road, you gripped the wheel tighter. He was catching up, engine snarling like a beast behind you.

You floored it.

And then—you rammed him.

You swerved left, slammed on the gas, and rammed into his car just as the house came into view.

CRASH.

Metal collided. His car spun, back tires jumping the curb, the front scraping into the hedges and dying right there. Bucky hit the brakes, smoke curling from the hood.

Inside the Camaro, he cursed.

“Shit! Doll!”

You peeled into the driveway, screeching to a halt.

He stormed out of the wreckage, slamming the door behind him.

You were already out and running, a blur of soaked clothes and fury. You sprinted to the front door, locking it behind you. All the windows. The basement hatch. The back exit. Locked. Secured.

“Baby, don’t do this,” he yelled. “We can talk—”

The deadbolt clicked.

Your black dress—once elegant—now felt like soaked velvet, heavy and constricting as you moved through the shadows of the house. You kicked off your heels the second you crossed the threshold. You needed grip. Traction. Stability.

Somehow, your body knew before your mind did. Knew he wouldn’t just run. Knew he’d follow you back here. To your home. Your battlefield.

The lock clicked behind you.

You dropped your coat. The hardwood floor groaned beneath your steps as you swept the living room with your pistol drawn.

And somewhere outside—

He wouldn’t find a way in.

Except he always did.

He tried the front door. Locked.

Tried the back patio. Locked.

Basement access? Locked.

“She locked me out of my own goddamn house,” he muttered, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

Bucky circled the house like a predator in the rain, tugging on door handles, eyes scanning for weakness. His boots sloshed in the mud as he made his way to the basement. Locked. Then—

Then he looked up.

Second-story window. Slight crack. Curtain fluttering like a tease.

Crack.

He climbed the side of the house, nimble as ever, gripping the drainpipe until he reached the upstairs window. With a grunt, he elbowed it open and slid inside like a shadow.

His feet hit the hardwood floor silently.

Then his hand opened a wall panel. Inside: one of his pistols, hidden since the first year of marriage.

You were already stalking the hall.

Barefoot. Silent. Glock in hand.

Every creak of the house spoke his name.

He crept down the hallway, opened the drawer in the hallway credenza, retrieving one of the secret handguns stashed behind an old photo of Alpine.

He stalked the hallway, every muscle coiled. Photo in hand—glass frame tilted just enough to catch a reflection.

He saw you.

On the staircase.

Gun drawn.

Too late.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The wall beside his head exploded in a spray of plaster.

"You still alive, baby?" you called, voice honeyed venom.

He didn’t answer—just slid his pistol from his thigh holster and crept forward.

He caught a glimpse of your reflection in the broken glass of the hallway mirror.

That damn black dress.

He swallowed hard.

This was going to hurt.

Bucky smirked. Faked a groan. Dropped the gun. tossing the photo frame down.

“Barely,” he drawled, raising his weapon and returning fire.

Then—bam! He rolled, scooped up the weapon, fired. Missed.

You fired back.

The wall exploded beside him.

You tumbled down the stairs, landing hard but nimble. He dove over the railing after you.

Then chaos erupted.

The house turned into a battlefield.

You were a blur—knocking over chairs, flipping the couch, sliding across the floor and shooting. Bucky ducked behind the dining room table as wood splintered around him.

A vase shattered.

"I liked this vase!" you shouted, shooting at him again.

“It was hideous!” he barked.

“I picked it out!”

“No shit! That explains a lot!”

A bullet skimmed the couch. He flipped the coffee table. You rolled behind the bookshelf, slamming a new clip into your pistol.

You tackled him.

You didn’t wait.

You charged him first.

Your shoulder hit his gut like a battering ram. He grunted, grabbed your waist, and you both slammed through the pantry door, wooden slats snapping around you.

You used the momentum—pushed off the shelves, wrapped your legs around his neck, flipped him to the ground.

He grunted as his back hit the tiles.

You went for his throat.

He blocked.

You punched him across the jaw.

He slammed your shoulder into the fridge.

You both groaned.

You were straddling him, his hands gripping your thighs as you tried to throttle him. His head snapped forward, hitting yours with a sickening crack. You rolled off him, stunned for a breath.

“Still fight like a ballerina,” he coughed.

You spit blood and smiled. “And you still fight like a brick wall.”

He caught you mid-leap, your legs wrapping around his waist. He spun, slammed into a bookshelf. It collapsed in a shower of novels and ceramic cats. Alpine hissed and darted under the bed upstairs.

You hit him across the jaw.

He headbutted you.

You elbowed him in the ribs.

He grunted, “You’re getting stronger.”

You growled. “You’re getting slower.”

He shoved you back, and you both drew your guns—again. Panting. Bloody. Bruised. Eyeing each other across the ruined living room.

Guns raised.

Still. Trembling.

Breaths hitched.

"After everything..." you whispered, voice trembling, "...are you really gonna shoot me?"

His hand didn’t shake. His heart did.

The fight bled into the kitchen.

He lunged again—this time fists only.

No guns. No knives. Just rage.

Your fist crashed into his ribs.

He kneed your thigh.

You slammed him into the kitchen island, the granite countertop denting slightly from the impact.

He grabbed the hanging rack and kicked off the wall, spinning mid-air and slamming into you with his full weight.

You skidded back—heels scraping. Your dress tore at the thigh.

You didn’t care.

“You love this dress,” you gasped, ducking a punch.

“Not when you’re wearing it to kill me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have let me pick the music.”

“What?”

CRASH.

You shoved him into the stereo. Sinatra died mid-note.

“Nice move,” he muttered, wiping blood from his nose. “Didn’t think you still had it in you.”

“Oh, honey,” you growled, cracking your neck, “you have no idea what I still have in me.”

You ducked behind the island, gun raised. Bucky was behind the fridge. His gun clicked empty. He tossed it aside, picked up a steak knife, and flung it at you.

Thud. Into the cabinet beside your head.

It missed. You ducked, pissed.

“You missed! You never miss!”

“I’ve had a long day!” he snapped.

You darted behind the pillar. He yanked open the oven, ripped the gas pipe loose, setting it on the counter.

You popped up and unloaded a round at the stove

You raised your gun.

You shot the pipe.

BOOM.

The gas ignited, the pressure throwing you into the far wall. You slid down with a pained grunt.

He came through the fire again—smoke curling around him like war paint.

His coat was gone. Shirt open. Hair wild. Breathing hard.

No more bullets.

Hand-to-hand.

“You wanna go, sweetheart?” he growled, rolling up his sleeves.

He beckoned.

“Come on, honey.”

His fingers flexed. His voice dipped low, sultry. Taunting.

“Bring it in.” He smirked. “Come to daddy.”

You didn’t hesitate, You grabbed a cast iron skillet and smacked it across his face.

He grunted, stumbled, recovered—grabbed your arm—twisted—flipped you.

You landed on your feet, swept his legs.

He dropped.

You wrapped the curtain cord around his neck, yanked hard, using it to pull him into your knee.

WHAM.

He flew back—into the glass display cabinet.

Glass shattered like snow around him.

You flipped your hair, smirking.

“Who’s your daddy now?” you hissed.

He spit blood. Laughed. “That was hot.”

He blinked. Dazed. “Still me, sweetheart.”

You ran for the gun near the sink. He moved faster. Kicked it across the room.

You both lunged—colliding.

He flipped you. You reversed. He pinned you. You straddled him, fists flying. He blocked, grabbed your wrists, flipped you beneath him. Fists. Elbows. Grunts. Growls. Pure chaos.

You were straddling him—again. But this time, it was breathless. Desperate.

Your fists connected with his chest. His stomach. His jaw.

He grabbed your waist, flipped you beneath him.

Now his hips pressed down. Your bodies flush.

Your breath caught.

He hesitated.

So did you.

Then you both grabbed for each other’s throats.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Liar.”

“I should kill you.”

“Then do it.”

It was messy.

Bloody.

Kinetic.

His tie was gone. Your shirt was half-ripped. His lip was bleeding. Your eyes were glassy.

He pinned you to the wall. You punched him in the ribs. He spun you, slammed you against the fridge.

You clawed at his shoulder. He grabbed your face.

You both backed up.

Breathing heavy.

Sweat dripping.

Hair clinging to your skin.

Both guns were there. One beneath the shattered coffee table. One kicked near the sink.

You both dove for them.

You stood, facing each other, guns drawn.

Pointed.

Locked.

Both of you, silent.

Just the sound of the ceiling fan turning over your heavy breath.

He looked at you—really looked. Bloody. Broken. Still in love.

You weren’t much better—blood on your temple, your dress slashed up the side, shoulder dislocated, heart shattered.

And still you aimed.

“After everything…” your voice cracked. “Are you really gonna shoot me?”

He looked at you—bleeding, trembling, still so fucking beautiful.

And he dropped his gun.

Just like that.

“I can’t do it,” he breathed. His eyes tired, soft.

You didn’t lower yours.

“Just… make it fast,” he murmured.

“Don’t you dare say that,” you whispered.

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If it’s not you… it’s no one.”

He raised his hands. “You want it? It’s yours.”

You gritted your teeth. Shaking. Heart thudding against your ribs. Tears stung your eyes.

“Put it back up,” you whispered. “Don’t do this.”

His voice was raw. “Do it, doll. End it. You win.”

“No,” you said, voice trembling, “No, you don’t get to make me kill you.”

He took a step closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I still love you,” he whispered.

And then, without warning—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw.

Desperate.

It was brutal.

Teeth clashing, blood mingling, mouths fighting like the rest of them hadn’t already.

You dropped the gun.

Your fingers curled in his hair. He pulled you tighter, tighter still—like letting go would kill him faster than any bullet.

His hands grabbed your hips. Your hands cradled his bloody face. He groaned into your mouth like it hurt to want you this bad.

It did.

Your legs wrapped around his hips as he stumbled back into the cabinets.

He kissed you like it was oxygen. Like you were the only real thing left in a collapsing world.

You broke away, gasping. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t care.”

“I still might kill you.”

“Get in line.”

He kissed you again.

Longer.

Deeper.

You pulled back, panting.

“Why now?” you whispered. “Why this?”

“Because if we’re going to destroy each other,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours, “I want to remember how it felt to love you.”

You leaned in again.

Kissed him.

This time slower.

This time real.

The kitchen still smoked. The lights flickered. The whole house reeked of destruction.

But for one moment—

There was only you and him.

And the silence between gunshots.

His lips were rough—split from your punch, bleeding into your mouth.

You tasted iron, tasted smoke.

But you didn’t stop.

He bit your bottom lip. You pulled his hair. He slammed your back into the counter and you yanked him closer by the open shirt hanging off his shoulders.

Clothes were torn in the scuffle, and now they barely hung on at all.

Your black dress clung to you in soaked strips, one strap snapped, thigh high slit now a slash to your hip. Your bare leg curled around his waist instinctively.

He groaned into your mouth as your hips met his again, needy and hard and undeniably real.

You had both nearly killed each other.

And now?

You were devouring each other.

His hands gripped your thighs with bruising force. You hissed and bit his neck. He laughed, pained and breathless.

“You wanna kill me or fuck me?” he growled into your ear, voice ragged.

You raked your nails down his back. “I haven’t decided.”

“Decide quick, sweetheart,” he grunted, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, grinding into you. “Because I’m running out of patience.”

You rolled your hips defiantly, teeth bared. “Then do something about it.”

And he did.

The kitchen table shattered.

You were on top of it—on top of him—lips crashing again, tongues colliding like a battlefield. One hand in his hair, the other dragging along his chest, over the bruises you’d put there yourself.

He hissed. Then moaned.

His hand slid up your thigh, warm and trembling, gripping the muscle like he needed to anchor himself to you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His lip was split. His eye purpling. His cheek was red from your slap. Blood ran from the cut above his brow.

You were a fucking masterpiece.

And so was he.

“You look like hell,” you whispered, brushing his bloody mouth with your thumb.

“You look like heaven.”

Then he pulled you back down and kissed you again, harder this time—less desperation, more hunger. You melted into it, hips grinding against his like you were still fighting him, like the only language you had was dominance and surrender.

He tasted like sweat and salt and a thousand regrets.

You tasted like rage and lipstick and lightning.

Your hands moved up his chest, under his shirt, nails scraping the muscle beneath. He gasped, bit your shoulder in retaliation. You arched into him, letting out a ragged breath that sounded too close to a sob.

This wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a reckoning.

You flipped him.

Straddling him again on the broken kitchen floor, knees on either side of his hips, your dress hiked to your waist. His hands roamed your back, clawing at the damp fabric, at your bare skin underneath.

You pulled him up by the collar, forcing him nose to nose with you. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

His hands gripped your waist.

“Good,” he breathed, “I don’t want your forgiveness.”

You kissed him again—messy, teeth knocking, blood smearing your cheek. Your lips slipped along his jaw, down to his throat. He was hot and throbbing under you, panting your name like it was a prayer and a curse.

Your hips rolled, and he choked out a groan, burying his face into your neck.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You make me insane.”

“You always were, sweetheart.”

You shoved him down, kissed him harder.

He laughed into your mouth, gasping, voice strained and low:

“God, I missed you.”

Eventually—eventually—your lips slowed.

The kiss gentled.

The blood stayed.

But your mouths moved slower. Like the adrenaline was wearing off. Like your limbs suddenly felt heavy, broken, real.

You collapsed against him, breath hitching against his throat.

He cradled the back of your head. His fingers traced circles on your spine, even as they shook.

He held you.

Not as a lover. Not as an enemy.

Just as someone who needed you to stay alive long enough to kiss him again.

The silence after war always felt louder than the explosions.

You lay there, your bare back against the cool hardwood, the remnants of your home scattered around you — shattered vases, bullet-ridden walls, furniture upended like a battlefield’s ruins. Your chest rose and fell. Bucky’s did too, inches away. Blood smeared across his jaw. Your thigh stung where he clipped you. His cheek was still red from the pan you’d swung.

But the look in his eyes?

Soft. Tired. Real.

His knuckles grazed yours, tentative.

"You still breathing, doll?" he rasped.

You turned your head to face him. "Barely."

A beat of silence.

“I liked that vase,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “It was hideous.”

Your lip curled, busted but amused. “Still liked it.”

He turned to look at the ceiling, voice barely above a whisper. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

“I had the chance,” you whispered back. “A hundred times.”

His blue eyes flicked to yours. “So did I.”

And there it was.

Not an apology. Not forgiveness.

A mutual surrender.

You reached out, fingers brushing his bloodied collar. “We should’ve talked more.”

“We were busy trying to kill each other.”

Your brow knit. “No… we were busy trying not to.”

He rolled to his side, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “I’m tired of trying.”

“So stop,” you whispered.

You stumbled into what was left of your bedroom. The curtains were half torn, the bed frame cracked, bullet holes sprayed across the walls — and yet, it was the softest place in the world.

Bucky stood in the doorway, watching you carefully.

Your black dress was ripped at the hem, one strap barely hanging on, dried blood streaked down your arm. His white shirt was torn down the middle, chest slick with sweat and grime. His dog tags dangled, still clinking softly when he moved.

You said nothing as you turned your back to him, pulling the rest of your dress down.

Bucky swallowed hard. “You sure?”

You nodded, not looking back. “I just want to feel something that doesn’t hurt.”

He stepped forward slowly, hands skimming your waist, lips brushing your spine. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t angry.

It was real.

The kind of love that claws its way through violence and still begs to be held.

The kind of love that knows you can destroy each other and still chooses not to.

You made love like you fought — breathless, bruised, desperate, honest.

When it was over, the weight of him against your back was the only thing grounding you. Your fingers laced over his. He kissed the nape of your neck like a man praying.

The sun filtered through cracked blinds. Smoke still hung in the air. You were curled in the sheets, tucked against Bucky’s chest.

You watched him sleep.

Your husband. Your enemy. Your only home.

His lips moved slightly in sleep. “...doll…”

You smiled despite yourself, brushing hair from his forehead.

He stirred, eyes blinking open. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you whispered back.

“How long we got?”

You checked the broken clock on the nightstand. “Less than an hour.”

His henley hung loose on your frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal the scratches and bruises decorating your arms. It was warm, comforting—the first thing that felt like home in hours.

When you came back out, Bucky’s blue eyes softened.

“Much better,” he said.

You smirked. “Careful. You might be turning into a regular gentleman.”

He grinned, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “Only for you.”

He sighed. “That’s something, at least.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

And you knew — there was no going back.

“Let’s burn it down,” you said. “Everything. The agencies. The lies.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He sat up, pulling on what was left of his pants and his harness. You slipped into your gear, throwing your coat over your now-patched dress. Gun holstered. Knife tucked into your boot.

You stood in the doorway together, backs to the wreckage of your home. Your life.

“You ready, Mrs. Barnes?” he asked.

You kissed him once — quick, firm, real.

“Let’s finish this.”

You didn’t even make it to the car.

Bucky opened the front door—

CRACK—BOOM!

Gunfire exploded from the treeline.

You both dove behind the doorway, guns out.

Bucky cursed. “They’re early. Thought we had till noon.”

“They lied,” you hissed.

He grinned. “Guess we had that in common.”

You peered out, three SUVs unloading armed agents in black. One of them? Your handler. The other? His.

“I see them,” you whispered. “They brought the cavalry.”

“They forgot we’re the damn apocalypse.”

You took his hand.

And you ran straight into hell.

—

The bullets were louder than your heartbeat — almost. Smoke choked the sky, your porch was in flames, and three government black-ops teams were closing in like sharks that smelled blood.

You didn’t make it far before the second wave hit.

Your feet slid on shattered glass as you dodged another round of gunfire, the hem of your ripped black dress snagging on what remained of the hallway arch. The house groaned under pressure, smoke curling through the vents. The walls were bleeding from bullet wounds.

Bucky was back-to-back with you, both of you panting, guns raised.

“Upstairs?” he asked.

You peeked down the hallway — two agents already down, three more flooding in.

“Too late,” you said. “We hold the line here.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Like old times.”

Your eyes flicked to his busted lip, the blood dripping from his temple, the open shirt that barely clung to him. You cocked your gun. “Except I’m in heels and a HENLEY.”

His eyes darkened. “You always did have flair, sweetheart.”

You grabbed the curtain, yanked it down, and whipped it around the neck of an incoming agent, dragging him forward into your elbow. He crumpled.

Bucky shot another through the knee, then body-slammed him into the broken piano in the foyer.

“I liked that piano!” you shouted.

“I hated that piano!”

You ducked a punch, swung around, used your heel to stab a man in the thigh, and then kicked him down the staircase.

Bucky grunted beside you. “Jesus, remind me to never forget our anniversary again.”

The front door exploded off its hinges. Another squad rushed in.

You were down to your last clip. Bucky had one knife left.

You looked at each other, drenched in sweat, covered in soot and blood, backs pressed against either side of the living room wall.

His chest heaved. “How many?”

You wiped blood off your brow. “Five. Plus one with a rocket launcher.”

He exhaled. “You take the rocket guy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re giving me the harder target?”

He smirked. “You’re the better shot.”

Your lips twitched. “Damn right.”

Then — in unison — you moved.

Bucky leapt over the coffee table, catching a man mid-strike and slamming him into the TV stand. You ran straight for the guy with the launcher, dove under his shot, rolled behind the couch, then came up and fired one clean shot between his eyes.

“Nice shot!” Bucky called.

“Nice ass!” you fired back.

“Thanks, it’s genetic!”

You grabbed a shattered picture frame, flung the glass into the next man’s eyes, kicked him in the chest, and slammed his head into the floor.

Bucky ducked behind a wall. You followed him, the world still shaking.

He grabbed your face. “We have to go. Now.”

You kissed him hard, short and fast. “Go.”

“The back door!”

“I told you not to use real hardwood in the damn walls!. We’re way too flammable for this!”

You landed hard on the neighbor’s yard, Bucky sprinting beside you

“I told you the Johnsons were spies!” you huffed, dodging a shot.

“They bake a suspiciously good banana bread!” he called back.

“THEY JUST TRIED TO MURDER US, BUCKY.”

He grinned, wild-eyed. “Still better than your lasagna!”

You decked him mid-run. “NOW you wanna die?!”

—

You launched yourself into the car first, passenger seat.

Bucky yanked the driver’s door open — and you both shouted at the same time:

“I’M DRIVING!”

You glared. “You just got shot twice.”

“And you drive like a war crime!”

You slammed your hand on the dash. “Move over!”

“Fine!” he grunted, climbing across the seat as you floored it — tires squealing, rearview mirror cracking from a bullet. “You scratch the paint, I swear to God—”

“BUCKY THERE IS NO PAINT LEFT!”

Behind you, the house exploded in a cinematic mushroom cloud of debris and gas fire. The concussive blast launched the car forward with a boom that rattled your bones.

Bucky turned around to shoot out the back window. “That better have killed the mold in the basement!”

You took a hard left, gun tucked into the steering wheel. “You said you’d clean that six months ago!”

“I was busy being secretly married to a hitwoman!”

You gasped. “You did not just throw that in my face!”

He reloaded. “I’m bleeding out, sweetheart. I’m allowed some pettiness.”

—

The black SUVs weren’t giving up.

One swerved up beside you, goons leaning out with rifles.

Bucky climbed halfway out the window, shirt open, vest half-ripped, bleeding and smirking like a man who lived for this exact brand of chaos.

“Don’t you dare fall off that roof!” you shouted.

He winked. “I fall for you every day, baby.”

“You fall like a damn liability, James!”

Bucky flipped one guy off, shot another square in the shoulder, and kicked the third through the windshield of their own van.

The SUV skidded off the road, flipped, and exploded behind you.

“God, I missed our morning drives,” he said, climbing back in, panting.

You reached over and wiped blood from his lip. “You look awful.”

He grinned. “So do you.”

“Thanks.”

After twenty minutes of evasive maneuvers, two flipped SUVs, a narrowly-avoided helicopter missile, and a lot of blood on the steering wheel, you finally found a back road and swerved into the woods to catch your breath.

Smoke rose behind you.

Bucky looked at you in the front seat, his chest heaving.

“…Okay,” you said, hands on the wheel, “rapid-fire confession round. Go.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We might die. Spill something.”

“…I lied about the cat.”

You squinted. “What cat?”

“I said I found him on the street, but I actually stole him from a Hydra base.”

Your jaw dropped. “You gave me a war criminal cat?!”

He held up a finger. “He was very cute.”

You pointed at him. “You’re a menace.”

His turn. “Your confession.”

You sighed. “I planted a tracker in your vibranium arm the second month we got married.”

He looked betrayed. “That’s where that itch came from?!”

“You kept disappearing without telling me!”

“I was going on missions!”

“I thought you were cheating!”

“I was murdering people!”

You both paused.

Then you nodded. “Okay, fair.”

—

You're both panting in the passenger seats, blood-slicked, bruised, but adrenaline-high. The entire windshield is cracked. Your pulse is wild.

The silence is thick. The kind that buzzes in your teeth.

He looks over at you, his eyes roaming your body — blood streaked over your thighs, your chest rising and falling.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I should be asking you,” you replied. “Your face looks like hell.”

He leaned in, voice low. “Still pretty enough to kiss?”

You don’t answer. You grab him by the collar and crash your mouth into his, dragging him over the center console.

It’s violent, hungry, desperate — teeth clashing, tongues tangling, your hand fisting in his hair as his slide under your thigh.

He groans into your mouth. “God, I missed this.”

“I missed you,” you growl, biting his lip.

His hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you there, like if he lets go for a second, you’ll disappear again. Your noses brush. Your breaths mingle. He tastes like ash and blood and every dream you never thought you’d get back.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers against your lips.

You rest your forehead against his. “You never did.”

A grenade clinks nearby.

You both freeze.

Bucky grabs it. “Shit. Shit.”

You yank open the door. “Out!”

The grenade detonates just as you leap from the car — it flips into the air, crashing down in flames.

You land on top of Bucky, bodies tangled, chest to chest, panting. He cradles your head before you hit the ground. You both lie there for a second.

Your breathless laugh bubbles up.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I landed on your knife,” you groan.

“Yeah,” he smirks, “that’s not my knife.”

You smack his shoulder. “You pig.”

“Married a pig, sweetheart.”

You grin. “And I’d do it again.”

Explosions bloomed behind you — the final fiery death of your home, collapsing in a glorious inferno that lit the night sky.

“That’s our cue to run,” you said with a grim smile.

Bucky reached over, slapping your arm. “We’re still alive. That’s what counts.”

You glanced at him, breath catching. “And I guess... still lying to each other.”

He raised a brow. “Like what?”

You laughed despite the tension. “That you never told me about the second bullet.”

His smile was small, sheepish. “Okay, maybe I was hiding a few things.”

“And I never told you how I almost left that night.”

His eyes softened. “Guess we’re full of surprises.”

You looked at Bucky. Bruised, bleeding, exhausted.

Still here.

Still yours.

(You've got mail!) i'm so made i had to cut so much of this out, so basically i don't write any of this on tumblr. I write it on google docs. this fic was basically almost 11k words. And the last HALF the good fluffy part of this fic had to be cut because tumblr wont allow more than 1,000 blocks or whatever it is called. I DONT KNOW HOW YALL DO 15-12K WORDS CAUSE MINE BARELY LETS ME GO PAST 10K. im so sad now, i wanted this be out before my trip since i wont have my laptop to do the colored text. BUT NOW IM MAD AND FRUSTATED. if you want the ending ending lmk </3

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101

[fallen-w1ngs]

OH IM EATING THIS UP

on the ethics of drinking your friends (what's the big deal???)

part of my Modern Vampire Marinette AU (intro | tag)

(Support me on ko-fi if you'd like!)

[fallen-w1ngs]

[fallen-w1ngs]

Ramble cause... it's a free country.

i absolutely love sebastian stan's monologue "Highway." It has really good moments of "wtf is this guy talking about" to "oh my god, i think i found the meaning of life" yk?

like, i constantly have "If I only have one ride, I want it to be beautiful.. And if nobody hears from me again.. It'll be okay... And if nobody knows where I am, I won't mind. 'Cause I'll know where I am. And that's the most important thing."

like HELLO?? it's beautiful and i don't know how to put it into words. it perfectly captures that urge, that itch, to be free. to be able to live your life without caring about what others think. that's, at least, what i took away from it.

"if i only have one ride, i want it to be beautiful" i don't care how messy or tragic my life will be. i want it to be my beautiful mess of the tragedy that was in my control. i wanna be able to leave this world knowing i lived my life as well as i could.

i don't care where i go. i don't care what i'm going to do. i could be writing tomorrow, acting, drawing, studying, dying. i don't care. if nobody hears from me again, i don't care. if nobody knows where i am, it's okay. i could run awayas far as my legs will take me, and it'll be the most freedom i'll ever feel. because no one will know where i am except me. and that's the most important thing.

[fallen-w1ngs]

OKAY, ik for a fact this post'll reach jack shit of my followers, BUT IDCCC :D for anyone who'll see this, ig it's an update for you!!!

i've been SUUUPER busy with finals as well as work, so i am super slow at writing my stories, oneshots, series (fsonf, escapism) as well as my art so ig i'm taking a small pause on everything. by the time finals, or at least my hard classes, are over with, i'll be posting a bit more but i am doing all this shit for fun, so i can't make concrete promises :)

glad ya'll are enjoying my writing <3

[fallen-w1ngs]

Y'all should really follow Overly Sarcastic Productions' twitter

[fallen-w1ngs]

am I cooked, chat? (b.barnes)

social media au (b.barnes x f!reader) || you found a new favorite no-face streamer, much to your bestfriend's (who is hopelessly inlove with you btw) dismay. oh but the fact that the no-face streamer is also him is not relevant.

teaser

twitter accounts

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

taglist : open (send an ask)

@enlyume @theysaywhatasadsight @its-daydreamer23 @niall2017 @love-me-satoru @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @lethallyprotected @buckysmischief @roseisnotlost @bby-aj @hanniesrock @hnnhbananananana @rafeskai @lilipiggytails @pickuptruck01 @hanmastattoos @minami97 @wintercrows @winchestert101 @writeaboutit97 @fangeekkk @bloobworld @ohiamdefpanicking @safetypinxtales @fizzypeachhh @grumpycatbucky @holybatflapexpert @yehfitoormera @winterslove1917 @lix1nyu

[fallen-w1ngs]

i'll be so fr, i thought the secret would just be "penis" or smth. this is much nicer 🩵

Pssst

Hey, are you an artist or writer with WIPs?

Come here... I got a secret for you pssst come ‘ere

[fallen-w1ngs]

[fallen-w1ngs]

then prince touya who was cursed as a child to become a dragon- and oh my god IT'S LIKE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Fantasy au cause I went to a ren faire and can't stop thinking about sir Hawks jousting

[fallen-w1ngs]

[ escapism : 01 ]

[phase 01 : THE STAR SPANGLED MAN WITH A PLAN]

|| pairing : 40s! james "bucky" barnes x nymph!reader [slowburn]

|| warnings : no bucky in this one , other than that nothing

|| wc : 2.4k

The next few weeks at the training grounds went by in a blur. Everyone was still as frantic as ever, everything was still chaotic. You were, unwillingly, slowly coming to an understanding of why this war was happening and that talking it out won’t work. It took a while for Dr. Erskine to explain that to you before it really stuck. Humans were very, very strange.

Speaking of strangeness of the humans, you’d stuck around Peggy a lot as well. Watch as she yelled at soldiers. At times you’d join in the exercise, when the men climbed ropes and did an obstacle course was your favourite! It was a lot like racing the other nymphs and smaller creatures through the forest. Least to say, you had finished in first place. Much to the soldiers dismay.

That day you realized they weren’t exactly doing this for fun.

“Steven.” You called out to the small, blonde man. Throughout your time here, you’d realized he was absolutely nothing like his friend Buck- or Bucky as Steven called him. “Dr. Erskine asked to see you.”

In the past few weeks you’d been around humans, you went from an all powerful nymph, able to bend nature to your will.. To Dr. Erskine’s assistant. It was never officially said, but you’d do some of his tasks, or send along messages for him. It was all good and fine, it wasn’t like you had much to do here.

“Oh, thanks.” Steve, who was just busy sketching away in his small book, stood up and walked beside you. He was an awkward man for sure, but he had a good heart. That’s why the doctor took a liking to him.

“How’s your day been, [Name]?”

You hummed. “Nothing much. Phillips had just asked me to pass along a few letters and files for the doctor. Peggy and I spoke for an hour or so again. Not much.”

“.. And how ‘bout your friends back home? Any letters from them?”

“They’re not.. They don’t have much resources to write to me.” Steven didn’t know about you being a nymph. The only ones who knew were Phillips, Erksine, Peggy, and one other scientist you’d met once named Howard Stark. So, to make yourself less suspicious, you acted as if you had a whole life before this. You had a flower shop and was Dr. Erskine's grandchild who was raised far away from him in New York City. You don’t disclose why. 

“I get that,” Steve chuckled and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Buck ‘n I didn’t have much before this. When we wanted to write or draw we had t’use old newspapers t’draw on.. But-” The blonde man pulled out a small notebook from his pocket, a big smile on his face as he spoke of its origins. “For my 20th birthday he gave me this notebook. I never had time or, frankly– money to exactly buy it for myself. So he did it for me.”

A small smile spread across your face as you listened to Steve's words. As much of a bad impression Bucky had given you, he was a good friend to Steve. 

“I take it you like art?” “Oh I love art,” Steve flipped through his notebook. Small sketches revealed themselves to you. There were portraits, landscapes, sketches of figures and objects. Many of Peggy. “I, uh, I went to art school with Bucky for a year.”

“How exciting! You’ll have to show me some of your art sometime.”

“Definitely,” Steve’s smile softened as he stuffed his notebook back into his pocket. “I love to paint, though uh, paints have been scarce.”

“You could use flowers,” You raised your brow. How could paint be a rare commodity? “Mash them up, make sure to moisten them up, the perfect paints!”

“Huh-” The soldier scratched the back of his neck and shrugged as he finally made it to the building. “I’ll have to try that out next time, thanks [Name].”

“Of course. I’ll see you around, Steven.”

With that you left him alone. Back to walking around the training grounds, you awaited for your next orders from Erskine. 

–

Well.

Those next orders never came. 

Apparently, the few hours that Steven, Phillips, Peggy, and one other scientist named Stark had been gone.. Steven changed. He grew stronger within a matter of minutes and.. In those minutes, your “grandfather” was killed. Shot.

Now, of course you weren’t his real grandchild. You barely knew him, you were probably just a charity case for him. An asset, something that was.. Well, it doesn’t matter to try and dwell on it. Being a nymph, you were used to short life spans. The animals in the forest died so quickly. The man you called friend had lived 1/3rd of your own life span. It was natural for him to pass. The only thing that did anger you was that his passing was not natural. No, being shot was the furthest from natural death.

For what he did to be shot? Now that’s the interesting part.

As you walked to where the small memorial for Erskine would be at the cap grounds, you made a small speech. There was nothing but truth in it, the only lie you spoke was that he was your grandfather.

“.. The doctor.. He was my grandfather. One I didn’t know for long, but in the time we’ve spent together, I grew to love him. He was.. Kind when others would not have been.” Your eyes scanned the small group of people.. There was a tall blonde man that looked– holy shit, it was Steven. It threw you for a loop as you covered your surprise with a cough. “He will be missed, and.. I know that he’d want us to win the war. I’ll.. Miss you, doctor. And it was good to meet you, even for a small while.”

With that the funeral ended. It was short, sweet some could say. Only you had said something to him. It was clear that despite being one of the smartest people within the training grounds, people still saw him as an outsider. Being a German during a time where the Germans were considered the villains? Well, it was.. A time.

A hand was placed on your shoulders, stopping you from pacing around the camp grounds. “I’m sorry for your loss.”  

It was Steve. But.. Not Steve. He was taller. Bigger. 

“Steven?”

“Yeah, hey,” He pulled his hand away and pushed them into his pockets. “Uh.. Surprise.”

“I assume this,” You gestured at his new body. “Was what happened before Dr. Erskine died?”

He gave a short nod, his smile falling as he walked beside you. A comfortable silence fell between the both of you. It was clear he was hurting more about Dr. Erskine’s death than how hurt you were. It made sense. He was human, all humans had such short life spans. You’d be alive for the next 300 years or so. Depending on how this turns out. 

“Yeah..” Steve chuckled and shrugged as the two arrived at one of the buildings. One you’d grown familiar with it being a lab. The one that Erskine and Stark shared together. “Peggy wants t’talk to me ‘bout somethin’.. You wanna come? If you wanna be alone that’s totally understandable though.”

Steven always seemed to put others’ wants in front of his own.

“I’d love that, plus, I haven’t spoken to Peggy in a while.”

You followed him into the building, it was dark, damp and brown bricks all over. It was nothing like your forest. Sad. Thankfully, Steve walked faster than before, most likely due to the serum, so you didn’t have to dwell in being in claustrophobia-inducing hallways.

“Steve. There you are.. Hello, [Name].” When she greeted you, Peggy gave you a small hug. One of condolences before she started talking. Her heels clicked with every step as she walked in front of both you and Steve. “I assume you know what happened with Steve?”

“Yes, ma’am.” You replied.

“Phillips is planning a different strategy due to the attack,” Her voice was calm, steady, though every word made you feel more and more scared. “I’m not one hundred percent sure what it is, but I know he needs me and Stark there. I’d assume you and Steve as well.”

“-I’m on a number of committees, Colonel.” That’s what you heard when the three of you walked into the room. Big metal things that looked like fallen logs were suspended in the air with chains. As Howard was sitting beside it, presumably inspecting it.

“Hydra is the Nazi deep-science division. It’s led by Johann Schmidt. But he has much bigger ambitions.” Peggy stood tall in the room of men (and nymph) as the three of you walked in. 

“Hydra is practically a cult.” Phillips built up from Peggy’s original statement. “They worship Schmidt. They think he’s invincible.”

“So what’re you gonna do about it?” One of the men in suits standing besides Phillips asked. It was clear he wasn’t a fan of the Colonel. Nor was the Colonel a fan of him.

Phillips didn’t bite the bait that the man had dangled in front of him though. Instead, he turned around and walked away, calm and collected as he spoke and approached the three of you. “I spoke to the President this morning. As of today, the SSR is being retasked-”

“Colonel?” Peggy’s brows furrowed in confusion as she asked. He just kept talking.

“We are taking this fight to Hydra. Pack your bags, Agent Carter. You too, [Last Name].”

Wait.. You too?

“You too, Stark.” He turned to Howard, completely ignoring Steve. “We’re flying to London tonight.” 

With that he pushed past the three of you. You were confused, excited to see new lands, but utterly terrified. 

“Sir? If you’re going after Schmidt, I want in.” Steve stopped him. His head held high as Phillips turned to face him.

“You’re an experiment. You’re going to Alamogordo.”

“.. The serum worked.”

“I asked for an army and all I got was you. You are not enough.”

Ouch. A beat of silence passed before Phillips turned around and left. Steve stood there, his expression hard, but you could tell.. That shit stung. Though, you weren’t able to dwell on it for any longer before one of the men in suits stepped up to Steve. 

“With all due respect to the Colonel.. I think we may be missing the point. I’ve seen you in action, Steve. More importantly, the country’s seen it.” Isn’t the more important thing that Steve uncovered Hydra? You.. Kept that to yourself as you listened. “Paper,” He gestured to another man and a newspaper was held up. “The enlistment lines have been around the block since your picture hit the news. You don’t take a soldier, a symbol like that, and hide him in a lab.”

All three of you were lost at this point. What the hell was this guy yapping about?

“Son, do you want to serve your country?” He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and pulled him away from you and Peggy. “On the most important battlefield of the war?”

“Sir. That’s all I want.”

“Then congratulations. You just got promoted.”

–

Oh. 

Oh dear god. 

“Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way?” Chorus girls sang and danced as your friend Steve, in the most AWKWARD outfit you’d ever seen stumble onto stage as if a doe learning how to walk for the first time.

“Not all of us can storm a beach or drive a tank. But there’s still a way all of us can fight.”

All of this was video taped in black and white. You and Peggy stood there, watching the recording on a projector. One that Howard had personally gotten for all of you to watch Steve’s performances. Or one, at least. You couldn’t handle watching more of this. This was not what you’d expected with his promotion.

“Whaddya think about this, fairy?” Howard asked, he was writing something down, most likely new inventions he’s trying to get to work. Or something. You’ve given up on trying to figure out this technology thing humans are working on. Oh, and the fairy nickname? Yeah,nymph didn’t have the same ring to it, so he called you fairy. Despite your many protests.

“.. I don’t..” You paused, your eyes squinting at his outfit. “This.. This isn’t what I thought his promotion would entail.” 

This was one of his first performances, he didn’t exactly look overjoyed to be there.. But from the newest posters and newspapers you’d received, it seemed he was happy. 

“It’s a lot.” Peggy commented. “Star spangled man with a plan, huh?”

“Doesn’t have a plan except dancing and singing while we’re out here fighting.”

You flicked your wrist and a small plant sprouted from the table and flicked Howard’s nose lightly. “Peggy and I are doing the fighting. You’re the one with his head stuck in his notebook.”

Howard rolled his eyes and plucked the sprout from the desk and flinged it away. “Grumpy fairy.”

“Says you!”

“Children, please, stop fighting.” Peggy sighed and shook her head. “We have work to do. Come on.”

The two of you shut your traps quickly and got up. Howard retreated to his lab as you followed Peggy. The past few weeks, it’d been rough. Travelling from place to place, Peggy creates strategy plans for you to discreetly destroy Hydra from the inside out. With your magic, you were able to be more stealthy than the humans. Using animals and the nature around you, as well as healing magic you could use to help soldiers who were trapped within Hydra’s bases. Other than that, you couldn’t do much. Holding a gun and firing it was too much for you. Felt unnatural.

“We’re going to be taking a small trip. Over to where the 107th was previously stationed.”

“Previously?”

“.. The men were taken.” Peggy said as she walked down the hall. The both of you were in one of the bases in Michigan. Though, you’ll be flying out once again. “We’re to oversee it, make reports, see who’s gone and not.”

“That’s horrible.” 

She hummed and sighed, a small smile dawning her face as she looked at you. “Well, at least we’ll see a certain spangled man there.”

“I thought Steve’s still touring?” You tilted your head to the side a bit. Even with your small bit of excitement to see your friend, he was busy being an actor instead of a soldier.

“It’s to bring hope to the remaining 107th regiment. Everyone needs it right about now.”

|| okay. first of all. the pacings a little wonky cause im not sure the timeline of ca"tfa and how long everything takes so yeah!! :3 i just also really wanna write out the.. uh... future plans (angst)