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From the Start

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis They were best friends. She loved him quietly — from the start. But timing was never on her side. Now, between unspoken words, missed chances, and a love that lingers too long, she learns what it means to let go without ever truly doing so. Inspired by “From the Start” by Laufey — a slow, aching love story about almosts, always, and everything in between.

Word Count 4.8K

Themes + Warnings Unrequited love / yearning, Hurt no comfort, angst and longing, missed timings, Emotional Distress / hints of depression (not romanticized) , Quiet suffrage, Self-isolation, Bittersweet loyalty, tender, melancholic, bucky barnes.

— From the Start “If only you knew… I’ve loved you quietly, endlessly, from the start.”

It started with coffee.

You always made his the way he liked it — strong, a little sugar, no cream. Some mornings, he’d wake up from dreams he didn’t remember, soaked in sweat and shaking, and you’d be there in the kitchen already, waiting. You never said anything. You didn’t have to.

That’s how your love began — in the quiet moments. Brushing his hand with yours when you passed him a mug. Laying a blanket over him when he fell asleep on the couch. Listening. Always listening.

The light in the compound's kitchen was low — early morning blue, the kind that makes everything feel a little quieter. Bucky sat at the table, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, his eyes soft with sleep, his hair half-tied back and falling into his face.

You knew that look. Dream-sick. Still caught in the web of the night. He didn’t talk much after the nightmares, not until the second cup of coffee kicked in.

So you sat down beside him, shoulder brushing his, and passed him a warm piece of toast, buttered just the way he liked it.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “You always know.”

You gave a soft smile. Of course I do. You knew his tells. The way his jaw ticked when he was anxious. The pause before he said "I'm fine" and meant the opposite. You knew him better than anyone.

And somewhere along the way — between patching him up after missions and watching movies on the couch with his head on your shoulder — you’d started falling. Quietly. Without permission. Like slipping under water.

He’d rest his head on your shoulder during late movie nights, eyes half-lidded, breath steady against your collarbone. And you — stupid, hopeless you — would close your eyes and pretend, just for a second, that it meant something more.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. That being near him, even if he didn’t love you back, was enough.

But it was never really enough.

But Bucky never saw it. Or maybe he did — and just didn’t want it.

It happens on a slow evening, sunlight honey-thick through the compound windows, painting his face gold.

He sits on the kitchen counter like he always does, elbows on knees, talking to you with that crooked half-smile. But you’re barely breathing.

He’s telling you about someone. Someone new.

“Hey,” he said, almost sheepish, running a hand through his hair.

You looked up from your book. “You’re in a good mood.”

“So… I met someone.”

You looked up too fast, too hopeful, thinking for half a second — maybe —

But he didn’t look at you. His eyes were on the wall. Someone new.

“Oh,” you said, trying not to sound like you’d been gut-punched. “That’s… that’s great, Buck.”

He launched into it then — how she made him laugh, how easy it felt. You listened, nodding, smiling where you should. But all you heard was a roaring in your ears.

“She’s so perfect, you’d love her,” he says, laughing softly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable around anyone. She’s funny — smart. We stayed up talking until 3 a.m.”

You nod. Smile where you’re supposed to. Make a sound that’s supposed to pass for happy.

But inside? You’re cracking.

“She’s… kind. Makes me laugh.” He smiled again, almost bashful. “Told me I should take her to that bookstore downtown. You know, the one you like.” The one YOU liked.

You tried to smile.Tried to nod. But your heart felt like it had caved in on itself.

“Oh. That’s nice.”

That’s mine. That’s our spot. That’s… me.

He didn’t notice the way your hands trembled. Didn’t notice how you stopped breathing for a second. Or maybe he did — and just didn’t want to see it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You lay in your room, staring at the ceiling. The quiet was unbearable. You could still hear him laughing about her. Could still see the way his eyes lit up. And all you could think was: It should have been me.

“Listening to you harp on ‘bout some new soulmate — ‘She’s so perfect,’ blah blah blah…”

That lyric echoes like a broken record as you lie awake in your bed that night, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers. Your heart aches like it’s been wrung out.

You try to drown it out. But his voice — the way he said her name — is louder than the silence.

You remember how his eyes lit up. How easily he smiled. How he used to smile at you like that.

“She’s so perfect.”

You swallow hard. And the jealousy? It’s poison in your veins.

Not because she’s done anything wrong. But because you love him. And he doesn’t know. And worse — you don’t think he wants to know.

You wanted to scream. Instead, you whispered into the dark:

“I’ve loved you from the start, Bucky. God, I wish you knew.”

—

The next few days are unbearable.

You stopped showing up to the gym in the mornings.

Stopped sitting next to him at movie nights.

You took every mission they offered, even the miserable ones — hours in the cold, sleeping on floors, bruises blooming across your ribs.

You dodge him in the hallway. Skip breakfast. Stay in your room or train until your muscles scream — anything to avoid the sight of him grinning at his phone or humming under his breath like a man in love.

Anything to keep you moving. Numb.

You barely sleep. You barely are.

And still, the song plays in your head — like your own personal curse.

“Don’t you notice how I get quiet when there’s no one else around…”

You want to scream.

The pain hit hardest in the quiet hours. When the compound was still, and you sat on your bed staring at nothing, trying not to cry.

You want to ask him how can you not see it? How can you talk about her like that in front of me — like we weren’t something, like I haven’t held your hand through every breakdown, every sleepless night?

But you don’t.

You say nothing. Because saying something would ruin everything.

And so you rot in silence.

You’d see her name pop up on his phone. Hear him laugh through the walls.

And god — the jealousy. The burn of it. Ugly and sharp.

You hated yourself for it. Hated that you were mad at her — at him — for something you never even told him. Something you buried deep, like a secret you didn’t deserve to say aloud.

But you weren’t sleeping. Your eyes were always red-rimmed. And one night, Wanda passed you in the hallway and gently touched your arm.

“You look so tired,” she said softly.

You just nodded, eyes glassy, throat too raw to speak.

You stare at your reflection one morning and don’t recognize the person looking back: Baggy eyes. Pale skin. Glassy, defeated stare. You’ve been crying — you always cry now. Quietly. At night. Into your pillow.

He texts you. Again. Bucky: You okay? Haven’t seen you around lately.

You put your phone face down. You can’t lie to him again. But you can’t tell the truth either.

“God, I wish I could confess I loved you from the start…”

—

You find yourself sitting in the common room alone.

It’s the same couch he used to nap on. The same one where he would rest his head on your lap and mutter that your presence made the nightmares go away. You’d run your fingers through his hair and pretend you weren’t falling in love.

Stupid. Stupid you.

Because he was never falling with you. He was falling for someone else.

You close your eyes and whisper the lyrics into your hand like a prayer:

“Confessed I loved you, From the start.”

You used to sit beside Bucky during movie nights.

His arm would rest behind you on the couch — never quite around you, but close enough to pretend. You knew his laugh by heart, the way it started in his chest and pulled his shoulders forward. You memorized the sound. You loved it.

But now? You sit near Wanda. Head on her shoulder. A different couch, a different row. The distance is a wall. You smile — just enough to seem okay. But it’s tired. Fragile.

Your new spot is farther from him. He notices. He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

Because what do you say to the man you’ve loved in silence for years?

“Please sit closer to me again, even if you don’t love me?” “Please don’t tell me how beautiful she is — I already know. I’ve imagined being her every night since you met.”

You just keep quiet. You always do.

“Don’t you notice how I get quiet when there’s no one else around?”

It wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it.

You’d just finished a mission, still half-sweaty and bloodstained. You were pulling your boots off when he walked into the locker room, smiling in that way you hadn’t seen in years — like sunlight came with him.

“She texted again,” he said. “Told me she was nervous to meet the team. I told her she’d love you guys.”

You froze, mid-lace.

He kept going.

“God, she’s sweet. She sent me this picture of her cat in a Captain America hoodie—like, full-on cosplay. It was adorable.”

You smiled like it didn’t hurt.

But that night in your room, her name was on loop in your head. Not her fault. Not really. But you hated how it sounded coming out of his mouth.

—

You were sitting in the rec room, legs curled beneath you on the corner of the couch. Bucky walked in, looking happier than you’d seen in weeks. Hair tousled, a small coffee in hand, that boyish smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I had the best night,” he said. “We went to that vintage bookstore off 4th. She made fun of me for dog-earing pages. Then we spent hours in the philosophy aisle. Like actual hours.”

He paused, a little breathless with how sweet the memory was.

“She’s something else.”

You laughed, soft and short. Like something small had snapped inside you.

“That when I talk to you, oh, Cupid walks right through. . .”

You nodded. Pretended to be reading your tablet. Pretended not to notice the way his voice got gentler when he said her name.

“Sounds like she’s perfect,” you said, voice even.

“She really is.”

“‘And shoots an arrow right through my  heart…”

You smiled as if it didn’t pierce you. As if you hadn’t once spent hours in that exact bookstore with him, joking about Freud and arguing over which Austen character he’d be.

He didn’t remember. Or maybe he did. Just not like you did.

You went to your room that night and sat on the edge of your bed, arms wrapped tight around yourself, that lyric playing on loop in your head. You felt like you were watching the person you loved fall for someone else — from the front row, clapping with the rest of the crowd.

And that’s when you knew:

You were losing him. And he had no idea.

—

It started slow.

You said yes to fewer things. Movie nights. Game nights. The random 2 a.m. rooftop stargazing that used to be a staple — all of it, you started skipping.

No dramatic exit. No excuse.

Just silence.

And at first, the team assumed you were busy. Missions, maybe. Personal stuff.

But then you started taking every solo op.

You started volunteering for recon, double shifts, cold assignments in places where you could disappear without anyone asking why.

And the thing is — you were still good. Sharp. On time. Effective.

But you weren’t… you.

Clint notices first.

Not because you said anything — you don’t. But because you’re quieter than usual. You laugh, but it doesn’t stick. You go through the motions like you’re clocking in for a shift you didn’t want.

One night after dinner, he catches you washing your dish — alone — long after everyone’s gone.

“You alright, kid?” he asks.

You smile. “Fine.”

And that’s how he knows you’re not.

You’re using that voice. The one where you stretch your words to keep them from shaking. He doesn’t press. Not that night. But he makes sure there’s always a seat next to him at meals.

Just in case you ever want to stop pretending.

—

You stop showing up for things.

You miss three breakfasts. A debrief. Poker night. No one calls you out, not directly.

But Sam texts you a meme. “Missing you at game night.” Wanda brings you a coffee one morning and just sits beside you, not saying a word.

You tell them you’re tired. Overworked. But the truth is you’re grieving.

And grief doesn’t always come from death. Sometimes it comes from almosts. From being so close to being loved and then watching someone else get chosen instead.

You start waking up with tear tracks on your cheeks. You can’t even remember crying in your sleep.

“What’s a girl to do? Lying in my bed, staring into the blue. . .”

Your eyes stay glassy. Red-rimmed. But you smile when spoken to. Laugh when it’s expected. You wear heartbreak like foundation.

And Bucky? He texts sometimes. Bucky: You okay? Bucky: You’ve been distant. Did I do something?

You don’t answer.

You don’t have the words for how much he did.

“Unrequited, Terrifying.”

—

Some nights, when the silence was too loud and your heart was too heavy, you’d climb into Wanda’s bed and lie on your side — back to her, eyes open in the dark.

“She chose me,” you whispered once. “To meet. To fall for. To laugh with.”

Wanda didn’t respond right away. Just wrapped her arms around you from behind and let you breathe.

“She’s perfect,” you added, voice cracking. “And I’m—”

“You’re everything,” Wanda whispered into your shoulder. “He just couldn’t see it.”

You didn’t cry.

But your body shook.

Sam sees it in your fists.

The way you hit the punching bag like it owes you money. You don’t stop. Don’t pause. Don’t breathe right. You’re trying to beat something out of yourself — and failing.

“Take a break,” he says gently, tossing you a water bottle.

You nod, breath ragged. “One more set.”

But when he walks away, he doesn’t really leave. He leans on the doorframe and watches — helpless. You’re disappearing into yourself. One punch at a time.

Later, he tells Bucky: “She’s burning out, man. I don’t know why, but I know it’s about you.”

Bucky looks confused. And Sam wants to shake him.

—

You skipped the team lunch. again. Didn’t go to poker night. Wanda told you Sam noticed — “You okay?” he texted. You said “Just tired.” But Wanda knew better.

You weren’t just tired. You were unraveling.

The world moved without you. Missions, briefings, late-night drinks.

The next time you did show up — Movie night. You almost didn’t come. You never miss it, but lately, being in the same room as him is like pressing down on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

The lights are dim. The team is settling in. Someone saved your usual seat beside Bucky.

You walk past it.

Settle instead next to Wanda. She gives you a quiet look as you place your head gently on her shoulder.

You don’t say a word.

Across the room, you can feel his eyes on you. Like he doesn’t understand what changed.

And how do you tell him? How do you say:

“You must be blind if you can’t see…” “…you’ll never know how much you mean.”

You catch his gaze once — just once. And it’s enough to undo you.

He looks concerned. Confused. Hurt, maybe. But not the kind of hurt you feel.

Your smile falters. Wanda shifts slightly and squeezes your hand.

And you think: This is what it means to love quietly. To sit two feet away from the person who makes your heart ache and know you’ll never be enough.

Bruce doesn’t pry.

But he notices how your cortisol levels spike whenever Bucky walks into a room. He sees your biometric data from shared missions — the subtle signs of insomnia, elevated stress.

He runs diagnostics under the guise of “team wellness.” You thank him with a smile, but don’t meet his eyes.

You’ve always been emotionally intelligent. But lately, you seem distant from even yourself.

He writes it in your file: Subject exhibits signs of chronic emotional suppression.

Then deletes it.

Because this isn’t clinical. This is heartbreak. And science can’t fix that.

—

Nat watches you lie like a professional.

“Everything okay?”

You: “Yeah, totally.”

She doesn’t even blink.

She starts leaving coffee on your desk. Silent support. She doesn’t ask questions, because she knows if she did, you’d crumble.

But one night, she finds you sitting on the floor of the gym, staring at nothing.

“You’re grieving someone who’s still alive,” she says.

And you don’t say a word.

You just rest your head against her leg. And for a while, she lets you be small.

Later, she found Wanda and told her quietly, “She’s grieving something she won’t say out loud.”

Steve watched the space next to Bucky stay empty for the fifth team gathering in a row.

Bucky kept glancing at the door. Kept half-turning every time footsteps echoed.

But you never came.

And if you did — you sat near Wanda. Always Wanda. Curled into her shoulder with a tired smile. Laughing softly, but never loudly. Never like before.

“Have I done something to her?” Bucky asked Steve one night.

Steve knows why.

He sees the empty chair. The way you only show up late and leave early. The way your laughter used to echo through the compound and now barely registers.

“You ask her if she’s okay?” Steve says one night.

Bucky hesitates. “She says she’s just tired.”

Steve doesn’t say it, but he thinks it:

Tired of pretending you didn’t break her.

Steve hesitated. Then said: “Maybe not directly. But something’s changed. And you haven’t asked the right questions.”

Thor doesn’t understand at first. Your sorrow is quiet — too human. But one afternoon, he finds you alone on the balcony during a team BBQ, staring at the sky like it might have answers.

He approaches gently.

“Do you mourn, lady Y/N?”

You smile, brittle. “It’s complicated.”

He nods. “The fiercest battles are fought in the heart.”

He hands you a mug of something warm and honeyed.

“You are seen,” he says. “Even when you wish to vanish.”

You almost cry. But instead, you sip. And for a moment, it’s enough.

—

You hadn’t planned to go. You hated heels, hated faking a smile, hated pretending not to watch Bucky from the other side of the room.

But Wanda convinced you. “You’ll regret it if you don’t,” she said gently.

You arrived late. In black. Subtle. Safe.

The lights shimmered like champagne, and the air was full of polite laughter and perfume. You made your way through the crowd, heart tucked behind ribs like a secret, until you saw him.

Bucky. And her.

He looked different. Softened. Not as tired. Like he was finally breathing.

She was lovely. Naturally. Graceful. The kind of beautiful that doesn’t know it’s beautiful.

She smiled at you. Warm. “You must be Y/N — Bucky told me so much about you.”

Your stomach twisted. “All lies, I hope.”

She laughed. Genuinely. God, you couldn’t even hate her.

She laughs. She’s sweet. Kind. Confident without being cruel.

And it kills you with envy.

Just envy.

Because she’s not a villain.

She’s just her. And you’re not.

You watched the way she touched his arm, the way he leaned toward her instinctively. The way he looked at her like she was it.

And still, you smiled. Because you’re a girls’ girl. Because if your best friend is happy, you’re happy.

That’s the lie you tell yourself as your throat tightens and your drink starts to taste like metal.

“I miss the way you looked at me when we were seventeen…”

Wanda stays by your side the whole night. She doesn’t ask questions. She just knows.

You drink slowly. Smile carefully. And bleed quietly.

They saw everything.

Tony, watching the way your smile dropped when Bucky walked into a room with her.

Bruce, noticing how your hands trembled slightly when handling sensitive tech — how you blamed “caffeine,” but he knew better.

Steve, seeing the way your laugh faltered the second Bucky turned to someone else.

Clint, finding a forgotten hoodie of Bucky’s folded in your room, and quietly leaving it where you wouldn’t find it again.

They weren’t blind.

They just didn’t know how to help.

Because how do you comfort someone whose heartbreak is invisible to the person causing it?

—

You find yourself outside later — rooftop, heels in hand, cold air slicing through the open back of your dress.

You kick off your heels and wrap your arms around yourself.

You don’t hear him at first.

“You always disappear when things get loud,” Bucky says behind you.

You turn slowly. He’s watching you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Just leans beside you against the railing, both of you staring into the dark.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, voice low.

You don’t thank him. You just nod. The silence settles like dust.

You hum softly. “So does she.”

He glances at you. “She likes you, you know.”

“She should,” you say, smiling without humor. “I like her too.”

“I’ve missed you,” he adds.

“Have you?” you ask, not cruel — just tired.

He looks at you then. Really looks.

He studies you. “You okay?”

“I didn’t know things got so far between us.”

You want to scream. No. I am not okay. I have loved you every day for years, and now I have to stand still while you build forever with someone else.

“You were busy,” you say. “With her.”

He exhales, steps closer. “She’s great. But she’s not—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, looking away.

“I mean it.”

“Please, Bucky,” your voice cracks. “Don’t give me pieces now.”

The wind bites your skin. The city lights blur.

“I loved you,” you say, “from the start.”

His face crumples — just slightly.

And maybe it’s real. Maybe he means it when he whispers:

“So did I.”

“Confess I loved you from the start…”

But he doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t kiss you. He just stays.

Too close. Too far.

—

He watched you the whole night.

Not in a creepy way — not even deliberately. But his eyes find you like they always used to. Like muscle memory.

Except now, you're distant. You're with Wanda. You’re across the room in your navy dress, holding champagne and laughing softly.

Not loud like you used to. Not free like before.

You look… tired. Lovely, but dimmed.

And when your eyes catch his, you smile.

Not the one he knows. Not the one that used to light up your whole face. This one is polite. Like he’s a stranger at a party and not someone who once lived in every beat of your heart.

He feels something then. Not jealousy. Not guilt.

Just an emptiness. A strange, cold hollowness like someone removed a piece of the puzzle and left the gap permanently open.

They watch you move like a ghost of yourself.

Polite. Soft-spoken. Present but not fully there.

Clint squeezes your shoulder once as you pass. Sam brings you a drink, says nothing. Wanda watches you like she might cry. Peter’s fidgeting — he wants to hug you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Steve avoids your gaze like it’s sacred and he’s not worthy. Nat rests her head briefly against yours before slipping away again. Even Thor watches you with a furrowed brow, eyes sad.

You, the girl who once lit the room on fire just by being in it — Now you barely make a spark.

—

Peter is young, but not blind.

He used to joke with you. Now, you don’t smile the same.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he brings you little things: a cookie from the bakery, a drawing of Spider-Man you might find funny.

One day, he quietly says, “I don’t know what happened, but... I hope whoever hurt you knows what they lost.”

You blink fast.

He hugs you around the waist, mutters, “I miss your happy.”

And you do too.

Tony doesn’t ask.

He monitors.

Security footage. Training logs. Mission reports. He tracks the change — the late nights, the solo ops, the silence.

“Someone break your heart?” he asks one day, pretending it’s a joke.

You blink. Say nothing.

“Figures,” he mutters. Then he sends you a custom playlist called 'Heartbreak but Make it Badass’ and upgrades your suit with extra impact resistance.

“Just in case the next time you want to punch something harder than yourself.”

He never says more.

But the suit fits perfectly.

 Bucky finds you. Alone. again..

He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Maybe he doesn’t want to say anything.

“I didn’t know,” he offers. It's hollow. Empty. Pointless.

You nod. “I know you didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“—you didn’t do anything wrong.” Your voice is so gentle it cuts him. “You were just… being loved. That’s not a crime.”

There’s a silence.

Then you smile — soft, tired.

“I’m happy for you.”

It’s a lie. A beautiful, brutal lie.

And the worst part is — he believes it.

—

You still show up. You still fight. You still help.

But you don’t laugh like you used to. You sit near Wanda now — head on her shoulder, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.

You avoid the spaces Bucky lingers in too long. You take more solo ops. You tell Peter, “I’m just busy these days,” when he asks why you’re not around.

But the truth is: You're still in love with someone who chose someone else.

And even if your heart isn’t bleeding anymore, the bruise never really faded.

Sometimes he remembers little things: The way you used to laugh at his dumb jokes. The way your eyes always found his in a crowd. The way your smile would bloom when he walked into a room.

And now?

Now you barely look at him.

And something inside him tightens. Not regret. Not longing. Just a quiet ache for a version of something he’ll never fully understand.

“If only I could tell you that I loved you from the start…”

The lyric replays in his head like a song stuck in the wrong key. He doesn’t know why it fits — only that it does.

—

A week later, he texts you a photo of a coffee mug you once broke in his kitchen, now glued together and full of daisies.

Bucky: Found this in storage. Couldn’t throw it out.

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t respond.

Instead, you sit in silence, heart aching in your hands. Because you could’ve been everything. Could’ve been her. Could’ve been his.

But you weren’t.

You never were.

You look at yourself again.

Navy hoodie this time. Dark circles under your eyes. A smile pulled tight with the thread of holding it together.

You still love him.

But love doesn’t mean staying.

Love, sometimes, means letting go. Quietly. With grace. While every part of you is screaming.

You loved him from the start. But maybe he wasn’t meant to be the end.

You step away from the mirror. You walk into the next day. You breathe. You smile at her. You smile at him.

And then you go find your spot beside Wanda again — safe and sad and real.

You see her again later.

She’s sitting in the compound kitchen, eating blueberries from a mug. She sees you and lights up.

“I was just telling Bucky he needs to stop trying to cook for me. You weren’t kidding — he really can’t boil eggs.”

You laugh. It comes easier now. But it’s still a hollow sound.

You like her. You really do.

And that’s the worst part.

You envy her laugh, the way he looks at her, the quiet rhythm they’ve fallen into.

But you never let it twist into bitterness. You don’t want to be cruel. You’re not that kind of girl.

If Bucky’s happy… you’re happy.

That’s what you tell yourself.

Even if it’s not true.

You walk away from the kitchen, smile fading as soon as you’re out of view. And under your breath, you hum the same quiet melody that’s lived in your chest for months:

“If only I could tell you that I loved you from the start…”

And the worst part? You did.

"And if he’s happy… I’m happy."

(That’s a lie. But it’s one you’ve learned to live with.)

(You've got mail) Sorry, yeah. I was listening to this song while making this and honestly. yeahhhhh. to me it feels so real and vulnerable, its just something i get. i wanted to do a happier ending but the ending to this song is not happy at all, and realistically would you of gotten with someone who was like that to you? i wouldn't personally but that's just why i relate deeply to this. and just the many times i have been lead on. its the quiet suffrage, the i don't want to bother my friends. its human.

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

@herejustforbuckybarnes @bbsbrina @barnesandbouquets

[fandomlovver]

Realization

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5,330 Summary: Ransom's plan to send you away is finally put into motion. Warnings: A/B/O AU. Explicit sexual content. Explicit language. Sweet!traumatized!Reader. Cranky CEO!Ransom. Deceit. Unprotected sex. Cockwarming. Angst. Allll the feels. Anxiety and panic (and an almost panic attack). Did I say angst already? But angst with a happy ending, I think. A brief memory of being whipped with a belt. Shitty family dynamics. Ransom is really bad at all of this, but he’s trying in his own way.

A/N: Hoe’kay. Here we go. This is the penultimate installment for PT!Ransom and his sweet omega 🥺 I hope you enjoy it!

You panted into your pillow as you felt Ransom cum inside you, your own pleasure still fluttering all along your body, like a vibrant, living thing.

You weren’t even sure that you were fully awake yet, your sleepy brain still trying to catch up with your activities and process your alpha’s early morning, ardent need for you.

It was like you were asleep one moment, and suddenly filled with him the next, but you certainly weren’t complaining. In fact, you wouldn’t mind being pulled from sleep this way many, many more mornings to come.

This was the life you had always dreamt of, and now, it was actually your reality. Some days, you still couldn’t believe your luck.

That thought alone–and the rush of overwhelming gratitude that went along with it–had you chirping, and you sighed your content as you shifted, feeling the weight and stretch of Ransom’s knot locking your bodies together.

He was just starting to catch his breath as he settled against you, spooning you from behind as he nosed along your warm cheek before pressing a kiss to your skin.

You basked in your alpha’s affection, blindly reaching for him and finding one of his hands. You tugged it near, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before cradling his hand between both of yours and hugging it to your chest.

Although Ransom had been so, so good to you, he still wasn’t as open with his affection as you were. You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe your declaration last night–telling him that you loved him–had up-leveled the connection between you.

And maybe Ransom couldn’t quite say those three words to you yet, but perhaps this was his own way of expressing how he felt for you in return.

It was good enough for you, too. You didn’t need him to tell you, you could revel in being shown in other ways.

At the end of the day, all you needed was him.

Lost to your thoughts, you didn’t realize that you’d tugged Ransom’s hand higher, that you were now nosing along the underside of his wrist and unconsciously scenting him. The sound of his pleased rumble had you grounding back into the present moment, and you felt your cheeks warm as you squeaked in realization of your actions.

“How about a bath?” Ransom murmured against your ear, his fingers cradling your cheek as you continued to rest your nose against his wrist gland and greedily inhale his scent.

“That sounds nice,” you hummed, turning your head so you could almost meet his gaze and give him a soft smile.

You got a kiss to your temple for your effort, and a few minutes later, you were tucked between Ransom’s legs in the steaming bathtub as he urged you back against his chest and lazily drew his fingers all along your body. 

By the time he had finished his reverent caressing of every inch of you he could reach, Ransom took his time cleaning you himself. His touch was so gentle–and languid–that you couldn’t help but get the impression that he was taking his time on purpose. 

Savoring this moment–savoring you–and the realization had your belly swooping and your heart glowing in your chest.

Once you were both clean and dry, Ransom picked out your favorite dress and cardigan combo. His lips curled the tiniest bit as you beamed at him for remembering your preferences. 

Your soft, bright smile aimed his way suddenly had that shadow of sorrow flashing in his eyes and you stilled. Your smile dimmed ever so slightly as your brows furrowed in concern. You opened your mouth to ask if Ransom was okay, but he beat you to speaking first.

“Let’s go enjoy a long, lazy breakfast,” he murmured, his hands gripping your arms and tugging you close. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before adding, “I ordered all of your favorites while you were still asleep.”

And just like that, your concern was forgotten as you chirped your appreciation for Ransom’s thoughtfulness and allowed your alpha to turn and urge you out toward the kitchen so you could enjoy your morning meal together.

As the day progressed, your concern for Ransom returned and amplified. 

He seemed clingier than usual, but also more emotionally distant. You’d spent much of the day planted in his lap as he stared off into space, lost to his own thoughts, but holding you tight and tucking his nose to your hair to breathe you in every so often.

You didn’t know the intricate details of Ransom’s career, but you knew that he had a lot on his plate as CEO, so he was likely fretting over something work related despite it being his day off.

Maybe you could help him feel better and escape whatever thoughts were distressing him, at least for a little while.

In fact, you were determined to do so.

You readjusted your position, moving so your side was pressed to Ransom’s chest instead of your back. Resting your head on his shoulder as he turned to you with a questioning look in his eyes, you just smiled at him, offering your free wrist while gently raking the fingers of your other hand through his hair.

Ransom’s eyes fluttered at your gentle touch, his own hand lifting to cradle yours and position your wrist just beneath his nose. He breathed you in deep and slow, his big body shuddering as your soft, enticing scent washed over him.

You watched as his eyes closed completely, his throat bobbing on a hard swallow, and then he leaned into your touch with an unexpected sense of urgency, tugging you as close as possible and clinging to you even tighter than before.

As it grew later in the day, nearly 3PM now, Ransom’s sadness seemed to morph into full on agitation.

You felt your own anxiety begin to spike as you watched from the sofa as he paced back and forth before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the front of his property tucked deep in the woods.

He reminded you less of a doting alpha and more of a caged tiger as he stalked back and forth, his handsome face pinched with stress as his eyes kept darting out to the gravel driveway.

You were just about to ask if he was waiting for a delivery or something when you heard the sound of tires over gravel just outside, indicating the arrival of someone.

You perked up as you caught sight of a dark town car parking out front. When your curious gaze flickered to Ransom, you saw that he was frozen in place, his broad shoulders tense and his fists clenched at his sides as he watched a familiar figure emerge from the back of the vehicle.

A moment later, there was a brief knock at the front door, but instead of moving to answer it, Ransom just stood still, looking as tense as you had ever seen him. 

Wanting to be helpful, you unfolded yourself from your seat. “Do you want me to get it?” you offered.

Ransom stiffened ever so slightly at the sound of your voice, and then nodded. As you moved toward the front door, he turned and retreated back toward the bedroom. You glanced at him over your shoulder–confused by his departure–before reaching the front door and opening it with a tentative smile. 

Mallory stood on the other side of the door. Her gaze was  soft and her smile was bright but in a way that seemed forced and had your anxiety once again prickling just beneath the surface. 

“Hi there,” she greeted you, her eyes flickering behind you. “Is Ransom here or…”

“Yes!” you nodded, stepping back and gesturing her inside. “He just…went to get something, I think?”

“No problem,” Mallory’s smile didn’t dim at all. “We’re in no rush.”

In no rush to what? you wanted to ask, but you knew it wasn’t your place. So instead, you twisted your fingers before you, feeling awkward for a moment before you got an idea.

“Would you like a drink?” you offered, eager to be a good host to Ransom’s guest.

Mallory’s gaze flickered around, and when Ransom still had yet to appear, she shrugged. “Sure, why not? That sounds great, thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” you chirped, darting toward the kitchen to the left of the entryway. You grabbed a glass from the cabinet before pausing in front of the refrigerator. “What would you like? We have some freshly squeezed orange juice from this morning or maybe–”

“Orange juice sounds lovely.”

You mirrored Mallory’s smile back at her before turning to pour her drink and then carefully bringing it to her. You retreated a few steps and leaned against the kitchen isle, your fingers nervously toying with a few of the stray congratulatory gifts that had made their way outside of the baskets Ransom had received because of you. 

You were trying to think of something to say so it wasn’t just awkward silence between you and Mallory, but before you could settle on a topic of conversation, Ransom strode into the room. 

He was carrying a bulging weekender bag, his shuttered gaze firmly fixed on Mallory as he dropped the bag at her feet before stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Mallory set her drink aside before bending to pick up the bag and sliding the strap onto her shoulder. “This is everything then?”

Ransom didn’t reply with words, nodding tersely instead.

Watching their odd exchange, and noting the growing tension between them, you couldn’t help it as your curiosity got the better of you, and you lingered instead of scurrying away to give them privacy like you should have.

For his part, Ransom was doing everything he could to avoid looking at you. He just…he couldn’t meet your gaze, not now.

Not when the time had come to finally say goodbye. 

To send you away. 

Forever.

He knew as soon as it registered for you, what was happening, you’d be devastated, and it would be because of him.

This was all his fault.

“This is for the best,” Mallory’s voice was soft as she spoke to him, and despite the way her words were meant as reassurance, they made him flinch–and violently so–because they were words that Ransom Drysdale had heard so many times throughout his life…

8-year-old Ransom sniffled back another wave of tears. He trembled from his spot draped over the edge of his bed, the knees of his pants still muddied and ruined from where he had been playing out in the garden. His shirt was gone, and his pale back was bare.

And that’s what his mother zeroed in on as she filled his doorway, a sneer curling her lips and one of his father’s leather belts held taut between her hands. 

“I told you not to play in the garden, anywhere but that fucking garden,” Linda snarled as she stormed closer. “Do you know how much it costs to keep it so meticulous? You have a huge estate to run wild on, but no, you just had to do the one thing I told you not to do.”

“I’m sorry,” Ransom quavered.

“Oh, you will be, you little shit.”

“I forgot–” Ransom tried to explain, but Linda cut him off. 

“Well then this will help you remember for next time,” she tutted as she loomed directly over him now. “So really, this is for the best…”

Her words trailed off, and there was a beat of silence, and just as Ransom was about to turn and peek back at her, he heard a sudden whoosh in the air before a pain unlike anything he had ever felt before exploded across his back.

“But I want to go to Columbia,” 17-year-old Ransom argued.

From behind the executive desk in his study, his grandfather shook his head, his nose wrinkled in disgust at the mere mention of the university Ransom had always dreamt of going to.

So he could break away from family tradition, do something just for him, pave his own way and start off the future he wanted for himself, not the one that was expected of him.

Forced on him.

For once, Ransom just wanted to make his own decision.

He just wanted to be happy.

“Columbia doesn’t hold a candle to Harvard,” Harlan scoffed, making a show of unearthing his checkbook from his desk drawer. “And since I’m the one paying your tuition…”

Ransom’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he watched his grandfather write out the check to Harvard–his own alma mater–the school that Ransom himself didn’t want to attend.

“You will go to Harvard, you will be the top of your class, and you will not disappoint me,” Harlan spoke in a way that broached no argument before signing the check with a flourish. At last, his eyes lifted to meet Ransom’s sullen, defeated gaze. “This is for the best,” he concluded before tearing the check from his book and holding it out to Ransom between two fingers.

“I thought the whole point of me majoring in business was to eventually work for your realty company?” 24-year-old Ransom scoffed.

Linda scoffed right back at him. “How entitled you are, to think I’d just hand over my empire to you? The empire I built from the ground up myself? My blood, sweat, and tears went into this company, not yours.”

“Right,” Ransom sneered. “Your empire that started from a nice fat check from Harlan.”

Linda bristled, color rising high in her cheeks as she rose from her seat and pointed a perfectly polished nail in his face. “Oh you have some nerve! You’ve been nothing but a disappointment. To me, to your grandfather. To your alpha designation,” she spat.

Ransom flinched, and her eyes flashed with victory as she advanced on him.

“I’ll have you know that I paid back your grandfather every last penny from that loan, plus interest!” she hissed. “This company is mine–and only mine–and always will be. Besides,” Linda scoffed, turning away from Ransom and moving toward the drink cart across the room. “You have zero interest in realty, you just want something else handed to you on a silver platter. Well, it’s not coming from me. You need to work your way to the top just like I did. This is for the best.”

As her words–those familiar fucking words–echoed in Ransom’s ears, he silently fumed, thinking back to all the times over the years when she hinted that Ransom could some day run the family companies, that this is what he was being groomed for, that this is what he had worked so hard for through high school and then Harvard…

But yet again, the ground was being pulled out from under him, and he was being punished for he didn’t even know what. 

What had he done–other than everything they had always wanted–other than just being himself, that made his family hate him so much?

“Are you shitting me?” Ransom hollered. 

33-years-old now, he loomed over Harlan’s desk as the distant sound of music and conversation from yet another Drysdale-Thrombey family gathering sounded on the other side of the closed study door.

“This is for the best,” Harlan’s voice was firm as he made some notes on the print out of his will. “Your mother was right all along, you do need to pave your own way, Ransom. That’s what you always wanted anyway, right? To be your own man?”

“That doesn't mean you need to write me out of your will! We’re family!” 

Harlan tossed his head back and barked out a derisive laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. Suddenly family means something to you? You? Who’s done everything possible to tarnish and rebel against his alpha designation and outright refuses to settle down?”

“That has nothing to do with this,” Ransom scoffed. “You’re the one who always talked about bringing me into the publishing house fold one day, what happened to all that bullshit, huh?”

Harlan shrugged, unapologetic. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“How nice it must be to have that fucking option,” Ransom seethed.

Face hardening, Harlan leaned over his desk, blazing eyes fixed and unflinching on Ransom. “Forget options, let’s talk about chances. You’ve had many, and you’ve squandered them all. The best schools, the best education, a silver-spoon upbringing, the finest social circles, and what have you to show for it? Absolutely nothing. Nothing of your own, no results from your hard work, not even the bare minimum of being an alpha who’s claimed an omega. Your entire existence, everything about you, is meaningless.”

Harlan’s words hit him like a gut punch. Feeling his eyes burn with something that ran so much deeper than anger–something that teetered on a devastating kind of hurt and humiliation–Ransom didn’t say a single word in response. 

He knew it didn’t matter. It never had, and it never would. 

So instead, he remained silent, his face a stony mask of indifference as he turned on his heel and stormed from Harlan’s study without ever looking back.

“Sir?” Mallory’s raised voice had Ransom surfacing from the rush of memories that had consumed him. 

He blinked a few times, settling back into the present moment. He felt the way his body was rigid with tension and his stomach was wildly churning as acid tickled at the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the bad memories he had just relived, or what was about to happen with you, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter one way or the other.

“I think it’s time now, sir,” Mallory whispered, her gaze soft and searching and making Ransom instantly turn away from her.

He turned toward you now, but still kept his gaze from yours. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, he gestured toward Mallory and told you, “I want you to…to go with her.”

You straightened, frowning in confusion as you glanced between Ransom and Mallory. “You want me to go with her?” you echoed.

“Yes.” Ransom’s voice was curt and devoid of any modicum of warmth. 

That, teamed with the way he refused to even look at you, had something inside of you twisting in fear as anxiety speckled all along your body and your heart rate began to increase. 

Your voice was small and uncertain as you asked, “But…you’re coming too, right?”

“No,” Ransom gritted, his jaw clenching as his hands fisted at his sides.

“Where am I going?” you asked, wincing at how high your voice was, colored with obvious alarm and panic, especially once your wide gaze landed on the big travel bag Mallory held, and lingered. “When will I come back?”

“Come on,” Mallory shifted so she was in your direct line of sight now instead of Ransom. She extended a hand to you, keeping her smile fixed and warm. “We’re going to find you a new home—“

You jerked back as if you’d been slapped, retreating a step further, until the isle counter was digging painfully into your back as you stared at her in stunned disbelief.

In utter shock and confusion.

“A new home?!” you trembled, struggling to comprehend what was happening. “But…but this is my home. I don’t understand!” As Mallory moved closer, you stumbled away from her, your frantic gaze finding Ransom, the sight of him blurring as tears began to flood your eyes. “Ransom! Please. Please! I don’t understand!”

At the way your words were more whimpered than spoken, Ransom visibly curled in on himself, crossing his arms tighter against his chest as his gaze remained on the floor–away from you–as he spoke, “Just, just go with her, okay? I need you to. I need you to go. You need to go, it’s…it’s for the best.”

“But I love you,” you wobbled back at him.

A tic popped in Ransom’s jaw before he vehemently shook his head. “You don’t—“

“I do!” You insisted, reaching for him, but he jerked away. Your hand fell limply to your side as you stared at him, beyond devastated, and so confused.

You didn’t understand.

You didn’t understand why this was happening, why Ransom was suddenly being this way.

Wasn’t it just this morning that he was so desperate for you? Needed you so fervently that he woke you up just to have you? Spent long moments with you in the tub worshipping you with his touch. Spent all the hours of the day before now with you held firmly in his lap as he indulged in your scent over and over again?

How could all of that be over now, all of the sudden, and without any explanation at all?

Despite your pain and confusion–the deep well of sorrow that had opened up inside of you and began to eat you alive–a part of you, your inner omega perhaps, couldn’t let this happen.

For whatever reason, Ransom believed that sending you away was for the best, but you had to prove him wrong. 

You had to make him see that you were meant to be with him, and he was meant to be with you.

“You’re my alpha,” you quavered, “And I’m your omega, and I love you so much.” Your heart-felt words poured from your lips, each one more frantic and pleading that the last, matching the level of hysteria that was overtaking you more and more with each passing second. “You’re the only one who's ever been kind to me, who’s ever taken care of me. I…I’m sorry, okay? For whatever I did wrong. I can be better! Please. I can be so good. Your good omega. I promise! Please don’t make me leave. Please,” your voice broke on an anguished sob as you clutched at your chest, the thought of leaving–for good–and never seeing Ransom again breaking you entirely. “All I want is to be here, with you. I don’t need anything else but you.”

You darted toward Ransom so suddenly that he wasn’t quick enough to evade you. He stood rigid in your hold as you plastered yourself to him and clung to him as tightly as possible, sobbing as you begged him not to make you go. 

“Please, alpha. Ransom. Please don’t make me go. Please,” you tipped your tear-streaked face up to try to meet his gaze, seeing his grief-stricken eyes meet yours for a brief second before quickly darting away. “You’re all I have, you’re all I have in the whole world! You’re my home…you’re my whole heart!”

Ransom’s chest hitched with emotion, his neck veins bulging as he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head as he tried to push you away.

It was the act of him trying to push you away from him–something he hadn’t done since the very first day you had met months ago–that had you nearly crumbling entirely. 

Had you more frantic and panicked than you had ever been before.

It’s what had you doing the unthinkable–grabbing the nearby collar from one of the gift baskets on the counter–your spiraling mind grasping onto anything you could think of to try to prove to Ransom how much you wanted to stay, how good you could be, how you were willing to do anything to be with him. 

“Please! I’ll let you do it. I’ll let you put it on me,” you cried harder, nearly hysterical now as your trembling fingers worked open the collar’s clasp even as your stomach roiled in protest and horror at the thought of it touching your neck. “I won’t be bad anymore. Please. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll wear it all the time, like a good omega, I promise.” 

You tried to fix the collar around your scarred neck, pitiful whines and whimpers bubbling up your throat and spilling past your lips as you trembled so hard you nearly dropped it. 

“See! I can do it, for you! I can! I will! I promise, I promise…” You struggled to breathe as dread enveloped you, the feel of the stiff leather against your phantom-tender throat making black dots dance along the periphery of your tear-filled vision as you wisped and gasped for breath, teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

Suddenly, big, warm hands covered your own, gently ceasing your movements. The firm touch kept your panic attack at bay as your brimming eyes lifted to meet Ransom’s. Beyond the shame, remorse, and pain that you saw in his unwavering gaze, you saw something else, too…

A stark realization taking shape in real time.

“This isn’t what I want. This will never be what I want.” Ransom gently eased the collar from your throat and removed it from your trembling grip before setting it aside. “All I want…” his voice cracked as his frantic eyes flickered between your own. He shifted closer, holding you against him so you could feel the way he took a deep breath before continuing, “All I really, truly want…more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life…is to be with you.”

Your chest hitched with a breath you couldn’t quite catch, your voice so small and filled with doubt as you wobbled out a broken, “Really?” 

Ransom watched as hope warred with wariness across your tear-stained features, and he hated that he did that to you, that he’d done any of this to you.

You.

Who had only ever been kind and sweet and trusting.

And the only person to ever, ever be those things with him.

He swept you flush against him so suddenly that you squeaked. Dropping his forehead to yours, Ransom whispered over and over again, “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

After a moment of his quiet, apologetic chanting, Ransom looked away from you long enough to meet Mallory’s soft gaze. “She’s my omega,” he told her. “And she’s not going anywhere. She’s staying here, with me, because this is her home.”

“You’re my home,” you corrected him softly, your voice pitched high with relief as you clung to Ransom tighter, and Mallory nodded wordlessly, hiding her smile as she swiftly turned on her heel and left the two of you alone.

And still together. 

Little by little, the relief began to register in your brain, and once it fully hit you–that Ransom didn’t want you to go away, that he wanted you, really wanted you, forever–your knees buckled.

Ransom kept his firm hold on you, sinking with you to the floor and hugging you fiercely. 

“I’m so sorry, omega. I was…confused. An idiot. A coward. I didn’t think I could do this, be a good alpha for you.”

“But you already were doing it,” you told him, lower lip trembling as you continued, “You’ve been the perfect alpha until now.”

“I’m not good enough for you. I’m nothing like you,” Ransom whispered as he cradled the back of your head, something vulnerable flickering in his gaze as he confessed, “I’m just…a screwup and a disappointment, I have been my entire life. And my heart’s nowhere near as big or pure as yours. I didn’t even think it existed until I met you. But it’s yours. My heart belongs to you, omega, and so do I. I’m yours, completely and forever, if you’ll have me.”

Feeling a new wave of tears rise up–along with all of the other emotions consuming you–you pressed impossibly close to Ransom, gazing into his eyes as you asked, “You promise that’s what you really want? To be my alpha? Forever? You won’t try to make me go away again?”

“Never,” Ransom immediately shook his head, looking so beyond contrite and ashamed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, omega. I made a mistake. I made a stupid, selfish, terrible mistake. Everything just got so muddled and complicated, and I know it’s not a good excuse, but I truly am sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Okay, I forgive you,” you responded without hesitation, willing to give Ransom anything he wanted–especially at this moment–when he looked so very, very sad and consumed with shame and guilt.

Because you didn’t want him to feel any of that, despite what had happened. All you wanted was for him to be happy.

Ransom gave a watery laugh at your quick response, his eyes brightening for the first time since all of this had started. “I really don’t deserve you, but I’m gonna try so hard to be everything you deserve and more.”

His words were spoken with such heart-felt conviction, that you had no choice but to accept them as truth. Looking into Ransom’s open, earnest gaze, you said the responding words you were thinking in that moment aloud, “I believe you.”

“I’m sorry,” Ransom whispered again, cupping your face between his hands. “I’m so sorry for hurting you,” his thumbs swept across the skin beneath your eyes, his gaze so repentant as he watched you, and then he was reeling you closer and kissing you. 

It was the gentlest kiss you had ever shared, slow and ardent and ringing with something other than the usual lust and desire that always fueled the fiery passion between you and Ransom.

There was a layer of more to this kiss. Maybe it was the fact that you had almost lost each other, whatever it was, it had your kiss more frenzied than it had ever been before, and by the time Ransom finally pulled away, you were both panting for breath, chests heaving and eyes dazed. 

Ransom watched you closely for a long moment, his hands gently petting over you as he realized aloud, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry–” you started to apologize, but he just shook his head at you. 

“No, don’t be. I’m sorry for putting you through all of this.” Ransom pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, and for another long moment, you just stayed tucked close together, gazing into each other's eyes and breathing in the same air.

“What now?” you asked at last, looking to your alpha to tell you what came next, especially since your mind was still reeling after everything that had just happened. 

“I’m not quite sure what we should do,” Ransom admitted, reaching for your hand and gently trailing his thumb over the back of your fingers. “But I know what I want  to do.”

“And what’s that?”

There was a shyness to his gaze as his eyes reconnected with yours. “I want to just sit and hold you for a good, long while.”

The smile that split your lips was warm and genuine, and you felt the knot that had twisted itself up inside of you loosen just a little at Ransom’s answer. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Ransom smiled before rising to his feet and tugging you up alongside him.

He led you toward the living room and sank down onto the sofa before pulling you down with him. He arranged you so that you were straddling his lap, your chest pressed to his and your cheek resting on his shoulder as his hands gently stroked up and down your back.

After a long moment of silence–and for the first time ever–Ransom’s chest began to rumble with an alpha purr.

You went still for a beat, peeking up at him from beneath your lashes to find Ransom’s cheeks rosy and his eyes looking a little unsure. Shy, once again.

When you gave him that bright, beautiful smile of yours, it chased some of the uncertainty from his features, and a second later, his purr was rumbling louder and more confident than before.

It was exactly what you needed, especially after everything that had transpired today. Trying to push it all from your mind–at least for a little while–you focused on the deep, soothing rhythm of Ransom’s purr, allowing it to lull you into a much needed pocket of peace that you clung to almost as tightly as you clung to your alpha.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I AM SO IN MY FEELS RIGHT NOW. PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO SPIRAL WITH ME. I AM DYING TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS!!! 

—

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Expectations

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5,060 Summary: It’s your first night with your new alpha, and you’re anxious to be good for him, to live up to his expectations. Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Explicit language. A/B/O. A fucked up verse where omegas are generally treated more like pets than people. Pet play elements. Exhibitionism. Voyeurism. Praise kink. Masturbation (M). Slight somnophilia. Vaginal fingering. Oral sex (f receiving). Slight anal play and almost-rimming lol. Unprotected sex. Rough sex if you squint. Bonding bites (but nothing too graphic). Soft!Lloyd. 

A/N: I’m so excited to share the next part for Pound Town!Lloyd and his sweet, obedient omega 😍 If you haven’t done so yet, be sure to read their first part first! Enjoy! 

VERSE MASTERLIST

As the first night in your new home descended upon you, you couldn’t help how nervous you felt.

Almost as nervous as earlier that morning, when Lloyd first stepped into the room and began his inventory of you and the other omegas. 

And then, he had picked you. 

Lloyd Hansen, your new alpha, had chosen you to be his, and now here you were, standing before him naked and shivering after your bath, keeping your gaze respectfully down as he took his time picking out your sleep outfit.

He joined you at the foot of the king-sized bed in the master bedroom of his manor, a beautiful, lacy sleep chemise hanging from his fingers by its teeny tiny straps.

“This one is perfect for your first night here,” he purred. “What do you think, omega?”

You lifted your gaze then, eyeing the fluttery slip of fabric that was more sheer than anything, but you got the sense that was the whole point, because your new alpha seemed to relish in beautiful things.

Your face burned with the warmth of shyness as you eyed the flimsy dress and whispered, “It’s very pretty, alpha, thank you.”

“Only the best for my girl,” Lloyd puffed out his chest proudly, shooting you a wink and a grin that had your tummy somersaulting. “C’mere.”

You stepped even closer, so close his body heat became your own, your eyes flickering up again to get a quick, greedy glimpse of his handsome face.

You still couldn’t believe this big, beautiful man was your alpha now.

“Arms up,” Lloyd instructed. 

Your arms lifted without hesitation, and Lloyd just watched you for a moment. His lips curled as he spied your patient, docile stare. His gaze drifted from your face without shame, lingering on your bare breasts, the way your nipples peaked hard, the soft swell of your belly. 

“Such a good girl,” he praised your obedience, looking even more pleased when a quiet chirp bubbled up from between your lips. 

So far you had learned that responding to your alpha’s praise in such a way was a good thing. He liked those pretty sounds of yours, as he called them. He liked to see the way he affected you and encouraged you to never suppress your reactions to him.

So you were trying your best to be a bit more uninhibited in that sense, still anxious that you would misstep and displease him, but hopeful that he would be patient with you, at least at first.

You got a glimpse of Lloyd working from home today–running a freelance security firm–and the way he barked and sneered at those who worked for him. But whenever he turned to you, his face would soften and his eyes would warm. He kept his voice calm and his touch would linger.

It made you feel so special, and squirm, too, to be the only one on the receiving end of his softer side and what seemed to be a rare kindness he doled out to so very few. 

“Where did you go, pumpkin?”

You blinked back to the present moment, your eyes going wide before you were fidgeting as Lloyd’s big hands smoothed the sleep chemise over your curves now that it was draped over your figure. 

“I’m sorry, alpha.”

“What were you thinking about just now?” he asked curiously, amusement sparking in his watchful gaze.

You wrung your fingers before you, your eyes flickering away as the warmth in your cheeks renewed.

“Tell me,” he purred the alpha command.

Your body perked up instantly, your inner omega whining with the need to do exactly as your alpha directed. And the way that something deep inside of you throbbed at being told what to do, at being commanded, it had you a little breathless as you answered him obediently. 

“I was thinking of you.”

“Naturally,” Lloyd teased, preening and puffing out his chest a bit before he urged, “Go on.”

“I was thinking of today and just…the difference between how you treated others versus how you treat me, and how much I liked it, being special, being yours.”

It felt like your face was on fire, because you weren’t used to expressing yourself, and intimately so. Sharing your most personal thoughts and musings with another was brand new territory for you. As shy as it made you, you also instinctually trusted your alpha to be vulnerable in this way–in every way–with him.

“If there’s one thing you need to know about me,” Lloyd told you, his big hands finding purchase on your hips and giving you a squeeze as he tugged you flush against him. “It’s that I’m a complete asshole, but never to you. That’s not how this is gonna work. Well, as long as you’re good for me.”

“I’ll be good,” you promised instantly.

Lloyd’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Oh, I know you will, princess. You’ve got good girl coming off of you in waves.”

Your eyes fluttered as he dipped closer and pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“And I’ve picked up on how anxious you’ve been all day, to be in this new place, with me, afraid that you’re gonna misbehave.” Lloyd smoothed a hand over your head. “We’ll begin your training tomorrow, and you’ll learn all of my preferences and what I expect of you. But for now?” He met your gaze and gave you another gentle pet that had you pressing into his touch. “Relax. Because you’ve far exceeded my expectations so far, and you have nothing to worry about.” 

Feeling emotional all of the sudden, because it was so overwhelming, being praised and appreciated–being told how good you were, and by your alpha no less–you nodded, some of the tension finally easing from your shoulders as you whispered a quiet, earnest, “Thank you, alpha.”

Lloyd’s lips touched your forehead in a soft kiss and you trilled, making him laugh. “Get comfy, sweet omega. I want you to make yourself at home while I hop in the shower for a quick rinse, and then we’re gonna get to know each other better.”

While his eyebrows waggled playfully, his eyes burned with a sinful, promising kind of intensity that had your cunt clenching on instinct. Pressing your thighs together, you nodded eagerly before turning toward the bed and hesitating. 

“That side is yours now,” Lloyd murmured, pointing to the left side of the bed. He gave your ass a gentle pat, propelling your forward before turning on his heel and disappearing into the connected bathroom.

As the shower kicked to life in the next room, you peeled back the luxurious comforter and carefully climbed into the big bed. The mattress was both soft and firm, like you were seated on a supportive cloud, and the pillows propped up against the expensive, upholstered headboard were even softer.

You couldn’t help your happy chirp, or the way your eyes smarted with tears at the fact that this was now your home and your bed and everything was so nice. You weren’t used to nice things. You weren’t used to being treated so well.

It made you so happy, so very, very happy, which is why when you eased back against the headboard, you were smiling as big as you had ever smiled in your whole life. 

You took a moment to glance around the spacious bedroom. It seemed no expense had been spared and everything had its place - the furnishings and decor high end and thoughtfully arranged. However, your favorite thing about the room was how your alpha’s delectable scent lingered in the air, and you took a deep, greedy inhale, feeling certain parts of you tingle and want for more as you breathed him in.

As you exhaled slowly, you itched to pop out of bed and inspect everything closer. You wanted to touch it all, feel the quality beneath the pads of your fingers as you learned your new alpha’s tastes and preferences. 

For now though, you stayed put, as your alpha directed. You glanced over at his side of the bed, a sudden, silly urge washing over you as your eyes flickered from Lloyd’s pillow to the ajar bathroom door. 

Unable to stop yourself, and eager to bask in more of his scent, you reached for your alpha’s pillow and hugged it to your chest. Burying your face against the ridiculously soft pillowcase, you inhaled deeply, making a quiet noise of happiness as Lloyd’s scent flooded your nose.

“We should probably start with scenting then, huh?”

Lloyd’s amused voice had your eyes flying open and an embarrassed whine sounding from the back of your throat as you quickly returned his pillow to its proper place and stuttered out a squeaky, “I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I smell fucking divine, how could you resist?” he winked at you. 

Whipping the fluffy white towel from around his hips, he used it to dry off before hanging it on the bathroom door and turning back to you, shamelessly naked. 

Your eyes went wide as you caught sight of his incredible body. He was all fair skin and perfectly honed muscles, his broad chest peppered with dark hair. Your eyes couldn’t help but dip lower, staring at his big, growing-harder-by-the-second cock. 

Feeling slick seeping from your pussy in response to that tempting sight, you squirmed, swallowing nervously as your gaze flickered to Lloyd’s, and you found him unabashedly enjoying your ogling. In fact, he was standing with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out, and once your gaze met his, he made his pecs dance.

Your surprised giggle sounded before you could think better of it, and then you were slapping a hand over your mouth because you had never made that sound before. 

“Oh, pumpkin, I’m gonna eat you alive,” Lloyd cackled, strutting toward the bed and sliding in beside you without hesitation.

He was kissing you before you could process his sudden proximity, that it was the first time you were sharing your new bed with your new alpha! But you didn’t mind in the least, gently touching your hands to Lloyd’s chest and trying your best to kiss him back just as good as he was kissing you. 

“Your taste is my new favorite flavor, cupcake,” Lloyd murmured once he pulled away. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on that good girl pussy.”

Your gaze fell away instantly as your insides clenched and a fresh wave of heat washed over you. 

“Such a shy, sweet thing, huh? We’re gonna work on you using your words and telling me exactly what you want.” He pressed a kiss to your temple before touching a finger beneath your chin and tipping your gaze up to his. “Now, scenting.”

Lloyd’s grin was cheshire like when your own scent suddenly spiked with excitement and need. 

“Yeah, I figured you’d like that.” 

He plucked up your arm and turned it until the underside of your wrist was exposed. And then, like he had done when you first met, Lloyd took his time dragging his nose along your skin, lingering on the gland in your wrist until you were mewling softly and leaning into him as your scent began to waft from your body and he was groaning in response.

“Return the favor, omega,” Lloyd urged, presenting you with his own wrist.

Feeling excitement flutter through you, you gently held his arm between your hands, your gaze nervous as you glanced at him before dipping your head and nosing along his wrist gland. 

“Mmmm, that’s it, take your fill.”

Lloyd’s woodsy, pine-kissed scent grew muskier as his own arousal heightened. A low purr began to rumble his chest when your nose nuzzled more firmly into his skin. You couldn’t rein in your brain quickly enough to stop yourself from pressing a soft kiss to his skin, your tongue sneaking out to get a tiny taste while you were at it.

Groaning, Lloyd gathered you close, sinking back against the headboard and settling you over his lap. His lips went at yours urgently, big hands holding you in place as he did exactly what he had promised and devoured you whole. 

He didn’t pull away until you were gasping between each press of his lips to yours, so desperate for air, and then he was giving you a lazy grin as his hands smoothed up your back and he urged you closer, until you were settled over the hard jut of his cock. 

“Go on, omega, show your alpha some love.”

You blinked to suddenly be the one leading in this realm, having no real experience beyond what you had experienced with Lloyd, and all just today. 

But gosh, you wanted him. You wanted him so much. And what you wanted right now, most of all, was to drown in his addictive scent.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, a small show of thanks, before your mouth was trailing along his jaw and down his throat. Your fingers tested the soft, firmness of his broad chest, curling in his coarse chest hair as your lips continued their trail before stopping at their destination. 

Lloyd grunted in the back of his throat when your tongue snuck out to lap at his mating gland, and then he was tugging you closer as you began to nose all around that spot, where his alpha scent was the strongest. 

Whining softly, you tucked your face right up against the crook of his neck–and your nose to his mating gland–clinging to him as you just breathed him in without relent, until your mind was going all hazy, and you forgot the whole point of you taking the reins to begin with.

All you knew was that your alpha smelled incredible, and you couldn’t get enough of him. You wanted to stay here, just like this, forever. As your inner omega tipped your logical mind over the edge and into that floaty, happy omega state, you didn’t even fight it, allowing yourself to surrender to this new feeling and all the sensations and happiness that went along with it.

It crept up on you out of nowhere, your exhaustion. Before you could even register it, it consumed you, and you gave in to it, so very tired and feeling so safe for the first time in your whole life. 

After a few moments of you still and silent against him, Lloyd smoothed a hand up your back, nuzzling against the crown of your head. “Did you fall asleep on me, cupcake?”

He pulled back and shifted you to find that you were indeed passed out cold, your face lax with sleep and your happy omega scent still hanging heavy in the air. 

Snickering in amusement, Lloyd settled you back against him, enjoying your weight atop him. Sighing as the hand on your back dipped to the curve of your ass, his free hand reached for his still hard cock. 

“Your loss, sleepy omega,” he murmured, groaning as he began to stroke himself. 

Closing his eyes and breathing in your scent, focusing on that thread of arousal from earlier in particular, and the way he could feel the wet folds of your pussy against his bare stomach, Lloyd jerked himself to release in mere minutes. 

Grunting as he came, he couldn’t help but rut beneath you, feeling your soft body jostle against him as you chirped softly in your sleep and nuzzled against the side of his neck. 

Sighing his content, Lloyd released his cock and slid his cum-covered fingers between your thighs, smearing his pleasure along your bare pussy–marking you as his–and humming as you whined and rocked against his touch in your sleep. 

Teasing a creamy finger just inside your hole, he nipped on your bare shoulder. “Wanna save really playing with this sweet pussy until you’re awake, sunshine. Wanna see you lose it for me. Wanna see the look on your pretty face when you take my big, fat cock for the first time.”

Grinning as you mewled in your sleep, Lloyd pressed a kiss to your forehead. Giving your slick folds a final caress before bringing his messy fingers to his lips, he sucked them clean with a quiet groan, then shifted down the bed and tugged the covers up around you both. 

“Sweet dreams, omega,” Lloyd hummed, reaching over to turn out the light. 

You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside. To soft sunlight spilling past the floor-length curtains and into the room. With a small, happy smile on your lips as a big, warm weight curled around your back.

Alpha, your sleepy, inner omega thought with joy.

And then your eyes shot open and you jerked awake fully, panic flooding through you as you recalled the night before.

Your very first night with your new alpha who chose you - and you fell asleep without satisfying him.

The realization that you were not only a disappointment but the worst omega ever washed over you, your mind starting to whirl with anxiety as tension drew tight in your shoulders and–

“It’s far too early to be so anxious, sweet omega,” Lloyd’s soft voice murmured against your ear. His big hand rounded the curve of your hip and planted against your belly, tugging you back against him even more as he nosed along the side of your throat. “So whatever has that pretty mind spinning, let it go.”

“I’m so sorry I fell asleep last night, alpha,” you whispered in humiliation. 

“Don’t be sorry. My poor omega was so tired after an exciting first day, she just needed some shut eye,” Lloyd hummed, his hand dipping lower to cup your bare cunt. “Nothing wrong with that.”

You couldn’t help but apologize again, gasping softly when Lloyd’s long fingers began to drag up and down your slit. 

“Mmm, that’s a pretty sound,” Lloyd husked against your jaw, pressing a lingering kiss to your skin before murmuring, “Did you know you chirp in your sleep?”

You whined in embarrassment, pressing your warm face into your pillow. You didn’t like the thought of him observing you when you weren’t cognizant or even conscious! When you weren’t in control and couldn’t be a good omega for him. 

Lloyd chuckled, the sound thick with desire. “I’m dying to know what other pretty sounds you make.”

He pressed you to your back beneath him, his smile devilish and his hair slightly askew as he hovered over you. Dipping close, Lloyd licked his way into your mouth, humming as he kissed you thoroughly and didn’t stop until your fingers were digging into his muscular biceps as you struggled for breath. 

Then he kept on kissing you, his face trailing a path of ruin down your body, tasting and nipping and tonguing along your skin the entire way. 

You moaned when his lips closed around one of your hard nipples through your sleep chemise and sucked until you were arching beneath him, greedily shoving more of your body against his face as your fingers raked through his hair. 

Eyes glittering at your enthusiasm, Lloyd pulled away from your chest. He took a moment to tug the sleep dress up and off your body, baring you to him completely now. Shooting you a wink, he licked at your other nipple and laughed as you mewled before his mouth skimmed down your belly. 

He nuzzled along your skin, a purr rumbling from deep in his chest as you spread your legs without thought–in supplication–and stared at him with eyes so big and full of wonder, and a sweet kind of need, that he simply had to rise up and kiss you before resuming his place between your thighs. 

You couldn’t stop squirming as Lloyd kissed along the top of your mound, his mouth moving over to the crease of your thigh and his tongue teasing along your warm flesh as you moaned. 

The more your alpha kissed along your belly and thighs, the more desperate you became, something deep inside of you–in your very core–flaring with a kind of desire you had never felt before.

You felt mindless from it, nearly unhinged, so very, very greedy and wanting for more.

“Please,” you whined, your fingers twisting in Lloyd’s hair. “Please, alpha.”

“Mmmm, what does my pretty omega want?” he teased, resting his cheek against your inner thigh and grinning up at you.

You pouted at him, earning a tender laugh before he teased his fingers up your slick-soaked slit and thumbed at your clit.

“Oh,” you breathed, your hips rutting into his touch, your body writhing and begging for more. “More of that, please. Please make me feel good? Please?”

“Such good girl manners,” Lloyd drawled, dipping close and lapping at your clit. He grinned when you keened and snapped your legs closed around his head. “Let’s see if you can be obedient for me, even like this.” 

His eyes danced as he spread your legs as far as they would go, until you were on lewd display but not caring in the least, because all you cared about, all you wanted, was for your alpha to make you feel good.

“Keep these pretty legs wide open for me, omega. I wanna see what’s mine. I want a front row seat to this pretty, drippy pussy and this greedy little hole that’s just begging for my knot.”

At the thought of being knotted, you moaned, grabbing at the back of your thighs and holding on tight, keeping yourself spread wide open for your alpha, like a good omega. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” Lloyd purred, pressing a bristly kiss to your clit before he tugged your wet folds apart and buried his face in your cunt.

You keened as he went at you, his tongue dragging and lapping, flicking along your clit every few swipes as his fingers teased the outside of your hole. You could feel his jaw working as he ate you out, his nose shoved up against your throbbing, sensitive clit as he drank from your cunt like a man possessed and groaned his delight the entire time.

You were gasping for air, shaking and sweating, once Lloyd’s face dipped lower. His tongue drew over your clenching, weeping hole and you groaned, your grip on your thighs nearly slipping as you whined and begged him for more. 

“You want me to fuck this pretty hole with my tongue, sweet omega?” he cooed, lapping at your opening a few more times. 

“Yes! Yes, please!” you panted, rocking your hips in a plea for more. “Please, alpha!”

“What about this hole?” Lloyd teased, his thumb gathering some of your slick and circling the rim of your rosebud. “You want me to fuck this, too?”

You went still, your eyes wide as you glanced down at him, your lips parted in shock even as your pussy clenched and fluttered at the idea of that.

“Mmm, and I thought you were a good girl,” Lloyd hummed. 

You could tell by the flash of his white teeth as he grinned at you that he was teasing, and your lashes fluttered when his thumb circled your asshole a few more times, giving it a firm press that had you moaning before he pressed a kiss there then moved his focus back to your pussy.

“Make no mistake, cupcake, I’ll fuck all of your holes eventually, but for now, I wanna ease you into it, like a good alpha.”

“Oh,” you breathed when he shoved his tongue into your cunt, curling it and tasting along your warm, weepy walls as something deep inside of you tightened.

Lloyd groaned in response, his big hands planting against your ass cheeks and spreading you open even more. He shook his face back and forth as he drove his tongue into you a few more times, lapping up your creamy arousal before pulling away and kissing up along your swollen folds.

“Please!” your voice was raspy and ragged with need as you sank back against the bed, your body shaking and tired now, just on the edge of you weren’t sure what, but so close.

“My needy girl,” Lloyd murmured, kissing your clit. And then he was sucking it between his lips, shoving two fingers inside of your cunt and fucking you with them until you were keening and crying and babbling for him.

Tighter and tighter that coil inside of you turned, twisting just a little bit more with each delicious swipe against your clit, with each firm thrust of Lloyd’s fingers in your cunt.

“Cum for me, omega,” he husked once he pulled away from your sensitive nub, using the thumb of his free hand to rub at that magical spot while he fucked you with his fingers and kissed your belly and–

It felt like you were flying.

Like you were floating away on a cloud of bliss.

The pleasure washed over you in waves, jolting your body with each one, making your cunt clench and flutter around your alpha’s fingers as he cooed a litany of praise at you that your blissed out mind couldn’t even comprehend.

You came back to yourself just as Lloyd was sinking over you and driving his cock into you for the first time. 

“Mmmm, fuck, I knew this pussy would be amazing,” he groaned. He gave an extra rut that had him filling you to the hilt, stealing your breath away as you gazed up at him with glossy eyes and clung to him like your life depended on it.

“Such a good girl,” Lloyd purred, lips curling at your tired, fucked out chirp. His hips retreated before driving into you hard, jostling your soft body beneath his and making you whine. “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes!” you whispered. Your eyes fluttered as Lloyd settled into a rhythm, fucking you in hard, deep strokes. It was instinctual, the way you curled your legs around his waist, opening yourself up to him and the relentless drive of his cock even more. 

“Fuck, that’s it, omega, take this big, fat cock.”

You moaned, head lolling as your alpha filled you–made you his–over and over again. It felt so good, your body lighting up in ecstasy with every push and pull of his cock, his hard length hitting all the little pleasure points inside of you that you were just discovering yourself. 

You felt that familiar tightness drawing taut inside of you again when Lloyd gripped your chin and turned your face back to his. You felt his lips against yours and opened up to him, mewling at the way his tongue swept into your mouth as he deepened the kiss. 

Lloyd’s kisses moved away from your lips, his big hand turning your face to the side as his mouth trailed along the line of your jaw then down your neck. When he kissed your unmarked mating gland, you moaned loudly, your cunt clenching hard and making him hiss. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum before I’m ready, naughty girl.”

You chirped at Lloyd’s amused tone, shuddering when he nipped at your sensitive gland.

“Time to make you mine forever, cupcake,” he purred against your skin, and then his teeth were sinking into your mating gland, and stars were bursting behind your eyes as your body went rigid and your orgasm slammed into you.

You keened as all the sensations bowled over you at once, feeling something inside of you–deep, deep down in the very foundation of you as a being, as an omega–shift into place as a new kind of awareness sparked to life and trickled through you.

As your body continued to shudder and pulse with your fading orgasm, Lloyd moaned against your neck, his tongue gently lapping the blood from your new bond mark even as his hips picked up their pace and he started to frantically rut into you. 

“Your turn, omega,” Lloyd panted, angling his neck over your mouth. “Go on, bond your alpha.”

A quiet, ecstatic trill escaped your lips as your floaty mind processed his directive, and with help from your inner omega, who was much more sound of mind than you at the moment, you lined up your teeth just right and imprinted your mark on your alpha’s mating gland.

“Ah, fuck, that’s it,” Lloyd grunted, pounding into your inviting pussy hard. Hard enough to have you squealing against his neck as his blood stained your tongue.

Groaning wordlessly, Lloyd drove into you a few more times, wildly so, more animal than man at the moment as he jerked your body up the mattress before giving a final hard thrust that had him throbbing and unloading inside of you.

He hissed his pleasure as he filled you with his cum–marked you as his–giving a few more ruts of his hips as he felt his knot expand and lock your bodies together for the very first time. 

You whimpered at the unfamiliar sensation, your insides feeling so warm and full and stretched to their limit as Lloyd’s big, sweaty body collapsed against yours and he nuzzled at your now marked mating gland.

Once you caught your breath, you realized you could feel his satisfaction through your new bond, his content too. The new sensation, the knowing and connection with your alpha, brought happy tears to your eyes. 

Lloyd could feel your overwhelm and gratitude through the bond, too, cooing at you as he nosed along your sweaty cheek. 

“You did so good, omega,” he praised, lips curling against your skin at your responding chirp. “You made your alpha feel so fucking good, cupcake.”

You sniffled as you blinked back more happy tears, hugging Lloyd fiercely as you burrowed against the crook of his neck and basked in his praise and thread of content–and pride–that was now weaved into his alpha scent.

After a few moments of quiet cuddling and nuzzling, Lloyd pushed himself over you, smoothing a hand over your head and grinning at how you were watching him with happy, dopey moon eyes. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, omega.” He ducked low and kissed you in a way that had you chasing his retreat, his resulting grin roguish as he pulled away and declared, “Your training starts after breakfast, and I think we’re both gonna have a lot of fun with that.”

Ahhhhhhhhh!!! He’s even softer than I imagined and I’m kind of digging it! I hope you are, too! Please take a quick moment to drop a reblog or comment. I’d love to know your thoughts! Thank you so much for reading! ❤️

—

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or my personal author website. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

[fandomlovver]

Good For You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3,363 Summary: Steve helps you through your heat, and you've never felt so safe...or so happy. Warnings: A/B/O AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Sassy/cranky!Homeless!Reader. Vaginal fingering. Praise. Unprotected sex. Oral sex (f receiving). Multiple orgasms. Lots of soft feels. Eye contact, too. And fluff! We have fluff, my good hoes!!! 🥹

A/N: I think this part makes up for last installment’s mean clithanger, if I do say so myself 😌

The simple act of Steve touching your hips and gently smoothing his palms up your sides was like a balm to your overwrought body. 

You whined in relief as the agony that had been needling within you all day long finally eased up. Your head hung between your shoulders as you eagerly shoved back against Steve, silently begging for more. 

His hands found your bare breasts next and gently tested the weight of you, a deep, husky rumble shaking his chest as you mewled and desperately pressed yourself further into his intimate touch. 

You felt him shift closer, the heavy weight of his hard cock pressing against the curve of your ass, but it was the surprise touch of his lips against your shoulder that had you moaning. 

All you wanted was to feel him inside of you, filling you up and leaving no room for the pain that had been wracking your poor body for hours upon hours now. 

So when Steve breathed out a throaty, “Wait,” and pulled you up from your hands and knees, you wailed in despair. 

“Nooooo,” you nearly sobbed, glaring at him fiercely as he turned you to face him and swept you up against his firm torso. 

His smile wasn’t smug or teasing, but soft and so so warm as he lifted his hands and gently cradled your face between them. 

“I’ll take care of you, omega, I promise,” he breathed, his thumbs caressing along your cheeks as he reeled you closer. “I just need…” 

Your irritated gaze met his dark, fond one a second before his lips found yours, and it was another simple touch that had all of your frustration and anger instantly vanishing as Steve kissed you with the kind of passion and desire you had never felt before. 

You melted against him, trying your best to keep up with every eager press of his lips against yours. And when he licked his way into your mouth with a groan that had your pussy fluttering, you whimpered, sagging against him more heavily as he drank from your mouth like it was his sole purpose for existing.

When Steve finally pulled away, you were both panting, and when he caught sight of your dazed expression, a boyish grin stole across his face. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”

“God, you’re such a sap,” you huffed in response, but there was no real bite to your words, and your lips even twitched a little when Steve barked a laugh before pulling you in for another steamy kiss. 

Suddenly, a stab of agony lanced through your body and you whined pathetically against Steve’s lips. Sagging against him, you panted, “Please fuck me now before I lose it.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured against your lips, stealing another fleeting kiss before he pulled away. 

Relief once again rose within you as he gently maneuvered you until you were back on your hands and knees before him.

“I need you to know that you can stop this at any time,” Steve told you as he shifted closer. 

“Not if you don’t actually start,” you snapped, turning to glare at Steve over your shoulder. “Shelf your gentlemanly ways, Hercules, and let your feral alpha out to play because I need you to fuck me right now goddamnit.”

Your eyes went wide as a soft snarl rose up from Steve’s throat, and you watched as his eyes went nearly black with lust as his gaze met yours. He shoved against you so suddenly, you squeaked, and when his big hand landed a solid smack against your pussy, you moaned.

A beat later, two of Steve’s gloriously thick fingers eased into your cunt, deep enough to make you keen. You were already rocking against his hand when he curled over your back, his warm chest heating your skin as his lips found the shell of your ear.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, omega, maybe I’ll put it to good use later.” He chuckled as you clenched around his fingers and shoved into his touch with a hmph. 

Your body felt so hyper aware as Steve’s free hand touched the small of your back, warming the skin there as his fingers began to move, sliding in and out of your pussy at a rhythm that was somehow both gentle to ease you into it, but firm enough to give you relief.

It felt good, but it wasn’t enough. You had been in agony for hours while you waited for Steve to return home from work, so at this point, even feeling good wasn’t helping. 

You just needed the hurt to stop. 

Registering how tense you were, Steve smoothed his free hand over your hip to palm your belly. You felt his chest vibrate with a soft alpha purr as he urged you to, “Let it feel good, omega.” As your body began to go more pliant, he praised you, “Yeah, there you go. You deserve to feel good.”

You whined in response without meaning to–your inner omega rising to the surface for a beat–and your face instantly heated at how fucking pathetic and needy you were. “Stop messing with my head,” you snarled.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head, I just want you to feel good and loosen up for me,” Steve assured you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before doing the same to the other. “And I want to be good to you, too, sweetheart.”

Even as you shuddered at his soft kisses–and softer declaration–you hmphed at him.

“It’s okay,” you could hear the smile in Steve’s voice as his fingers slipped from your cunt and swirled around your clit before moving away entirely. “I’m sure I can turn off that beautiful brain somehow.”

A sassy response was on the tip of your tongue, but it instantly vanished as you felt Steve’s cock catch against your entrance. Your breath hitched as he started to push inside you, and then you choked on another whine as you felt the hard, thick length of him slowly start to fill you up.

You moaned long and loud as your needy body greedily swallowed inch after inch of Steve’s impressive cock. By the time he was buried to the hilt and groaning behind you, you were embarrassingly close to cumming and trying like hell to stem your release and not come off as a total chump.

“Remember, let it feel good,” Steve suddenly whispered against your ear. His fingers gently rubbed circles against your clit, and just like that, you were cumming.

You gave a wordless cry of ecstasy as pleasure rushed through every inch of you. Your body rejoiced at the blissful onslaught–the feeling so foreign but amazingly euphoric–as you trembled and mewled and clenched hard around Steve’s cock. 

“Good girl,” Steve breathed against your warm cheek, his fingers still strumming at your clit as you turned your face and gave him a side-stink eye. His grin was boyish before he kissed your scowl away, his hips finally starting to move in shallow ruts as he told you, “Stop thinking so much and trying so hard to be strong. You don’t need to be strong with me, omega. No fronts. No armor. You’re safe to let go with me, I promise.” 

Blinking back the sudden burn of tears, you turned away from Steve, sinking down to rest your cheek on your stacked hands as you grumbled, “You talk too much, Hercules.”

Steve huffed a laugh, giving your hips a gentle squeeze as he teased, “I don’t really think you mind all that much.”

And then he really started to move.

You couldn’t muffle your wispy sigh of relief as Steve’s hips started to push and pull, his cock filling you up over and over again as your pussy fluttered and clenched, pulsed and gripped.

“Mmmm, you feel so good, just like I knew you would,” Steve moaned, his fingers curling into the flesh of your hips just a little bit harder as he picked up his pace.

When he shifted his angle slightly, you couldn’t help the cry of carnal delight that escaped your lips on his next thrust, your body lighting up from the inside out as you eagerly shoved back into the next surge of his hips.

“More!” you demanded breathlessly, your insides winding tight and your face overheating as you listened to the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the wet squelching of your soaked pussy rising up all around you. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Steve’s fingers were back on your clit, rubbing relentlessly as he fucked you with abandon now. “Cum for me, omega,” he rumbled.

And you did.

Your body clenched hard as your second orgasm crested, and then you were crying your release as another round of bliss flooded your veins in a hot, sinful rush that had you panting Steve’s name and moaning into the sheets.

Steve waited until your pussy stopped its wild fluttering before he pulled out of you, and then he was flipping you over and outright grinning at your startled yelp and fierce glower.

“Let’s see if I can wipe that stink eye from your face, trouble,” he winked at you. 

That was all the warning you got before he sank onto his stomach, yanked you against him, and tossed your legs over his shoulders as he buried his face in your cunt.

“Oh fucccck!” you squealed as he tongued up your messy slit before sucking your clit into his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Hercules, give a girl some warning–” your words peaked into another keen as you came yet again.

You moaned wordlessly as you rutted against Steve’s face, riding out your orgasm as you sank your hand into his soft, blonde hair and gripped hard enough to make him groan into your folds.

Once your body sagged back against the bed, completely boneless, Steve hummed in approval, spreading your legs as wide as possible with a hand planted on each of your thighs. He took his time lapping up your release, and once he spread your folds apart with his thumbs and started to tongue at your clit, your hand was back in his hair as you gently rocked your hips in a silent invitation for more.

Steve gave it to you, eating you out like the champion pussy eater you were learning him to be. He even added his fingers into the mix, so your greedy cunt had something to clamp around the next time your body rattled with another toe-curling orgasm.

It was a testament to how blissed out you were, that you were uninhibitedly smiling like a dope when Steve rose up from between your thighs and carefully stretched out over your body. His eyes were twinkling, and warm, as he sank against you, and you limply raised a hand to pat his rosy cheek.

“I like your mouth so much better when it yaps less and laps more.”

At your cheeky grin, Steve couldn’t help but laugh. The warm, happy sound had something deep inside your chest fluttering to life. You felt both outside of yourself and so avid in your concentration as your grin softened and your touch shifted from cupping Steve’s smooth cheek to your fingers gently tracing along his face. 

He really was obnoxiously attractive–the picture of perfection–made all the more beautiful by the way he was looking at you right now.

Like he was thinking the same exact thing about you.

The very thought made part of you want to flee and another part of you–a part you had a suspicion was your dopey inner omega–want to bask in his attention and care of you for as long as possible.

You willingly leaned into that latter part of you for once, your fingers trailing along Steve’s bottom lip as you hitched up your leg and curled it over his hip, tugging him closer and opening yourself up to him all at once.

“More,” you murmured, not waiting for Steve to fulfill your request but instead reaching between your bodies and gripping his still hard cock yourself.

Your gazes locked as you dragged his tip along your center. There was something so ridiculously hot–and so painfully intimate–about gazing into each other's eyes as you yourself guided Steve’s cock back to your entrance and lined him up just right.

He dipped close suddenly, kissing you in a way that was as sinful and intimate as everything else about this moment. Then he tilted his hips and slid into your body with ease, filling you up and completing you all at once, like this–deep inside of you, a part of you–was where he was meant to be all along.

This time around, neither of you talked. But you did keep your gazes locked, and while that act itself felt more vulnerable than the actual sex, it made everything about being with Steve here and now even more intense.

Before long, you were right on the precipice of blissful release once more. Giving a soft keen, you clung to Steve, arching up against him and writhing as your body toed the line of ecstasy with each surge of his hips.

His lips found yours again, soft and languid as they worked against your own. Steve was unhurried in his tasting of you, like it was less about kissing and more about savoring. 

It was the way he watched you so intently–so clearly taken with you and as lost to his own pleasure as you were to yours–that had you cumming for a final time with a sharp cry against his kiss-swollen lips. 

Steve groaned as your pussy clenched around his cock, pulsing and fluttering and driving him right over the edge to his own release. He gasped against your lips, his eyes dazed as they met yours.

You fluttered all over again as you felt his cock throb inside of you, felt the way his hips desperately rutted and pumped as he filled you up with his cum. His forehead dropped to yours, his lips hovering just above your own as he panted his pleasure and gave a final thrust before his alpha knot was expanding.

Your gazes were still fixed on one another as your bodies joined in a new way now. Your inner omega was so joyfully sated while you yourself were in an almost delirious state of awe.

That you were here right now with Steve, that not only had the sex been incredible, but he had taken such good care of you first and foremost. That it could actually feel good to be an omega, to be with an alpha, to give yourself to another in the most vulnerable way possible.

That you didn’t want this to end. In fact, you wanted to experience it all over again, with Steve.

“You okay?” His soft voice pulled you from your thoughts, and the way his brows were knit in concern as he caressed your cheek with his knuckle had your insides swooping.

For once, sass escaped you entirely, especially as you realized how thoroughly exhausted you were–but not in a bad way. 

In a really, really good way.

You nodded, your eyes drooping heavily between blinks before staying shut altogether. As you drifted closer and closer to sleep, you weren’t even mad or ruffled at all when a soft, happy chirp worked its way up your throat and past your lips.

Vaguely aware of the way Steve gently petted your head and pressed a kiss to your cheek, you didn’t stubbornly force yourself to stay awake or be on high alert when what your body really needed–and so desperately wanted–right now was rest. 

Because you knew that you were safe here with Steve, that he would continue to take care of you–especially in your vulnerable heat state–and he would be here waiting for you when you awoke, once again ready and willing to give you whatever you needed.

You slept long and hard and straight through until the next morning.

Then, as you predicted, Steve was right there beside you, ready to take care of you in any way you needed to get you through your heat as painlessly–and as pleasurably–as possible.

A few days later, finally on the other side of it, you could honestly say that it was the best heat you had ever experienced. You had a sneaking suspicion that Steve knew it too, if his soft, dopey smile was any indication.

You rolled your eyes as you glanced up from your half-eaten breakfast plate and caught Steve softly smiling at you again.

The return of your stink eye as you glared at him had him biting back a smile as he sat next to you at the dining table. He happily dug into his own breakfast for a few moments before his eyes lifted again and landed on you.

“I can get you suppressants from the hospital, if you want,” he offered out of nowhere.

You finished chewing, arching an eyebrow at him as he watched you, awaiting your response. “That’s very generous of you considering you were such a benefactor of my heat.” Outwardly, your lips tilted into a smirk as inwardly, insecurity rose up within you. “Is this your way of trying to let me down gently? Did I not perform to your sexual standards, Hercules?”

Steve’s eyes went wide, his mouth gaping for a moment before he quickly shook his head. “No, god! You were incredible. Beautiful. These last few days have been…amazing.”

There was such an obvious and unrepentant tinge of awe to Steve’s voice, that all of your doubt and insecurity instantly melted away. Beyond amused now, you watched him bluster and blush, trying to compliment you–and genuinely so–without being gross about it, considering you had just spent the past few days fucking like rabbits.

“I just…” he sighed, taking a breath to steady himself. He set his fork down and hesitantly reached for your free hand, covering it with his own as his earnest eyes met yours. “I want you to feel like you have options, and that you have everything you need to make the decisions that feel best for you.”

You didn’t respond right away, but you also didn’t pull away from Steve’s gentle touch as you nibbled on some more of your food. From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift in his seat, in impatience or concern, probably, so you finally put him out of his misery by releasing a long sigh and lifting your gaze to his.

”You know,” you started, your eyes flickering away as you continued, “Coming here, to you, for my heat, that was my decision.” 

For some reason, your admission had you feeling shy, and then immediately cranky about it. The fact that you could see a beaming smile split Steve’s lips from your periphery didn’t help, it just made you huff before you shoveled more food into your mouth.

After a long moment of silence, Steve spoke again, his voice tinged with something different now–the type of playful teasing that had your belly somersaulting–as he asked, “So…did I perform to your sexual standards or—“

“Stop fishing,” you glared at him.

Steve grinned in return, that roguish, boyish grin that you had only just discovered, that reminded you of things much less innocent than eating breakfast together. 

“You’re still here, so I’ll take that as a good sign,” he hummed, looking not so much smug as chuffed.

You rolled your eyes, muttering, “Speaking of my decisions, right now, I’m deciding whether or not to dump my plate in your lap.”

Steve gave a surprised bark of laughter at your threat, throwing his head back and grabbing at his chest. 

You couldn’t help but peek up at him to witness his utter joyous delight, feeling chuffed yourself now for causing that reaction. 

And when his warm, fond gaze met yours once he was done laughing, you found yourself unable to suppress the soft, genuine smile that curled across your lips before you glanced away and continued to enjoy your breakfast.

Here–happy and safe–with Steve.

🥹 I love them with my hole whole heart. 

VERSE MASTERLIST

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[fandomlovver]

Siri, I've been thinking about mob Curtis (yours, the awful but we still want him to ruin us Curtis). All these threats of showing you off to others, including actually taking you in front of his men. He does it to humiliate you and break you and because for him it's hot. But what if some of his men take it as a sort of invitation. A sign that they can humiliate you as if you were a free for all slut. Of course none dares to do it in front of Curtis. But when you're alone?

Maybe you've been walking from your bedroom to the dining room for dinner with Curtis, or to his office where he summoned you. On your way, one of his goons checks you out, makes some nasty comment and slaps your ass.

You're too scared to react, so you just quicken your pace to get to Curtis fast before the man does more. You don't tell Curtis of it either, thinking he would blame you for it, or that he wouldn't even react at all.

But Curtis reads your body language like an open book. He notices something is off. It's not just your usual tension and shyness. You will tell him what the fuck happened.

And what will he do after learning the truth?

Ramifications

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader Word Count: 5,895 Summary: It was only a matter of time before Curtis’ treatment of you inspired others to treat you the same way, but he’s sure to nip that in the bud immediately, and in a brutal and unforgettable way. Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Implied captivity. Non con groping (not by Curtis). Degradation and being called a whore and slut (not by Curtis). Knife violence (not on Reader). Death of a minor character. Brief mentions of blood and gore. Vaginal fingering. Oral sex (f receiving). Face riding. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. General angsty vibes and possessiveness.

A/N: I just…have descended into the deepest depths of sin, and I’m taking you all with me lolll. Also: @biteofcherry your ask was amazing and I instantly had this idea when I read it but knew that I needed to establish some things before we got here, so thank you for being patient with me and for fostering my obsession with this Curtis 🥴

PRIZED POSSESSION MASTERLIST

It wasn’t unusual for you to be summoned to Curtis’ home office, or for one of his men to escort you there.

What was unusual was how closely Franco Jr.–Curtis’ head of security–was following you. How you could feel the way he was leering at you the entire journey across the manor.

Another thing that wasn’t unusual for you was feeling a constant sense of fear. You were in enemy territory after all–Curtis’ prized possession to do with as he pleased–and there was nothing you could do about it.

But right now, as you turned down another long hallway and realized it was only you and Franco in the vicinity, and that he was so close now that you could feel his hot breath along the back of your neck, all of your internal alarm bells started ringing.

You hugged yourself tightly, tucking your chin against the top of your chest and keeping your gaze fixed on the floor in front of you as you picked up your pace until you were practically speed walking the familiar path to Curtis’ office.

You didn’t get very far before you were being grabbed from behind and shoved into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs as you sank back against it in a frightened daze.

“It’s cute that you think you can play hard to get,” Franco laughed as he sneered down at you. He was pressed so close that you could feel the bulk of his body through his expensive suit, and it felt wrong.

It still seemed like a betrayal each and every time your body gave in–and eagerly responded–to Curtis and his frequent ruin of you. Perhaps it was a symptom of his complete ownership over you, the way that it felt so abundantly, terrifyingly clear right now that Franco in your personal space was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Suddenly one of his big hands shot out, painfully gripping your face and tilting your fearful gaze up to meet his. His nostrils flared when you choked on a scared whine, trying to recoil from his hold.

“You really think any of us are buying this innocent act anymore? We can all hear the way you like being fucked like a whore all day, every day. You act so sweet and innocent, but you sure do keen so pretty when you’re filled with cock. I bet you beg for it too, you fucking slut.”

Your insides curdled at the truth to Franco’s words. 

Because he was right. Your days were spent being fucked and flaunted by Curtis. He reveled in it. Putting you on display, using you, and sometimes in front of his men. You really were his prized possession–his human trophy–and there was nothing you could do about it.

What made it even worse was that there were so many times that he made you like it, made you beg for him and then thank him afterward for using you in such filthy, degrading ways.

So there really was truth to Franco’s words. You knew this was your reality now, you lived it day after day, but to have someone so callously speak it aloud, to rub your face in it, it made you want to shrink into nothing and disappear forever.

It made you feel so dirty and ashamed. It made you hate yourself, that this is what you had become.

Franco scoffed when your tears brimmed over, streaking down your hot cheeks and wetting his fingers that were still digging into your skin.

He leaned in close enough that his lips hovered over yours and made you cower against the wall even further. “Maybe once the boss is done with you,” he husked, “He’ll let the rest of us have a turn before we get rid of you, permanently.” 

Your heart lurched at the very idea, but then Franco’s free hand was shoving its way between your legs, beneath your dress, and groping your cunt through your panties hard enough to make you squeal in pain. 

It was over just as quickly as it started. Franco’s grip on your face retreated, and he tugged you away from the wall, pushing you toward Curtis’ office and slapping your ass hard enough to make you stumble. 

He sniggered behind you as you regained your footing, hugging yourself tighter than before as you sniffed back your tears and tried to stop shaking so hard. 

From the glimpse you had gotten of him and his mood this morning, you knew that Curtis wouldn’t want to deal with any tears today, so you made sure to wipe your face dry as you arrived outside of his office. You kept your gaze down as Franco opened the door and stood back, waiting for you to step inside. 

Keeping as much distance from him as you could, you timidly stepped into Curtis’ office, flinching as the door closed behind you, leaving you alone with the man himself. 

You should have immediately gone to stand before Curtis’ desk to wait to see what he wanted from you today, but you were still a little shell shocked from your encounter with Franco, and you weren’t able to shake it off before Curtis could notice.

He was nothing if not a shark able to smell vulnerability like blood in the water, and he rose from his seat and stalked toward you before you could even comprehend his approach.

Curtis loomed over you, his stoic face giving away nothing as he watched you, took inventory of your evident distress and the tears that still lingered in your eyes that you tried to keep anywhere but on him.

Having none of it, Curtis gripped your chin–his touch much gentler than Franco’s had been–and tipped your face up so he could meet your gaze. You weren’t sure what he saw reflected back at him, but it was enough to have him frowning as his brows drew together.

“What happened?”

“N-nothing–” you started to lie, terrified of what his reaction might be to the truth. 

Would he blame you for Franco’s behavior? Would he follow through on his minion’s wish to have a go with you before disposing of you altogether? 

Would this be the thing that finally set Curtis off in a way that you’d never recover from? 

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me,” Curtis enunciated slowly, dangerously, as he ducked closer, his blue eyes flashing in a way that made terror skitter up your spine.

The truth spilled out of you without reserve then, your voice quaking and tearful as you told him what had happened out in the hallway with his head of security.

Just as before, Curtis’ face was mostly impassive, but there was the most minute clench of his jaw as you finished speaking that had panic prickling all along your skin and a wobbly apology spilling from your lips like your assault had been your fault, “I’m so sorry–”

Curtis cut off your apology with a quiet murmur of, “I’ll take care of it.” 

Without another word, he turned on his heel, strode back to his desk, and pointed at the pedestal as he went before taking his seat.

Knowing better than to question the wordless demand, you scurried across the room and up onto the pedestal. Resisting the urge to hug yourself more–hide yourself away as much as you could–you forced your arms down to your sides and tilted your chin up ever so slightly, angling yourself toward Curtis to give him the best view of your still trembling body and the outfit he had picked out for you today. 

The entire time you stood there as Curtis resumed his work, stealing lingering glances at you every so often, you stewed in anxiety, your stomach churning as you fretted over all the ways that what happened with Franco could be blamed on you. 

And how, as a result, Curtis would undoubtedly punish you for everything.

You didn’t have too long to stew in your dread, because just the next day, you found yourself seated in a chair in the middle of the large meeting room Curtis often used for mob business. 

You couldn’t stop trembling as all of his men filed into the room, one after another. The security team, his own personal bodyguard, and a bunch of others that you knew helped keep his outfit running on a daily basis. 

Despite the way you kept your tearful gaze downward, you could feel all of the men leering at you. A few of them actually jeered, too. It took you right back to that first night–when Curtis had murdered your family before brutally assaulting you as his men watched.

Your insides roiled and quaked at the memory, and your dread was slowly morphing into terror the longer you awaited whatever was already set into motion. You curled in on yourself as you spiraled about what was going to happen next.

Would Curtis punish you in front of all of his men? 

It certainly seemed likely, because why else would he have brought you in here and sat you smack dab in the center of them all? 

Would he fuck you again as they all watched?

Your chest tightened on an aborted sob at the very thought. You didn’t think you could endure that kind of brutal, demeaning desecration again. Truly, you didn’t think you had the mental capacity to survive it.

And maybe that was the whole point–the final dose of punishment–to break you for good.

You closed your eyes and shuddered, quickly swiping away a stray tear that escaped, and then gasped as a warm hand suddenly touched your shoulder.

Your head snapped up to find Curtis standing over you, his handsome face somehow indifferent and stormy at the same time. The urge to cry increased tenfold as he watched you for a long moment, panic clawing at you from the inside out as you tried to predict and brace for what would happen next, what directive would come out of his mouth.

The longer he stared at you–and everyone else watched–the more frantic you grew, until you were reaching for Curtis’ hand that was on your shoulder and clinging to him as you whispered, “Please, I’m sorry–”

“Hush,” he murmured, his hand slipping from your shoulder. He held it out to you, an unspoken cue for you to rise to your feet. 

Scared and confused, you accepted his proffered hand and stood. Swallowing hard as your eyes flickered between his, you desperately tried to read the secrets within those stormy, blue depths, the wicked intentions that you knew were always brewing just beneath the surface.

Curtis’ intent became no clearer as he led you across the room toward the long meeting table, then the head seat where he usually sat during business sessions. Once you were sitting in the unfamiliar chair and anxiously gripping the sides of your dress like a lifeline, you stared up at him, still clearly confused.

He didn’t give you an explanation or any further directive, just gently pet your head before turning away–and toward his men–his body tensing as he stalked back to the center of the room to stand before the now empty chair you had just vacated.

You could feel a wave of tension wash over the room, Curtis’ men instantly going silent and many of them looking as outwardly confused and concerned as you yourself felt. 

“To my extreme disappointment,” Curtis began, his voice so strong and steely it had everyone around him standing at attention, “It seems as if you all need a reminder that you’re not to touch, or even look at, what’s mine.” 

He turned to Franco suddenly, pointing to the empty chair before him. “Sit,” he commanded his head of security, his tone edged with something that had all of your hair standing on end as you tensed in your own seat.

The ever present smirk instantly dropped from Franco’s face. He swallowed nervously as he glanced around the room, but no one else–not one of his other peers or direct reports–would meet his gaze. 

Straightening, Franco smoothed his now trembling hands down the front of his suit jacket before he slowly made his way to the empty chair and sat down. He anxiously gripped the chair arms on either side of him as his cautious gaze lifted to meet Curtis’. 

Curtis sauntered closer, until he was looming over the other man. “I heard you touched my prized possession, Franco. That you’re real eager to get a go with her.”

“No,” Franco immediately scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s not—“

Just a raise of Curtis’ hand had Franco going silent. “Did you touch what’s mine?” Curtis asked softly.

“Y-yes, but I was just scaring her a little—“

Moving faster than you had ever seen anyone move in your life, Curtis pulled a long serrated knife from behind his back–the handle of which you hadn’t even noticed tucked into his belt–and stabbed it through the back of Franco’s hand. 

The hand he had used yesterday to forcefully grope you. 

Franco screamed and writhed in pain as you whimpered and covered your face with your hands to block out the terrifying sight.

“Please, boss! I’m sorry—“ Franco’s plea turned into a scream so agonized and inhuman, that you felt your stomach lurch. 

Even with your hands covering your eyes, you squeezed them tightly shut, desperate to block out everything that was unfolding before you. Even though you couldn’t see what was happening, you could hear it, and it was horrifying.

You heard the sounds of a struggle, a grunt of effort, and then a strange, sickly wet sound that had your insides turning over. A beat later, there was a quiet sound of impact followed by a wet gurgle, and then…

Complete and utter silence. 

It was so silent, it was unnatural, and only emphasized the way your heart thundered in your ears. It took you a moment to comprehend that you could hear something else too–Curtis panting–and then his rough voice loudly snarled, “I hope I’ve made myself perfectly fucking clear.”

After another beat of excruciating silence, Curtis shouted, “Everyone get the fuck out!”

You were trembling so hard, you weren’t sure that you could actually stand, but Curtis’ directive was loud and clear, and if ever there was a moment to obey him, it was now. 

Slowly, you dropped your hands from your face, your breath shallow and difficult to catch, coming in quick, frantic gulps as your body was overcome by fear. 

First, you saw all of Curtis’ men filing out of the conference room in a quick, hurried line. 

Then, you saw Curtis himself, looming a few feet away, staring right at you. His big body seemed even tenser than before–his broad chest still heaving with exertion–and when he shifted slightly, you saw Franco just behind him.

Slumped back in the chair, dead.

Franco’s face was covered in blood. What used to be his eyes were now two sockets of gore that had bile instantly rising to the back of your throat. The long, jagged knife that had been pierced through his hand the last you saw, was now shoved through the underside of his chin to the hilt. 

You started shaking harder, your face twisting in horror at the grisly sight. And then suddenly it was blocked from your view as Curtis stalked toward you, making you feel like helpless prey now more than ever. 

But once you got a good look at him, you noticed that Curtis’ eyes weren’t wild or unhinged like you had expected. As he crouched before you, his gaze was calm. Placid. 

Pleased. 

When he cupped your chin, you felt Franco’s warm, sticky blood that coated Curtis’ hands smear along your skin now and the sharp smell of copper fill your nose. 

“See, I told you that I’d take care of it,” Curtis hummed. “No one touches what’s mine.”

You just nodded dumbly, because what else could you do? Curtis had just violently murdered a man twice his size, in the most gruesome and unhinged way, simply for touching you. 

And for some reason, in that moment, with the way Curtis was watching you expectedly, you knew that he had done this for you, in his own fucked up way.

“T-thank you,” you trembled, your breath hitching as you tried not to cry, tried so hard to stave off your terror and desire to flee so as not to have Curtis’ ire aimed your way next.

He smiled at your gratitude, and the beautiful sight seemed absurd paired with the scene that surrounded you both. The bloody aftermath of deranged violence and unapologetic retribution. 

But you really were grateful in a sense–so, so thankful that all of this hadn’t been directed at you.

“You’re welcome,” Curtis replied. He watched you for a long moment, something familiar sparking to life in his gaze. “Now, why don’t you help me get cleaned up?” He drew his thumb along your bottom lip, his eyes flickering there and lingering as his nostrils flared. “And then you can give me a more thorough thank you for taking such good care of you.”

You didn’t resist as he stood tall and tugged you from your seat along with him. As Curtis turned and led you from the room, you were sure to keep your gaze fixed on the floor and far, far away from Franco’s dead body.

You were pretty sure that you were in shock.

The journey from the meeting room to the master bedroom was a complete blank in your frazzled mind. You were having trouble focusing on anything other than your paralyzing fear, and each time you closed your eyes, all you could see was the gory aftermath that had once been Franco slumped in that chair.

As you stood in the shower with Curtis now, naked and trembling, the one functioning brain cell you had left was screaming at you to get it together, to be good, to not make him angry.

Because you didn’t want to end up like Franco.

You tried so hard to focus on that one goal–to be good for Curtis–but it seemed impossible to get your body to align with your mind. 

You just couldn’t stop shaking or suppress your tears of terror.

And to add to your complete shock and disorientation–Curtis was being surprisingly gentle with you as he finished rinsing Franco’s blood from both your bodies before tugging you flush against him.

As he hummed in content and nuzzled along your neck, it had a memory from your childhood surfacing out of nowhere, of the aloof guard dog your father had lethally trained as a method of defense that would viciously tear apart other small animals, then seek you out for love and affection after. 

That’s what Curtis reminded you of now, as he dragged his lips along your hairline, his big hands gently cupping your bare ass as his hips rocked and pressed the hard steel of his cock against your belly.

You couldn’t help but think that in some weird way, he was using intimacy with you to recalibrate after murdering Franco. 

It didn’t really matter one way or another, all you knew for sure was that you were trying your best to keep your terror at bay and be as compliant as possible as not to incur Curtis’ wrath.

Despite your efforts, Curtis was smart and observant, and he obviously picked up on your fear and overwhelm.

“You’re trembling so hard, pretty prize,” he husked as he cradled the side of your face and made you meet his gaze. As a few tears finally escaped and streaked down your cheeks, Curtis groaned, licking his lips as he leaned in to murmur, “I can tell by the way you so sweetly hid your face back there, that you’re probably not used to witnessing that kind of violence, huh?”

You shook your head quickly, an involuntary whimper spilling past your lips as the grisly remains of Franco flashed through your mind.

“Your father never read you into any of his business dealings?”

“No, never,” you whispered. 

“Mmm, he probably wanted to preserve that soft heart of yours.” Curtis’ grip on your face shifted, his head moving closer as his thumb tugged down your bottom lip. “My prized possession isn’t just pretty, she’s so fucking innocent too, isn’t she?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer before he kissed you. It was as possessive as ever, but there was also a…not hesitance, but curiosity to it, like Curtis was holding back to see how you would respond to him, especially in this moment.

It’s a test, your frantic mind screamed, and you knew you needed to pass it–to please Curtis–to keep yourself unharmed, to keep yourself alive.

You never really resisted Curtis’ kisses–or general advances–you weren’t stupid. But you never initiated anything with him either, and you just couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s what he wanted right now. Maybe it was his way of seeing how grateful you really were, that he had so brutally murdered your assaulter. 

That he had “taken care of you.”

He had mentioned before wanting a thorough thank you after all, and now you knew he meant it.

So the next time Curtis’ lips left yours for a brief second, you chased his retreat, kissing him now as you pressed closer and clung to his shoulders, offering yourself up to him in this new way.

He groaned at the small show of supplication–of desire for him–kissing you more fiercely as he framed your face between his hands and licked his way into your mouth.

You knew that Curtis Everett was a bad man. You, better than anyone, knew what he was capable of. 

But as he all but devoured you now, you had never felt such an intensely feral need directed your way. Something about his shameless, ardent desire for you made it easy to pretend that you wanted this.

When Curtis' hand found its way between your legs and his fingers started to trace soft circles against your clit, you didn’t need to pretend anymore, because it felt so good, and that–feeling good–felt so much better than being terrified and constantly on edge.

So you chased that feeling now, your body finally syncing up with your mind and spreading your legs enough to give Curtis’ hand more room to work. You gasped as he did just that, rocking your hips against his touch and meeting his dark, lustful gaze for a beat.

And then he was rearing close and once again kissing you with the kind of passion that genuinely stole your breath away. That had your knees buckling and your hands clinging to his shoulders to remain upright. That had you mewling into his mouth and tasting his primal groan as his tongue danced with yours. 

Maybe it made you a terrible person, but this–this desperate kind of intimacy with Curtis–was such a welcomed reprieve from the horrors of a little while ago, that you gave into it completely. 

You gave into Curtis completely. 

And your sweet compliancy only seemed to rile him up even more.

He had you out of the shower and into the bedroom so quickly your head spun. But you just melted under his touch–surrendering to him even more–as he guided you onto the bed, then rolled you over onto your belly. 

With each new press of Curtis’ lips against your back, you gasped, fingers curling into the blankets as you squirmed beneath the heavy weight of his body on top of yours.

You had a wild thought as his lips planted against your bare shoulder, that this felt close to worship, but you knew that Curtis wasn’t capable of that, especially with you.

That didn’t seem to stem his onslaught though, it was like he was determined to kiss and taste every inch of your skin—like it was a territory for him solely to claim—and all you could do was endure his passion. 

Until you were as worked up as he was—the two of you feeding off of each other’s desperate, needy energy and responsiveness to one another—and you were whining into the mattress when his fingers teased along your slit before quickly moving away. 

Curtis huffed a quiet laugh before rumbling, “On your knees, pretty prize.”

When you just blinked at him over your shoulder, so obviously dazed and uncomprehending, he grinned. It was a wolfish flash of white teeth before he himself urged your knees beneath you, allowing you to keep your shoulders and head down as he nudged your legs wide open.

You shivered as the cool air of the room touched the warm, weepy place between your thighs, and then you keened in surprise when Curtis suddenly leaned in and licked a broad stripe up your slit.

He groaned his own delight into your folds, his fingers digging into your ass cheeks and holding you spread open for his devouring of you. And devour you he did. He went at you relentlessly, his tongue lapping and laving, his lips teasing and sucking, until you were eagerly shoving back against his face and panting his name, begging for more in a way so sweet and desperate that he let you cum on his tongue with hardly any pleading at all. 

“Yesss,” you breathed, writhing in ecstasy as you rode out the wave of your pleasure, before moaning in appreciation as Curtis shoved his tongue into your fluttering hole as his fingers rubbed your clit to another quick orgasm.

“You always taste so good,” he groaned once he pulled away, his voice low and smoky in a way that made your insides swoop. “I want more of you, get over here.”

Your boneless body was easy for Curtis to maneuver how he wanted, and soon he had you perched over his bearded face and gripping the headboard as you watched him return to enthusiastically eating out your cunt. 

Something about this position had you burning up from the inside out, a kind of mindless want and need you had never felt before taking over as you gripped the headboard with one hand and tentatively reached for Curtis’ buzzed head with the other.

Your soft touch had his blazing eyes lifting to meet yours from between your thighs, and he held your gaze–shameless and challenging you to do the same–as he filled your cunt with three of his fingers and fucked you with them as he sucked at your clit without relent. 

The sound that spilled from your lips was pornographic, but you couldn’t even be embarrassed, because it felt so good. You gripped Curtis’ head harder, your own falling back in ecstasy as you rocked against him. Gasping his name, you encouraged the exploration of his tongue as that twine of need inside of you pulled tauter and tauter with every masterful flick and thrust, every lap and stroke.

Curtis didn’t stop feasting on your pussy until you came for him again, nearly purring at the creamy mess you left all over his face as a result of your pleasure before you collapsed beside him, still gasping and panting for breath.

“I need to be inside you,” he breathed, rolling you onto your side and pressing his font along your back. 

By the time his cock caught along your wet, messy hole, you were nearly on your belly again, but you didn’t care, you wanted to be filled as much as Curtis wanted to fill you. 

“Please,” you whispered shamelessly, fingers curling against the headboard as you pressed back against him, your body desperately seeking more. 

“Such a good girl, begging for my cock,” Curtis groaned. He sounded truly pleased, and it had your belly fluttering before the feel of his cock slowly sliding into you stole all of your attention and had your brain short circuiting more and more with each hard, thick inch that filled you.

You gave a broken cry of ecstasy when Curtis bottomed out with a hard rut, panting into the pillows as your cunt strained and fluttered, gripping his length hard enough to make him grunt.

“Fuck, you want it so bad, don’t you?”

You whined in response, your head spinning as your body went haywire at all of the sensations overwhelming you. Your cunt felt so full but you still needed more. Your nipples were hard and aching, your clit puffy and throbbing, and you swore your body was a livewire, waiting to catch and burn up entirely at any moment. 

All of that only intensified tenfold when Curtis started to move. The slow drag of his cock retreating from the deep depths of your cunt had you moaning without reserve. When he thrusted back into you hard and fast, rocking your body up the bed, you keened. He paused then, and you mewled, grinding back against him, desperate for more of him, making Curtis laugh quietly before he gave you what you so obviously wanted. 

You relished in another hard, deep stroke, before squealing as Curtis grabbed you and set you on your hands and knees properly. 

And then he went to town.

All you could do was take it as he fucked you hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping echoing loudly around the room. Soon the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy eagerly swallowing Curtis hard cock over and over again joined the sinful symphony rising up around you, and you couldn’t even be embarrassed, because you were so lost to your pleasure, and so close to cumming again. 

When your orgasm finally crested, your arms gave out, and you collapsed onto the bed, distantly aware of Curtis’ big, strong hands gripping your hips to keep your ass up so he could continue to pound into you, chasing his own release now.

He came with a shout not long after, and you gasped as you felt the warm bloom of his cum inside of you, felt his cock twitching and jumping as he pumped your pussy full of his cream until your greedy body milked him of every last drop. 

Still dazed and boneless, you moaned as Curtis slowly pulled out of you, feeling the gush of his seed trickle out of your pussy, and squirming as you felt his gaze watching the sinful sight.

He gave a quiet, boyish laugh before panting, “I’m still fucking hard for you,” and before you knew it, you were being flipped onto your back, and Curtis was sinking between your sprawled legs, slowly filling you with his cock once more as his big body pinned you beneath him. 

You whimpered, so beyond overstimulated at this point. A few tears escaped and streaked down your temples as you pressed a hand to Curtis’ firm stomach as if to hold him and his endless passion for you at bay. 

Gasping as he grinded against you, you quavered out a pitiful, “Please, too much.”

Curtis just tutted at you, but it was more playful than anything as he bracketed your head between his muscled forearms and gave another shallow thrust. “Don’t be that way, pretty prize. I gave you what you wanted, took care of you and this greedy pussy so good, didn’t I?”

You blinked owlishly, nodding in agreement at his sinful, teasing words.

Smile growing wicked, Curtis sank against you fully, his lips hovering over yours as he murmured, “Then be good and let me take care of myself now.” He nipped at your jaw, laughing when you squeaked. “Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

He started to fuck you again, keeping his thrusts shallow, his cock barely leaving your body but moving just enough to give him the kind of friction that had him groaning his pleasure. 

“God, this cunt is always so fucking tight,” he moaned, dropping his sweaty forehead to yours and groaning as you clenched around him hard. “Yeah, that’s it, squeeze my cock, fuck.” 

Your eyes fluttered, your body writhing beneath him without your permission, somehow needy and wanting once more. All you could do was cling to Curtis, your body his now to use as he wanted, while you were just along for the ride.

But part of you didn’t even care, and another part of you reveled in it.

Especially once Curtis snuck one of his hands between your bodies and began to strum at your clit with his thumb.

You squealed and jerked at the added stimulation, whining as more tears fell because now it really was too much. Your body was so oversensitive, every thrust of his cock and strum of his thumb making you tremble and writhe as your eyes rolled back into your head.

“Look at me,” Curtis demanded suddenly, his free hand framing your jaw so you couldn’t escape his piercing gaze once your glassy eyes aligned with his.

And that was just another dose of too much. Curtis’ constant, avid gaze. The way it felt like he could see right through you, right down to the deepest depths of your soul. The way it felt like he wanted to. 

He wanted to see you at your most vulnerable, stripped down to the basest part of you, undone in a way you never had been before, and all because of him. 

His next words just confirmed that. 

“Let go for me,” he husked your name–your actual name. “Give me all of you. I want all of you.”

Something about the exchange–perhaps the intensity of it all–unraveled you completely. Your body arched up against his as you came hard, making Curtis grunt as your cunt clenched around his cock, desperately gripping him like it never wanted to let him go.

Curtis scraped his teeth along the curve of your jaw before his thrusts grew harder and more intentional. Soon, he followed you over the edge with a groan so primal as he filled you with his cum that it had your body fluttering with another wave of aftershocks. 

Still gasping for breath, you clung to him, floaty and dazed, as if your mind had gone offline entirely. And maybe it had. 

You were exhausted too. As your boneless body sank back against the bed, it finally registered just how utterly tired you were–completely wrung out–and you struggled to keep your eyes open as Curtis laid beside you and arranged your pliant body over his. 

For a few long moments, it was quiet. You had lost the battle of staying awake, your eyes closed as you drifted closer and closer to sleep while Curtis’ fingers gently stroked along your back. But before you could descend entirely, his quiet voice drew you back to the surface of consciousness. 

“No one but me will ever touch you again.”

In your exhausted haze, as you slowly processed Curtis’ words, you couldn’t help but think that it almost seemed like an apology after what had happened with Franco, but you knew it wasn’t that.

It could never be that. 

Not from Curtis, and not to you.

It’s a steely promise, you reasoned silently before your mind finally surrendered to sleep.

And you were completely unaware of the way that Curtis stayed up for a good long while after you, his fingers gently, possessively tracing along your bare skin the entire time.

UMMM. I AM NOT OKAY. IN FACT, I AM VERY MUCH UNWELL. 🥴

—

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[fandomlovver]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[fandomlovver]

lessons in lovemaking [masterlist]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, handjobs, fondling, nudity, dry humping, grinding, female masterbation, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, clothed ejaculation,reader has dubious methods of coping, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, use of safe word/motion, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, major arguements, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, injury, bloodr, eader is lowkey depressed, trauma. mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each part

main masterlist

PARTS [4/7] part one part two part three part four

[fandomlovver]

Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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[fandomlovver]

The Miscommunication Trope™

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: After getting into the first real argument of your relationship, some misspoken words from Bucky leave you thinking that he's done. By the time he realizes just how badly he screwed up, will it be too late to correct his mistake?

Warnings: Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Miscommunication; Crying; Arguing between romantic partners; Bucky is mean but he makes up for it; Happy ending; Reader identifies as a woman and uses she/her pronouns, but other than having hair that can be swept behind an ear I don't think there are any other physical descriptors; Please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: Almost 9.3k.....I'm sorry lol

A/N: Ummm....so. I'm fairly certain I promised this fic, like...3 months ago? In fact, I actually just went back to look and I first teased this fic on Febuary 19th, so um...lol? I made it! Listen, idk if it's even any good anymore but if I look at it for another second I'll scream, so please take it off my hands. Any and all comments or reblogs would be SO appreciated because this has truly been a labor of love, I didn't know if I had it in me. Also!! I have not forgotten @buckyinmyuniverse - you asked to be tagged in this wayyyy back when I first posted about it and I have FANTASTIC news for you babe: The wait is finally over!! I know you've no doubt been refreshing your feed for months looking for it (/j) but this whole time I was cooking this thing I remembered you asking for a tag. So, this one goes out to you. Hope you all enjoy! <3

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You and Bucky hadn’t ever been in a fight before, not really. You bicker, sure, usually over something lighthearted, usually resulting in an eyeroll and a “whatever you say, honey,” from Buck, but nothing serious, nothing that can’t be worked out through a civilized conversation. That was, until today.

You weren’t even trying to start an argument, you were just expressing your concern. He works too much, he takes more missions than anyone else, and it’s running him ragged, anybody can see that.

Obviously, you miss him when he’s away, but that’s not even the point - the point is that he’s taking on too much because he thinks he owes the world something, and that’s not sustainable, it’s not good for him. All you said was that maybe he’d ought to ask Fury to take him off the rotation for a while, or even just cut down on his assignment load, to give him some room to breathe. And Bucky got…defensive.

Obviously, you knew that was a possibility. Typical male pride of course prohibits silly ideas like “self care” and “burnout,” but on top of that is Bucky’s specific brand of guilt, the kind that makes him work himself into the ground no matter how badly his brain and body beg him to stop.

The defensiveness you were prepared for, but you were only coming from a place of love, your concern that of a devoted girlfriend, and surely he’d understand that, wouldn’t he? Except he hadn’t. He’d immediately dismissed your suggestion, waving a hand and continuing to type up his latest mission report with a laser-like focus. 

“I don’t need a break, I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes trained on the bluish light of his laptop screen.

Again, you weren’t trying to argue. You certainly weren’t going to  force him to take a break, you just wanted him to at least consider it, to remind him that it would be okay for him to rest a little, if he wanted to. The world would go on without his help for a few weeks, and there were other heroes available besides him. 

“Honey, I know you might not need one, but it’s okay if you just want one. No one would judge you if-”

And then he did something he’d never done before: he snapped at you. He didn’t even look up from his screen, his fingers still a steady staccato on the keyboard as he barked out harshly.

“I said I don’t need a fucking break. I’m just doing my goddamn job, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck watching my every move the whole time I do it. I can take care of myself.”

You winced. Obviously, that stung, and if he’d bothered to look up from his computer screen, he might have seen that on your face. But you could tell he wasn’t as unbothered by this conversation as he was acting.

Despite his brusque attitude, your words were striking a chord with him, hitting a little too close to home. His shoulders were stiff as a board, bunched up around his ears in a telltale sign of defensiveness, and you understood, really you did.

For Bucky, doing this job is the one way he can even attempt to atone for all the bad shit he’s done. Of course he felt uncomfortable with the idea of a break, he thinks he has to do these missions as some sort of self-imposed penance for the things he’d been made to do as the Winter Soldier. 

So you didn’t judge him too harshly for lashing out. You understood the reason he worked so hard, and you knew what motivated him to continue going out there even when he was exhausted. You just wanted him to see that taking a break for his own mental health wasn’t a bad thing, that even if he was making amends he still needed to find time to take care of himself, too.

You took a deep breath and spoke in a calm voice, hoping to express your concern in a nonthreatening manner even as he still refused to look at you. 

“Angel. I’m not trying to breathe down your neck or tell you how to do your job. I know it’s important to you, and I love how hard you work! It’s just that, super-soldier or not, if you want to continue to do this job, you’re gonna need to stop and rest at some point, honey. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’m worried about you, love.”

Finally, he looked up at you, and your heart fluttered just seeing those baby blues you love so much. Until you clocked the scowl on his pretty face, and the hope in your gut curdled to dread. He was angry, you knew what that looked like, but in the six months of your relationship so far you’d never once seen that anger directed at you before.

It wasn’t frightening in a physical sense, not like you were scared for your well-being, of course not. But it deeply unsettled you, seeing the man you love looking at you like that. It made you want to apologize, though you weren’t quite sure what for. Before you could do anything at all, he spoke, his voice a cold, steel edge.

“You don’t know anything about what I can handle. I was doing just fine before you came around, and I don’t need you fussing over me at every turn just because I don’t sit around here all day scrolling on my phone or whatever it is you think I should be doing. I don’t need or want your hovering, so just stop, okay?”

There was silence. His shoulders heaved in the wake of his outburst, and you felt almost dazed, like this was some kind of mirage you could will away if you blinked hard enough. He’d never spoken to you like that.

Obviously, you’d hit a nerve, and while logically you understood that, it didn’t lessen the pain in your chest. You were just worried about him, why was he fighting like you were trying to strap him down and force him to quit?

While you tried to regain your bearings, breathing deeply and forcing back the stinging you felt building in your eyes, he slammed his laptop shut, standing and stalking towards your bedroom door. He’d come over to your place to work on his mission reports at your insistence because you’d wanted to keep him company, and now it appeared he was leaving.

“W-where are you going, what are you doing?” you’d squeaked, alarmed, following after him as he made his way to the foyer of your apartment and shoved his feet into his boots.

“I can’t fucking do this, I'm done,” he’d muttered in a gruff, hard voice, lacing his boots efficiently and standing back to his full height as he reached for the doorknob.

You shook your head, panicked, reaching for his arm and trying futilely to drag him back into your apartment. “Baby, please. I’m sorry, don’t go.”

But he just shook off your hold and stalked out the door, leaving you there as your eyes blurred with tears. After standing there in your foyer for several minutes, waiting for him to turn around and come back, you’d simply fallen to your knees and curled up right there on the polished wooden floor, bawling your eyes out.

That’s where you still are a couple hours later when your phone starts to vibrate incessantly in your pocket. You pull it out with trembling fingers and swipe to answer a call from Natasha.

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

“H-hello?” you croak into the receiver.

The second Nat hears you pick up the call she’s talking, looking distractedly through her closet as she holds the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

“Hey honey, listen, me and the girls were thinking about running to Target, and we wanted to- wait, what’s wrong?” Natasha’s cheerful voice quickly drops into something soft and concerned as she picks up on the sniffles coming through her tinny cell phone speakers.

For a few seconds all she can hear is you sobbing quietly, the way you struggle to slow your hysterical breathing so you can put together a sentence. “H-he left, Nat. He broke up with me,” you whimper, voice barely audible. 

This stops Natasha in her tracks, her brow furrowed in deep confusion as she freezes with one hand reaching for her favorite sweater. What the fuck? Why in the hell would Barnes break up with you? Especially when she knows for a fact that on the last mission she had with him, he stopped into a jewelry shop in Germany ‘just to look’ at engagement rings? This doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

“Honey,” Nat speaks into the phone again, her voice soft and soothing even through the crackly audio coming from your cell phone. “What happened, what did he say?”

You sniffle again, and clear your throat so she can hear your scratchy voice a bit better. “We…there was a fight, a-and I didn’t mean to, Nat, I swear, I was just worried, but…he said he can’t do this anymore, that h-he's done, and then he left. He didn’t take any of his things with him, but maybe he’s gonna come back for them, I don’t know…I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Nat…” As your sentence tapers off, your voice fades out, and a few renewed sobs float over the phone call into Nat’s ear, the sounds soaked in agony.

Oh, okay. Nat thinks she can see what really happened here just from your description, but that doesn’t make the sounds of your misery in her ear any less painful to hear. Likely, when Bucky had said he couldn’t do “this” anymore, that he was done, he’d meant the argument, the conversation, not your relationship.

But Barnes is your first real boyfriend, and you’ve never had a fight with him before. You were probably so confused and upset in the moment that you weren’t thinking about the context of his statement.

All you knew was that Bucky got upset with you for the very first time, and then he left. To you, that must certainly look like a breakup, and when Nat thinks about it from your perspective, she understands how you’d come to that conclusion.

She’d love to explain to you how you may have misunderstood, but as she listens to your hoarse crying over speakerphone, she knows you’re not in the frame of mind to process rational thought right now. Instead, she decides to focus on soothing you for the moment.

“I’m sorry, honey, I don’t know why he’d ever do anything like that to you. I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, alright? In the meantime, I just need you to do something for me,” she coos, her voice comforting and warm.

You don’t answer, just sniffling occasionally as you sit there in silence. Natasha, interpreting your lack of response as an affirmation, continues on.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s more silence for a few seconds, the sound of you pulling deep breaths into your lungs as you regain awareness of your surroundings. Then:

“Uh. The floor. In my apartment,” you mumble, confused, like you’ve just now realized that fact.

Natasha feels an additional lash of anger at Barnes flood her system when you tell her that, but she works to keep her voice calm even has her knuckles go white around her device.

“Okay, well, I need you to get up off the floor and go to your bedroom, okay? I want you to get dressed in your comfiest pajamas and crawl into bed for me, and wait there while I handle this. Can you do that? Just close your eyes and try to rest while I figure everything out?”

More sniffles, a hoarse cough, and then, after a beat of silence, your voice crackles over the line.

“Yeah….okay. I can do that, Nat,” you croak, the sound of shuffling floating over the line as you stagger to your feet after who knows how long on the floor.

She smiles, relieved to hear your voice coming through a bit more calmly, even as her mind races with the next items on her to-do list. “Okay sweetheart, you do that, then. I love you, I’ll call back soon, okay? Go get some rest.”

After hanging up with you, confident that at least you’re not curled up on your apartment floor anymore, she pockets her cell and immediately stalks down the hall towards the elevator, Target trip long forgotten.

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Bucky knows he fucked up. As someone who fucks up just about everything, he’s intimately familiar with the process, and he can say, with 100% certainty, that in this instance he absolutely fucked up. He never should have snapped at you - his sweetheart, his girl. You were just worried about him, and of course you were.

Bucky knows damn well he works too hard, especially lately, and he’s been on the verge of physical and mental collapse pretty much every damn day for the past month, running himself into the ground. He’d even been thinking to himself before your argument that he should slow down, take a break before he gets himself killed. So why did he get so defensive when you’d suggested it?

He doesn’t goddamn know. Because he’s messed up. Because it’s one thing when he decides to take some time off, but another when someone else has the idea, like they think he needs it.

He can’t help it; for decades of his life, the slightest sign of weakness meant pain, meant the frigid blast of a firehouse to wake him up or the wandering scalpel of a Hydra doctor looking to find a defect. Not that that makes his outburst okay, by any means, but it’s an explanation, and hey, he’s working on it, really he is. 

Still, he knew the second he walked out of your apartment that he’d fucked up, and so he’s spent the past two hours at his own place a few floors up, licking his wounds and gathering the courage to go apologize.

Because…yes, okay, he’s embarrassed by the way he acted. He’s ashamed of his own behavior, and he’d needed a minute to feel sorry for himself before he inevitably goes back down to your apartment and grovels for your forgiveness. 

He figures you’re pissed beyond belief, and if giving you some time to cool off also gives him a little while to stall the complete destruction of his ego, well, then, he’ll take it.

He finished up his mission report, he took a shower, and now he’s preparing his apology speech, debating the merit of walking down the street to a bodega for some flowers, when his doorbell rings. Shit, maybe he’s already out of time and you decided to come to him. 

When he opens his door, looking thoroughly contrite, it’s not your expected figure that stands in his entryway, but Natasha’s. And even given all his super-soldier reflexes and military training, he still staggers back a step in shock when she slaps him right across the face. 

“Whoa, what the fuck, Nat?” he barks, rubbing at the heat blooming under the skin of this cheek.

Standing there in front of him with her arms crossed, she looks anything but remorseful, her fists clenched as if she has to deny herself the urge to do it again.

“Why the fuck did you break up with her, Barnes? Are you insane?! The one good thing in your life, and you threw it all away, why, because you got a little pissed off? Out of all the stupid, careless decisions you’ve made in your fucked-up life, I really didn’t think you had it in you to top all that, but Jesus…”

As she continues to rant at him, her face pinched with rage, Bucky struggles to make sense of the words she’s already spoken. Broken up with you? Why in God’s name would he ever do that?

What an absolutely absurd thing to accuse him of, given that everybody in this building knows how insanely in love with you he is, especially your own best friend. Why is she here playing some kind of prank on him when he’s supposed to be rehearsing his apology?

“I did no such thing,” he answers bluntly, interrupting her impassioned speech, his expression confused and a little irritated at the accusation.

Nat barely even blinks at this denial. “Oh really? Then why did I just talk to her on the phone, bawling her eyes out on the floor of her apartment, telling me that you did?”

Of course, Nat’s pretty sure that Barnes hadn’t really meant to break up with you by leaving during your argument, but she’s pissed at him either way for not being cognizant enough of your feelings to foresee your interpretation of his behavior.

To Bucky, Natasha’s words might as well have been a bucket of ice water poured over his head, the way they immediately freeze his joints with dread. He feels his stomach churn as if he might be sick, the horrifying mental image of you curled up on your wooden floors driving a stake between his ribs. When he’d left, you’d been standing. Sure, you’d looked upset, but surely not that upset…right? 

He tries to think back to your emotional state when he’d stormed out a couple of hours ago, but truthfully he hadn’t turned back to see your face as he’d walked out your door. Had you been crying? He didn’t think so, but now he isn’t so sure, especially given the look of anger on Nat’s face. Why would you tell her that he’d broken up with you? As a joke, some kind of payback for his outburst?

“I….” he pauses, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. “You talked to her? What did she say?”

Natasha almost feels sympathy for Bucky in this moment, standing before her looking so confused and slightly horrified. But then she thinks about her best friend sobbing on the floor because he’s an idiot, and that emotion vanishes, replaced with her plentiful anger.

“Well, it was kind of hard to hear her, what with all the sobbing and such. But when I finally was able to get her to speak, she said that there was a fight, and that you broke up with her and then left her there. She said you hadn’t taken any of your stuff with you when you left, and she wasn’t sure when you’d be back for it, but that she didn’t know what she was going to do,” Nat recalls in a hard voice, her gaze sharp and accusatory. “After that she started crying again, so I didn’t ask her any more questions.”

Another bruising blow to the tatters of Bucky Barnes’s heart. What did you mean, he hadn’t taken his stuff? Why would he take his things when he’d left them there on purpose so he had them to use when he was at your place?

Why would he take his belongings out of your apartment just because you got into an argument? This doesn’t make any sense, and the longer Natasha talks, the worse his growing sense of unease becomes. 

Why were you crying? Sure, he expected anger, he’d been a huge swinging dick and he deserves some harsh words. But why is Nat saying that you were curled up on your floor sobbing? Why wouldn’t you be on the couch, or in your bed, or even down in the gym punching out your frustrations? 

And why were you on the phone with your best friend moments ago talking like you didn’t expect him to come back? Surely you know he’ll be back, he practically lives in your apartment - his wallet and keys are still sitting in the dish by your front door, his favorite jacket hung on the coat rack. He looks at your closest friend desperately, his face drawn in stark lines of horror and regret.

“Natasha, please, I don’t know why she said all that stuff to you, I didn’t break up with her, I would never break up with her. We had an argument. She was only worried about me, but I got defensive like an asshole and said some shit I didn’t mean, so…I just wanted to get out of there, get some space before I lashed out some more, that’s all. I just needed a minute to cool off, I was always fully planning to go back, to explain myself and apologize. I don’t know why she…” he trails off, looking lost.

Nat sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her best friend is in hysterics, and it’s all because men are the dumbest creatures on this planet.

“What do you think that looked like to her, Barnes? You guys get in your very first fight, and after saying some mean shit to her you stomp out of there and go ‘I can’t do this, I'm done’. What do you think those words might have sounded like to her ears? You’re her first serious boyfriend, jackass! She’s never been in this situation before! She doesn’t know that it’s relatively normal for couples to argue, even if you definitely shouldn’t have snapped at her. She just knows you’ve never fought before, and the first time you do, you walk out the door. She thinks you’re gone for good, James.”

You could hear a pin drop in Bucky’s apartment right now, the sounds of bustling Manhattan outside his windows muffled by the blood roaring in his ears. He wants to be upset with you, to question how you could ever doubt his love enough to think he’d really just walk out after one disagreement. But in truth, given his actions and your lack of relationship experience, he doesn’t see how you could’ve come to any other conclusion. 

Bucky thought he’d been regretful before Nat got here, but after hearing his behavior described in this new light, he’s got a whole list of emotions to add to the pile. Self-loathing, remorse, fear. You’re in your apartment right now, believing yourself to be single. All that time you two spent together, every memory and intimate moment, you think it’s over, just like that, in the blink of an eye. 

Obviously, he needs to explain himself immediately, to tell you that he hadn’t meant to end your relationship in the slightest and that this is all just a giant misunderstanding.

But what if you don’t care? What if, after the way he acted towards you today, you’d rather accept his words as you’d thought he meant them and stay broken up, even knowing that wasn’t his intent? He’s shaking, he realizes distantly, noticing the way Natasha looks at him with concern in her eyes now.

He hadn’t ever really let himself consider that you’d turn him down before, when he was rehearsing his apology speech. You’re in a committed relationship of six months, you’re in love. Surely, even if he was a bit of an asshole, one transgression can be forgiven as long as he apologizes sincerely.

But that was back when he thought his only sin was his harsh words, back when he thought you were angry with him for his outburst.

Now that he knows what you’ve really been feeling, that you’ve apparently spent the past two hours sobbing on your wooden apartment floors waiting for him to come back and take his belongings, he’s not so confident that he can grovel hard enough to make up for this.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you, god damn it, that’s the whole reason he left in the first place, to spare you from his undeserved anger. Now he might be about to lose you because of his own childish temper tantrum, and the terror of that thought feels icy in his veins as it travels straight to his heart, freezing it in place. 

His body is moving towards his apartment door before he even commands his muscles to do so, single-minded on the only thing that matters anymore: fixing what he’s done. His hand is already turning the doorknob by the time a slightly startled Nat is able to catch up with him, her hand on his shoulder stalling him for only the tiniest moment before he’s barrelling ahead again.

“Don’t fuck this up. You love her, now go make it right,” she commands sternly, and Bucky just grunts his acknowledgment before bursting through his door out into the empty hallway, towards the elevator.

He doesn’t stop to voice his fears to Natasha, that it might be too late to make anything right, that he may have fucked it up beyond repair already. He just keeps moving, hoping beyond hope that he still has a chance.

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When he makes it to your apartment a few floors down from his own, it’s eerily silent as he pushes the door open. He’s never needed a key, FRIDAY has explicit orders to grant him entry, but for the first time ever it feels wrong entering your space unannounced, like maybe he should knock and wait for permission in light of what’s happened. He ignores the impulse. 

You’re not crouched on the floor of your entryway like Nat said you’d been, so he supposes that’s a good sign, but it occurs to him then that he’s not even entirely sure you’re home. Bucky pauses to ask FRIDAY where you are, and is relieved to hear that you’re only in your bedroom.

He almost thinks he picks up a hint of annoyance in the AI’s voice when she responds to his inquiry, though, as if even the damn computer program is pissed at him for the way he treated you. It must be his imagination.

“Angel?” he calls out softly, making his way slowly through the apartment to your bedroom, noting the oppressive stillness of the place as he goes deeper. “Honeybun? Sweet pea?” he uses his softest, most gentle voice, disturbed to find your usually lively dwelling so silent. 

The TV in the living room - usually playing some youtube video or episode of your favorite show - is powered off, and the lights are all off too, as if the sun had set and you simply hadn’t bothered to flick any of them on to combat the encroaching darkness. The place he’s wandering now is like a ghost of your apartment, no scented candles lit, no steaming mug of tea waiting for you at your usual spot at the coffee table. 

It’s unnerving, to have a place usually so full of life be so startlingly empty all of a sudden. His slow steps and his soft voice calling out for you are the only sounds in the entire space, until he finally reaches your bedroom door and pauses to listen. For a moment there’s nothing, and he worries that perhaps you aren’t home after all, until he hears a soft sound coming muffled through the thick wood of your door. 

He presses his ear against it to listen closer, brow scrunched as he waits to hear the sound again, and a moment later his heart shatters as it becomes clear that what he’s hearing is your soft sobbing, interspersed with the occasional sniffle.

Bucky pushes your door open ever-so-carefully, cursing under his breath at the slight squeak of the wood on its hinges. It’s hard to see anything in your room, even with his perfect super-soldier eyesight, as the lights are off in here, too, the curtains closed to limit even the soft moonlight coming through the windows. 

His instinct is to flick on the light so he can see you better, but he doesn’t want to startle you, and besides, you obviously prefer the lights off or you would’ve turned them on yourself when it got dark. Instead he just steps further into the room, squinting his eyes as he can just barely make out the lump under the covers where you lay, curled in a ball in the center of your mattress, crying quietly.

He knows you must have heard his entrance, must realize he’s standing at the side of your bed right now, but you make no move to acknowledge him, continuing to sob softly as he watches on, heartbroken.

“Oh, darlin’...” he sighs, pulling the covers back a bit to expose your head, kneeling with one knee on the mattress so he can get a closer look at you.

You sniffle pitifully as you feel the cool air of the room on your face, extra cold against your cheeks where they’re wet with tears. Your vision is too blurry for you to actually see him, but you know who it is, know the scent of his cologne and the familiar touch of his fingers on your face as he brushes your hair back to see you better. 

Your stupid, traitorous nervous system reacts immediately to his presence, your panicked breaths slowing and your tears subsiding, a warm wash of comfort moving through your chest along with an instinctive sense of safety.

Your body knows nothing of the events of the past few hours, that he isn’t yours anymore, that he isn’t here to comfort you. It just instinctively calms under his attention, unaware that it is fleeting now, sure to be gone in only moments.

As the man you love wipes the tears gently from your face, his touch so sweet and soft it inadvertently causes more of them to fall, you force your hoarse voice to speak, the sound a barely audible croak even in the silence of your room. “Are you here to get your things?”

Bucky’s own eyes sting at your words, at the miserable tone to your voice as you say them, and he shakes his head vehemently, though he’s not sure you’re even really seeing him right now.

“No, baby, of course not. Why would I take my stuff, huh? I left those things here so I could use them when I’m visiting my girl, you know that,” he counters in a painfully soft voice, like he thinks speaking above a murmur will shatter you. Maybe he’s right about that, you do feel awfully close to shattering.

You feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind your eyes, and you close them for a moment, struggling to craft a coherent thought through all the heartbreak clouding your brain. Why is he here speaking nonsense when you’re in the middle of trying to mourn him? Does he not see that it’s cruel for him to be here with his comforting touch and his sweet voice, knowing that those things are lost to you forever now? 

“I’m not your girl anymore…” you mumble brokenly, the very act of having to speak the words into existence pulling another sob from your chest. 

Despite yourself you nuzzle your cheek into his palm as he cradles your face, desperate for his affection. If you’re never going to feel his touch again, you’ll bask in every opportunity while you have it, savoring the familiar warmth even as you question why he’s offering it to you in the first place.

Your face is pinched in concentration, like you’re trying to commit the sensation to memory, and Bucky’s heart might as well be in shards by his feet at this point, the way you seek out his touch like you’re starved for it. Like it hasn’t only been hours since he last gave it to you, like you’ll never have the chance to feel it again.

“Yes you are, baby, you’re always gonna be my girl. You’re mine, honey, just like I’m yours. Forever, haven’t I told you that?” he speaks desperately, like he’s pleading with you to agree with him, and although you’d love to, you have very recent evidence to the contrary.

“B-but, you said…” you trail off in a whisper, unable to repeat the words. You don’t need to anyways, you both know what he’d said. That he can’t do this. Can’t be with you anymore.

Bucky’s quick to interrupt you, needing you to understand that that’s not what he’d said, or, at least, not what he’d meant. “Baby, I didn’t- I’m sorry I said it like that, and I understand why you took those words the way you did. But that’s not what I meant to say, sweetheart, I swear.”

He huffs and slides a frustrated hand through his hair, suddenly unable to bear having this conversation with you while you lie curled up alone in your bed, looking up at him blankly with your shining eyes.

Before you can speak another word he peels back the covers some more, making room for himself as he slides into the bed beside you, pulling you up and onto his chest so he can hold you in his arms. The tears on your cheeks immediately soak through the soft cotton of his T-shirt, but he doesn’t care, cradling you tightly against his chest and rubbing slow, comforting circles onto your back.

You want to say something, to express your confusion at his incongruent behavior, but you can’t, not with his arms around you and his scent in your nose. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out are more shuddering sobs, your body limp in his hold, completely helpless against the comfort he offers.

Even if he shouldn’t be, he’s here. He’s here, and he’s holding you like you’re something precious again, and even if you know that there must be some mistake you can’t stop yourself from completely melting into his embrace, any semblance of your remaining composure crumbling completely.

Bucky just coos softly, murmuring gentle assurances in your ear and holding you, solid and steady as you weather the storm of your heartbreak. Despite having spent the better part of the past two hours bawling your eyes out, the crying starts anew with him here, his comforting presence both a relief and a reminder of what you’ve lost, what you’ll be missing when he walks out that door again.

You two lie like that for a while, though whether it’s for a few minutes or several hours you can’t say, time stretching into infinity as you cry into his chest. As the tears finally subside once again, your body exhausted and your throat sore, your mind belatedly registers his words from before. He’d been saying something, hadn’t he? 

“What…” your voice comes out scratchy, so you clear your throat to be heard better - though Bucky couldn’t have missed a word out of your mouth if he tried, focused on you as he is. “What do you mean, that’s not what you meant? You broke up with me.”

Bucky shakes his head immediately, bringing his mismatched palms up to cradle your face, sweeping your hair back behind your ears so he can see his beautiful girl. God, it’s torture watching you cry, but he seems to have broken through to you somehow, and he’s not going to squander this opportunity to explain himself.

He can’t suppress the urge to lean down and drop a tender kiss to your forehead, though, your tear-stained face so pitiful he could cry right along with you if he didn’t have something more important to be doing at the moment.

“I mean, that’s not what I meant, sweetheart. I never intended to break up with you. How could I? Leave my girl, my princess? Don’t you know you mean more to me than every other person on this planet put together?” He speaks calmly but firmly, his gaze steady on yours as he practically begs you to believe him. You have to believe him.

You frown, confusion pulling your brows together as you take in his desperate expression. His words make your heart flutter with hope, but you don’t understand, can’t make sense of the reality he’s trying to assert when you know you heard otherwise only a couple of hours ago. It’s all a bit much for your heartbroken brain to handle, and you just blink at him blankly, completely lost.

“I don’t understand, Buck. Y-you were so upset, and then you left, and you said ‘I can’t do this, I'm done.’ I thought you meant we were done, that you can’t do us anymore.” you recall in a miserable voice, searching his eyes for answers as you desperately try to understand.

He nods empathetically, his thumbs brushing at the tears on your cheeks even as more continue to fall to take their place. “I know that’s what I said, sweet girl, and I know how it sounded to you, but that’s not at all how I meant it, I swear. I just…” Bucky sighs, his features plastered with remorse, his eyes falling from yours in shame.

“I was being an asshole. I knew, even as I was doing it, that I was being an asshole, that I couldn’t stop being an asshole, so I just…I wanted to get away from you before I lashed out any more, that’s all. I knew if I kept trying to discuss things with you right then I was only going to say more shit I didn’t mean, so I tried to put some space between us, just until I could cool off and be rational again.”

Bucky pauses, sighing deeply and stroking your cheeks. His eyes are swimming with guilt so deep it hurts your chest just to look at it. He looks almost as torn up about this whole ordeal as you do, which, although his pain isn’t something you revel in, does make your heart beat a little faster with hope. Would a man who doesn’t want to be with you anymore still look at you with that much guilt over having caused you pain?

When he speaks again his voice is low and strained with emotion, apologetic. “Darlin’, I…I am so sorry for the things I said to you today. I didn’t mean a single damn one of them. I love that you look after me, I love that I have someone waiting for me when I come home, making sure I’m not pushing myself too hard. I need you there to do that for me, because we both know I’m too proud and stubborn to take a break on my own. I got defensive, and I lashed out because I felt threatened, and that is not okay or fair to you. If you can’t forgive me for those things I said, I understand.” 

He swallows thickly, his eyes closing as hot tears sting the backs of them, fighting to escape. “But you need to know that when I told you I couldn’t ‘do this,’ I sure as hell didn’t mean you, or us. All I meant was that I couldn’t keep having that conversation with you, that I needed to get away before I hurt you worse. That’s all it was. When I left your apartment today, it was to get some space because I knew I was throwing a temper tantrum. In no way, shape, or form was I breaking up with you, or trying to end what we have. I couldn’t do that, it’s not in my DNA to do that. I’m simply not capable of it, and you have to know that. Even if you decide you’re better off without me, I need you to know that. Please.”

You stare down at him in the wake of his speech, watching as he blinks rapidly to keep tears at bay, and you’re so god damn confused in this moment that you wish he would give you a timeout, let you process everything he just said before you have to respond to it.

Could it possibly be true? That he’d never meant to break up with you, that he still loves and wants you? Could this all just be some massive misunderstanding on your part?

The possibility has hope fluttering warm in your chest, but you suppress it. Better to make absolutely sure first, before you let your heart get obliterated for the second time today. Letting yourself have this hope only to quash it moments later might actually break you for good.

“You weren’t…I mean, you didn’t want to break up with me?” you whisper hesitantly, afraid to let yourself believe it even though you’re desperate to.

Bucky’s heart cracks in his chest as you ask that so timidly, like just voicing the question is opening you up to a whole new potential world of hurt. He shakes his head firmly, his metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.

“No, babygirl, never. Not in a million years. Even though we were arguing, it was the last thing on my mind, trust me. I’ve never wanted to break up with you, not for a second. I love you,” he reassures you smoothly, his voice low and calm, exuding certainty.

You have to sniffle hard to hold back a fresh round of tears at those three simple words, ones you never thought you’d get to hear from him again. Jesus Christ, if you never cry again it’ll be too soon. Your gaze is particularly frail and fragile as it meets Bucky’s, some of that hope you’d been suppressing earlier making itself known in your features, tentative but present.

“So…you’re still my boyfriend?” you ask in a tiny murmur, like maybe this is the part where he pulls the rug out from under you and announces he was kidding about the whole misunderstanding thing.

Bucky’s features tighten a little at your question, and dread pools in your stomach rapidly, fearing the worst. But his words aren’t quite the heartbreaking blow you’re expecting, more like a puzzling wrinkle.

“If you want me to be, yeah, baby, I am.”

Your brow furrows, confused. What the hell does that mean? Suddenly, you recall a few other parts of his speech just now, parts that had been immediately overshadowed when he’d said that he still wanted to be with you. Now that you think about it, he’d also said a bunch of stuff along the lines of ‘If you can forgive me,’ and ‘If you decide you’re better off without me,’ hadn’t he?

What the hell was that all about? Why’s he talking about whether you want to be with him? Like you haven’t been literally bawling your eyes out for the past two hours at the prospect of having to live without him? How does that make any sense?

“Of course I want you to be. You think I was curled up on the floor sobbing because I was happy to think that our relationship was over?” you ask incredulously, frowning at him. 

He chuckles a little at that, the sound vibrating through you as you lay on his chest, but it’s strained, his expression vulnerable. Although you attribute this misunderstanding mostly to your own mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion, Bucky is riddled with guilt for both his abrupt exit from your apartment and the things he’d said leading up to it.

In his eyes you went through a lot of pain today, and every inch of it is his fault. If he’d stopped to explain his meaning, or, hell, if he hadn’t gotten so damn defensive in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. His girl wouldn’t have spent hours of her life sobbing on her hardwood floors if he’d just stopped to breathe like his therapist taught him to. His pale irises swim with shame as he gazes up at you.

“No, no, I just…I said some horrible things to you today, darlin’. And just because you were upset to think that I’d broken up with you doesn’t necessarily mean that all is forgiven, I know that. I understand if you’d rather keep us apart after the way I acted,” he murmurs defeatedly, like he’s already prepared himself for a thorough scolding.

Which is absolutely goddamn ridiculous, in your eyes. You snort, brows raised in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? All is forgiven, Buck, all is so past forgiven. I don’t care about the shit you said. You’re here, you’re still mine, that’s all that matters now. Forget the fight, forget all of it. I’ve got you, that’s all I care about.”

You say it so simply, like it could be so easy. Like his indiscretions are just wiped clean in the face of your pure relief. But he knows that they aren’t, they can’t be. It’s not that easy, as much as he’d like it to be. He fucked up, and he deserves what’s coming to him.

He tries to reason with you, his expression pained. “Baby, you can’t just-” 

“I absolutely can, actually,” you interrupt, looking unamused, stern. “I’m the one you said those things to, so I think I have the right to determine how I feel about them, don’t you?” You keep your eyebrows raised, challenging.

You watch as he mulls those words over a bit, licking his lips anxiously. It takes him a moment to decide how to respond, and when he does his words are slow, strained. Like maybe he doesn’t want to say them, but he feels like he has to.

“Yes, you do. It’s ultimately your decision, of course it is. I just…before you decide to blindly forgive me for this, I want you to really consider how you feel, okay? I know your instinct is to forget all about it because you’re just relieved to have me at all right now, but…I messed up. I hurt you, I said hurtful things even if I didn’t mean them. You didn’t deserve that, least of all from me, the man who’s supposed to love and protect you. You’re allowed to be upset about it, and if my actions made you realize that you don’t want to be with me anymore, then…you’re allowed to feel that way, too.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and your heart aches painfully in your chest at the sound. In this moment, you’re realizing with horror that Bucky truly believes he deserves to be broken up with tonight. With the unshed tears clinging to his lashline and the devastated look on his face, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be dumped, that in fact that’s the last thing he wants.

But it’s obviously what he thinks should happen, the punishment he thinks he’s earned for the inadvertent heartbreak he put you through tonight, and that’s just…unacceptable, to be honest. 

The man would forgive you if you literally drove a stake through his chest, for Christ’s sake, yet he’s expecting you to kick him to the curb? What, because he got a little snippy with you? Because you jumped to the wrong conclusion and convinced yourself he left you? You would almost be insulted that he could think such a thing of you if you didn't know where the fear comes from.

You've seen them firsthand: the deep layers of self-loathing that have bogged him down since long before your relationship started, the inherent belief he carries that he is irreparably flawed and unworthy of love. He doesn't feel like he deserves you on his best day, so when he screws up, no matter the size of the infraction, he expects to be cast aside.

You reach out with one hand to cradle his cheek, his stubble gently scraping against your thumb as you caress his skin. Your expression is caring but firm, your eyes holding his as you speak in an even voice.

“I need you to understand that I don't expect you to be perfect, James. I don’t expect that you will always say the right thing, or have a perfectly even temperament in every situation because hell, none of us do. You’re allowed to fuck up sometimes, sweetheart, and you still deserve to be loved even when you do.”

His brow furrows as you speak, his instinct to reflexively deny the forgiveness you’re offering. “But I hurt you,” he interjects, the look on his face so miserable it tugs at your chest.

You nod your agreement, though your expression is still full of compassion and love. “Yes, you did. I won’t even begin to address the break-up fiasco because that was a complete misunderstanding on my part, but yes, the things you said before you left really stung me. Do you know why I’m going to forgive you anyways, though? Why, even if this happens again, I’ll probably forgive you a hundred times over?”

You pause for effect, giving him the opportunity to respond. Honestly, as upset as you’ve been these past few hours, it’s all begun to fade in the face of this man you love trying to convince you he’s not worth it. When he just looks at you helplessly, his eyes tracking your speech with rapt attention, you smile and continue.

“It’s because I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, Bucky. Let me ask you something: when you snapped at me today, did you do it because you were trying to find the absolute meanest thing you could say at that moment? Did you say it because you wanted me to feel bad?”

Looking a bit startled at the suggestion, Bucky shakes his head mutely. He hadn’t really even been conscious of the words at all until after they’d already blurted from his mouth, and even then it didn’t fully sink in until after he’d calmed down. You smile, satisfied by his immediate denial. 

“No, of course you didn’t. You didn’t say that stuff to be mean, to hurt just for hurting’s sake. You were feeling ambushed and defensive, and you lashed out. Is it ideally how you’ll always react when I try to express my concern for your wellbeing? No, of course not. But is it a realistic thing for a person to do who’s not used to being cared for? Absolutely, it is. And it’s just something we’re gonna have to work on, baby. I’ve never done this whole relationship thing before, and you’re trying to do it for the first time in 80 years with a hell of a lot of additional trauma thrown into the mix. 

“We’re learning, and it’s not always gonna be perfect or easy. Maybe before this becomes an issue again, we’ll think up some ways for you to politely tell me ‘I’m feeling overwhelmed by this conversation, please back off and we can come back to it later.’ Or maybe we’ll discuss how I can voice my concerns to you in the future without triggering your defensive response, how I can come off as less accusatory and make the discussion feel more safe for you.

“We’ve only been doing this for six months, and as real as it is, as much as I love you more than anything, we’re gonna face a hell of a lot more than this one hurdle if we want to keep doing this thing in the long term. So, yeah, tonight has sucked, pretty much every minute of it was a disaster, but you know what? It’s over now. You apologized, we’re gonna try and do better next time, and…that’s the end of it. Clean slate. All I want to do with the rest of my night is finally stop fucking crying, and eat a burger the size of my head. Preferably, with my boyfriend next to me the whole time, trying to steal my fries when I’m not looking. Do you think you could help me make that happen, Buck? Please?”

He looks stunned in the wake of your speech, silent for several moments as his brain struggles to grapple with the reality of your easy forgiveness. He blinks at you hard, like he truly can’t believe that you’re not running in the opposite direction right now, burning every trace of your life together and cursing his name the whole way.

But the truth is, you’d already made up your mind to forgive him the second you realized he hadn’t meant to break up with you in the first place, and Bucky must see that, too, because the fight in his eyes is slowly dimming into something more fragile, vulnerable. 

His gaze fixes on yours in the dark, searching for some hidden shard of resentment or anger that you may be holding back for his sake, but he doesn’t find it, there is no such thing for him to find. You just smile weakly up at him, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day but no less sincere, and when he blows out a slow breath through his nose, you know you’ve got him.

He’s definitely not done badgering himself about the mistakes he made today, not by a long shot, but he must see your weariness on your face, your desperate need to move on from this at least for the moment, so he nods slowly, his flesh hand rising to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, sweetheart, we can make that happen. Whatever you want.”

Your smile brightens, the relief so stark in your features that it brings a lump to his throat, and when you press your lips against his he makes a silent promise to never put you in a position like this again, to never let his bullshit drag you down or put your relationship at risk like he did today.

He’ll go to therapy twice a damn week if he has to, you deserve better than his temper tantrums, than cruel words spoken out of a defensiveness he doesn’t need anymore. Not with you. 

Half an hour later finds you perched in his lap, draped in one of his hoodies and talking and laughing at your favorite diner like there never was an argument, like not a single tear was shed today. He hates that the joy on your face is most likely motivated by your sheer relief that he’s still yours, but he can’t complain about the sparkle in your eyes, nor the way you lean back against his chest as you sip your shake.

Obliging your request, he steals some fries off your plate while you gesticulate wildly through a story, a warm flutter going off in his chest when you pretend to squawk in protest. He soaks in every second, every twitch of your lips and brush of your hand against his, reminding himself what he could have lost, what he perhaps deserved to lose after his actions today. 

He’ll make this up to you, he knows he will - he’s sure Natasha will have plenty of suggestions for how he can start. He thinks back to that little velvet box he’s got buried deep in the back of his sock drawer, a sharp pull tugging at his heart as he realizes he almost lost his chance to give it to you at all. He resolves right here and now, basking in the warm light of your infinite patience for him, that he won’t take that box out until he’s earned it.

He hates to wait even a second longer, itches to lock you down with every passing moment, but he won’t ask you to make that kind of commitment to him until he’s sure he’s the man that you need him to be. As he presses a firm kiss to your temple, swiping another morsel from the edge of your plate with a smile, he swears up to his Ma that he will work hard to deserve you, even if you seem to think he already does.

[fandomlovver]

Cedar Trees

a collection of Royal AU stories centered around a King Steve Rogers and Queen!Reader

You came into this betrothal to Steve Rogers, King of York, with no illusions to the situation – yours was a marriage to ensure the continuation of many generations of alliance and peace between your respective kingdoms. It was your duty as the second-born. Very early, however, you learn what your royal union truly means to you both, and it's more than either of you expect.

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] politically arranged marriage, reluctant pining, SMUT (rough fucking and fluffy and intimate sexual situations)

AUTHOR NOTE: The setting for this is a semi-Georgian era in a loose version of a North America based in no reality, only aesthetic and general royal protocols of the time.

ADDITIONALLY: I actively and eagerly accept questions about this AU as well as requests - asks I can get to fairly quickly, requests may take me longer. I know their general story, but I have no agenda for a plot for them, so I'm willing to fulfill requests based on what people would like to see in this couple's story.

ORIGINAL FOUNDATION PIECE: Fire Burning From a Cedar Tree

Release Order:

Fire Burning From a Cedar Tree [3.4k]

The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are [1.2k]

Winter Solstice (response to an ask)

Cold Hands, Warm Hearts [1.3k]

A Shift in the Morning Routine [1.1k]

Love That's Laid Beside Me [5k]

The Silence of the Hushed Sublime [4.8k]

Chronological Order:

The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are

Fire Burning From a Cedar Tree

A Shift in the Morning Routine

Winter Solstice (an ask that plays into their narrative)

Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

Love That's Laid Beside Me

The Silence of the Hushed Sublime [4.8k]

Extras:

what if Cedar Trees was also an omegaverse?

ask re: kinks and physical intimacy

Resources:

Collection Cover by me

Divider by @firefly-graphics / #evansyhelp

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Desperate to Devoted

a rivals to lovers post-TFATWS verse

While Steve was still part of the timeline, Bucky was his prodigal best friend recovering in Wakanda while you were steadily becoming a close, trusted friend to Captain America. Bucky blipped out, and you were there for Steve when half the world disappeared. Steve's departure leaves a wake of absence, and it takes a desperate situation to bring you and the White Wolf to face what's between the two of you. And then what?

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] kidnapping, sex pollen ergo DUBIOUS CONSENT in one chapter, consensual sexual situations (referenced/hinted, and outright explicit physical intimacy), medical elements (needles, IVs, experience of medical distress)

VERSE: ↠ part one: Desperate [3k] ↠ part two: Uncertain and Sure [550] ↠ part three: Insatiable [1.8k] ↠ part four: Big Conversation [1.1k] ↠ part five: Too Hot [700]

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The Brooklyn Boys Series

a post-endgame where Steve stays in the present rom-com drabble series

Bucky meets a female reader in the park, they don't hit it off. On another day, Steve meets a female reader at a sandwich shop, and they do hit it off. Relationships grow, feelings grow, then they collide.

Content Warnings: slow burn, occasional strong language, ultimate polyamorous relationship

SERIES

1: Bucky and the Bench

2: Steve and the Sandwich

3: Bucky and the Books

4: Steve and the Skyline

5: Bucky and the Brief Brush

INTERLUDE

6: Steve and the Ballet

7: Bucky and the Shelves

8: Steve and the Blindside

9: Bucky and the Situation

10: Steve and the Best Friend

EXITLUDE

MORE STORY

Listed in chronological order: First Night [takes place immediately after part 10] Idle Hands [first fall/winter] Big Red Bow [a few days after their first NYE]

EXTRAS

Commentary about the narrative structure of the Bucky, Steve, and Stucky parts.

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FINE LINE collection

a near-future dark omegaverse AU

Twenty years ago, the United States went up in flames and burned to ash. Canada and Mexico came down in the blaze alongside it. From the charred embers, eleven sovereign states emerged with a tenuous affiliation to stabilize and keep the peace among them. Noble and nefarious forces are now emerging to try and reshape the political landscape - some to become more united, some to seize power.

Scattered amongst the political games is the complexity of life in an omegaverse. Alpha, beta, and omega distinctions are only as straightforward as a fool believes them to be as feelings and beliefs intermingle with the biology of all relational dynamics.

Once known as the Winter Soldier, the White Wolf Bucky Barnes now leads the fearsome HYDRA pack that has emerged to make a play for power. You could not stand in his way, but what can you do if you fall in step behind the cruel alpha?

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] DARK STORY, omegaverse dynamics (biting, claiming, scenting, heats, bonding, alpha commands), scenes of dubious consent, angst, manipulation, blackmail, kidnapping, explicit smut, murder (side character)

COLLECTION: Governor Barnes ↠ part one: Give Up [450] ↠ part two: Falling Away [1.5k] ↠ part three: Every Minute Of It [4k] ↠ part four: Entanglement [4.9k] ↠ part five: No Way Out [5.9k] aside with General Ari Levinson: Rank and Promotion [7.5k] ↠ part six: Under Siege [8.5k]

EXTRAS: ↠ Alpha Bucky is mean, hints of characters to come (response to a reblog)

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Comms Interference | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music and precision. What they don’t know is that you’re Bucky Barnes’ secret wife.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood and injury detail, combat violence, gunfire, language, references to past trauma, mentions of HYDRA and Red Room conditioning, high-adrenaline tension, implied PTSD, emotionally repressed idiots in love

Word Count: 9.3k

Author’s Note: ok this was unhinged levels of fun to write and i regret nothing. i love the chaos. thank you again to the incredible request!! will i be writing more of this flavor of secret marriage? absolutely. also: i’m working through more requests soon so if i haven’t gotten to yours yet, i promise i haven’t forgotten!! thank you for being here and screaming with me always <3

The mission had gone to shit six minutes ago.

Yelena had called it first, with that vicious kind of sarcasm she reserved for the moments just before blood hit the concrete. “Ah, yes. Reinforcements. Wonderful. So glad we were not warned about that.” Somewhere ahead of her, gunfire cracked in frantic bursts, too far left for the recon drone’s range. The team had split off in the chaos. Ava had gone radio silent, Alexei had wandered too far into the smoke, and John—somewhere in the middle of it all—was bleeding too much for someone who insisted he had it handled.

Bucky moved like a phantom, silent and sharp, pulse pacing steadily with the beat of crisis. Not panic. Not anymore. He’d spent too many years being the last line between chaos and carnage to waste energy on nerves. But this was the kind of mission that reeked. Hasty intel. Unexpected players. A mess of underpaid mercenaries with too much firepower and no clear objective.

Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the lack of backup.

He ducked behind a half-collapsed column, adjusting the comms in his ear. “Ghost, come in.”

Nothing.

“Belova, status?”

“Busy,” Yelena snapped back, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting concrete.

“Walker?”

Crackling. Then, “Still upright. Not loving it.”

Not a lot to love. Their extraction point had been pushed back two miles, and the enemies just kept coming. Sloppy formation, uncoordinated, like someone was using them to smoke them out. But why? Sure, they were the newly named “Avengers”, but they weren’t even a proper unit yet. Just a bandage stretched too tight across a bleeding world.

A second burst of gunfire lit up the smoke ahead of him. Bucky pressed forward, adjusting the rifle over his shoulder. 

His ribs ached. Something had cracked when he hit the wall earlier, but he was used to working broken. There wasn’t time to slow down. Another figure emerged from the mist and he recognized the clumsy footwork, the huffing breath. Walker. He was limping, red blooming across his arm, jaw clenched tight enough to crack enamel.

“They’re circling back,” he growled. “Either we regroup or we go down swinging.”

“We’re not dying here,” Bucky said simply.

The comms hissed.

Just a stutter of static at first. Barely enough to make anyone flinch. Then a pulse. Faint. Rhythmic. Almost like—

“Oh god,” Bucky breathed, just as the bass dropped.

It was unmistakable. Blown-out, over-compressed pop blaring directly into his left ear. Not military comms. Not interference. Music. High-energy, aggressively hyper-feminine, shamelessly catchy.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…”

“Are you—what is that?” Walker barked, slapping at his ear like the sound had crawled inside it.

Yelena’s voice buzzed back into the channel. “Is someone playing Pussycat Dolls on our frequency?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His blood had turned to static. That song. That voice—not the lyrics, but the one threaded over the top of it, smooth and low and familiar. One he hadn’t heard in weeks and one he wasn’t supposed to be hearing for another few days.

“Miss me?”

Bucky turned and it was like watching the opening beat of a nightmare you hadn’t allowed yourself to dream in years.

The smoke curled around you first—black against the pale concrete, shivering in the aftermath of a concussion blast—and then you stepped through. Leather at your thighs, a familiar half-mask pulled just low enough to show your mouth, batons already swinging. One of the mercenaries clocked you too late. You dropped him with a strike to the temple, pivoted cleanly into another, ducked a swing and hit back twice as hard.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in this fight, not in this city, not in this life.

At least, not anymore.

You had promised. Not with words, never with words, but in the quiet, liminal moments between missions. The soft touches passed like contraband between bodies that only knew how to break things. The way you said enough without ever needing to say it. The way you’d disappeared, with him, years ago, when it became clear the world didn’t need you anymore.

But you’d always needed him.

That much, apparently, hadn’t changed.

“Who the hell—” John started, eyes wide as he tracked your path through the battlefield.

“Shut up,” Bucky snapped. Too loud. Too fast. Too revealing. He kept his eyes on you. Didn’t dare blink.

You moved like you’d never stopped. Like the years hadn’t dulled you. Like civilian life had been a dream someone else lived for you.

Another merc tried to grab you from behind. You shattered his kneecap without looking, then tased him mid-collapse with a baton charged enough to light his vision up for a week. You were grinning now. Not wide. Not cocky. But with the same edge he’d seen years ago when you’d told him you didn’t believe in peace, just long stretches of boredom between moments worth bleeding for.

The team closed in slowly, instinct dragging them toward you without understanding why. Ava reappeared from a wall, phasing in with her hand on her weapon. Alexei lumbered forward, red suit charred at the edges. No one said a word. They all watched as you handled the remaining mercs like it was nothing. Like it was fun.

Then came more boots.

Bucky heard them before anyone else did, just barely, just over the last distorted chorus still crackling through the comms. A dull percussion of heavy soles slamming rhythmically into the concrete, coming fast through the fog of gunpowder and ruin. More reinforcements. He didn’t need eyes on them to know they weren’t freelancers this time. These steps were uniform. Trained. Unrushed.

Whatever this operation had started as, it had just shifted into something colder. Measured. Intentional.

“Movement,” he said, sharp into the mic. “East side. Full formation.”

Ava phased halfway through a concrete wall, scanning. “Tactical gear. Gas masks. No insignia.”

“Of course,” Yelena muttered. “Because today wasn’t already a flaming dumpster.”

They were boxed in. Walker had maybe one clip left. Ava was half in and half out of phase, red bleeding under her ribs. Yelena’s shoulder was hit. Alexei’s arm was dislocated again and he kept wrenching it back into place like it was a door hinge.

And then there was you.

Standing calmly in the center of the chaos, blood on your knuckles, mask cracked at the jawline. Not tense. Not afraid. Just… assessing. Like you’d seen this play out already.

The first soldier in the oncoming wave raised a weapon.

And you moved.

Not back. Not for cover. Forward.

The stereo signal shifted with you, leaping from Bucky’s comms to the mercenaries’ headsets, hijacking every open frequency on-site. A different song—now louder, sharper, folding itself into the space like a knife into bone. The bass thudded through the pavement, disorienting, impossible to ignore.

“This place’s about to blow—”

The lyric hit just as you sprinted toward the advancing line, coat flaring behind you, batons tucked back into your belt. You didn’t need them now.

Two soldiers opened fire. You dropped low into a slide beneath their aim, boots skimming waterlogged concrete. You came up spinning, driving an elbow into one throat, then swinging around to knee the second across the jaw with enough force to crack his visor.

Bucky couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

You were in the center of it now, alone. Completely surrounded.

And utterly untouchable.

One mercenary tried to grab you in a bearhold from behind. Your head snapped back into his face before he could tighten the grip, cartilage crunching under the blow. You twisted free, used his moment of stunned pain to launch yourself off his chest, flipping backward into a double-leg kick that sent two more sprawling.

They were trying to flank you. Six at once now. You moved too fast to corner, slipped between them like smoke through fingers.

You caught a rifle midair—torn from one man’s grip—then swung it by the barrel, not to shoot but to break. Shattered it across another soldier’s helmet. Sparks flew. He screamed.

You tossed the ruined weapon aside like trash.

Another tried for a taser jab. You caught his wrist in one hand, yanked it forward, and let your forehead crack against his temple with a sickening thunk. He dropped. You rolled over his body, grabbed a sidearm from his hip, twisted the battery cell out of it mid-motion, and used the casing as a projectile. Hurled it into the next man’s throat with such force that he stumbled backward coughing blood.

You weren’t improvising. You were performing. A display in violence so surgical, it felt rehearsed.

There was nothing showy about it. No wasted breath. No excess.

But it was beautiful.

More than one of them hesitated now. The last cluster fell back into each other’s lines, rifles up—but jittering. Off-sync. Unsteady. You were outnumbered five-to-one and you looked like you were winning.

No comms. No backup. No partner on your six, despite Bucky standing right there.

And still, no one could touch you.

Alexei had frozen, one hand still holding his dislocated shoulder. He squinted through the haze. “Is that—are they doing this without a gun?”

“She’s using a speaker and spite,” Yelena said, breathless.

Bucky barely heard them. Every atom in him had locked onto you.

He hadn’t seen you like this in years. Not since the war-torn corners of places no one dared map. Not since missions that left no record. He’d watched you walk away from this life—bloody, ragged, swearing you were done with men who handed out orders and didn’t come home.

But here you were.

“This place's about to blow—oh oh oh—”

The beat peaked again. You moved with it.

Bucky didn’t realize until later, until the playback logs came through, that you’d used the signal bounce from the comm hijack to trigger a proximity ping in one of the mercenaries’ own mines. Subtle. Elegant. Just a single pressure charge set beneath the concrete underpass.

You’d timed it to the music.

The explosions hit not with a flash, but a boom—a deep, guttural bass that ripped through the center of the formation. It threw bodies. Concrete cracked. Rebar snapped like bones. The wave of force didn’t kill anyone outright—it was too clean for that. But it sent the force scattering, screaming, radios buzzing with confused shouts in languages the translation software couldn’t keep up with.

You walked through the smoke, now. No urgency.

One of the last men standing raised a trembling pistol.

You were on him in a breath—disarmed him with a spin, yanked the weapon apart in two brutal motions, and slammed the butt of the magazine into his vest until he collapsed, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.

Bucky took a step forward. And then another. He didn’t know he was moving until the smoke curled at his boots.

Silence followed like a held breath.

When the last one fell, your music still bumping faintly over the comms, you finally looked at Bucky.

“Hi, baby.”

It wasn’t breathless. It wasn’t mocking. Just a quiet, dangerous kind of intimacy.

His heart felt like it stopped.

You moved to him casually, eyes raking over the bruise at his temple, the smear of blood under his collar. You tilted your head, inspecting him like he was a car you’d loaned out and found parked crooked in the wrong neighborhood.

The mask muffled your voice slightly, but not enough to hide the dryness in your tone. “Now that was a proper encore.”

The comms crackled again, faint and dazed.

“…Okay,” Walker muttered. “What the fuck just happened.”

No answer. Not from anyone.

Bucky approached you like someone walking through a minefield he already knew was active. Your eyes met his, slow and deliberate, as you reached up and peeled the broken edge of your mask back enough to speak.

“You look like shit,” you said simply.

“You blew up a fucking parking garage.”

“I nudged the pressure plate,” you corrected. “The garage blew itself up. Poor structural planning.”

Yelena finally spoke, somewhere off to the right. “Who are you?”

You didn’t look at her. Just exhaled through your nose like the question barely warranted a pause. “Old friend,” you said simply. “Fewer ethics, better taste in music.”

It hung there, ambiguous enough to pass but barbed enough that it didn’t invite further questions. You knew exactly how to deflect. How to disappear even while standing in plain sight.

You turned back to Bucky. The tilt of your head, the shift of your voice—both softened, only fractionally, but enough that he would feel it in his ribs. That awful, aching familiarity.

“You weren’t going to tell me about this op,” you said flatly, voice low, just for him.

“You're not supposed to be tracking me.”

You hummed. “And yet.” You tapped a gloved finger to his chest. Right above the hidden seam of his tac vest. He knew there was a tracker there. Or, he would now.

Behind you, the others were beginning to recover, weapons slack in their hands, confusion settling in like dust.

“Again, who is that?” Ava asked, still half in phase, her eyes narrowed.

“Nobody,” Bucky said quickly.

You turned to him again, one brow lifted.

He didn’t flinch.

The silence pressed in again. You could hear Walker muttering something—something about vigilantes, unregistered allies, probably some offhand comment about being underpaid—but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

You leaned in close enough for only Bucky to hear. “I don’t care who you work for now,” you murmured. “But if you’re going to keep playing hero, I’m not going to sit at home hoping you come back with all your pieces. You trained me better than that.”

“I didn’t train you to break into comms systems mid-op and hijack the sound system with—what was that?”

“Don’t Cha.” You smiled faintly. “It slaps.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed deep. Then opened them again. “You can’t do this.”

“Sure I can. I’m not a part of your team. I don’t need clearance. I just need one good signal bounce and an encrypted network to patch into.”

“And a speaker,” he added, dry.

You shrugged. “I improvise.”

Another pause.

“I’m not here to start saving the world again,” you said. “But I will show up when you’re two seconds from bleeding out in a parking garage in Bratislava because your team has shit intel and someone decided not to bring extra clips.”

He didn’t argue.

You patted his cheek briefly. Nothing overt, just enough to make the breath catch in his throat.

Then you turned, vanishing into the smoke just as casually as you’d arrived, music still pulsing faintly behind you.

Yelena said what everyone was thinking.

“What the fuck just happened?”

No one had an answer.

Bucky didn’t offer one either.

He just stood there, aching in every limb, and wondered how many more of his missions were going to end with Pussycat Dolls blaring through government-issued earpieces—and how many more trackers he was going to have to tear out of his suit.

The debrief had ended thirty minutes ago.

No one had left.

Yelena sat cross-legged in one of the overstuffed chairs, a protein bar crumpled in her palm like she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a half-twisted bun that had begun to unravel midway through the meeting, and her expression had only grown more pointed with every breath Bucky refused to waste explaining you.

Across from her, Walker was pacing—slow, agitated, like a caged animal that hadn’t quite figured out what corner to piss in yet. He’d ditched the tac vest but kept the sleeves rolled, flexing a bruised bicep every time he turned. Alexei had already snagged half of the post-mission snacks from the shared kitchenette and was now loudly crunching on something suspiciously orange. Ava sat against the far wall next to Bob, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded, as silent and sharp as a scalpel.

Bucky sat alone near the far end of the table, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze fixed on the blacked-out screen of a wall monitor.

“So,” Yelena said, picking at the wrapper. “Are you going to tell us who they were, or do I have to keep guessing?”

Bucky didn’t move.

Alexei pointed a carrot stick in his direction. “They knew you. Very well. This is not up for debate. They called you ‘baby.’” A pause. “Is that normal? Do coworkers in America do that now?”

“She hijacked our comms with bubblegum pop and flipped a full tactical team without breaking a sweat,” Ava said quietly. “I’d like to know who’s training with that kind of precision and not wearing a uniform.”

“She’s not on any registry,” Yelena added. “I checked. No files. No background. No facial ID. She doesn’t exist.”

“She’s not a threat,” Bucky said. Flat. Final. The tone of someone who’d been interrogated before and wasn’t interested in playing along.

“No. You don’t get to do that,” Yelena said, sliding off the table with a thud. “You don’t get to stand there all quiet and broody after someone cartwheeled through an active war zone, made our entire unit look like unpaid interns, and then blew up a parking garage with what I’m pretty sure was a Bluetooth speaker.”

Walker let out a bark of laughter and didn’t bother hiding it. “Thank you. Finally. I thought I’d imagined that.”

“You did not,” Ava said flatly, still watching the skyline. “I checked the audio logs. She used a frequency bounce to route music through nine of their channels simultaneously. Bounced it again to mask her own comm signature. She was using earpieces as echo chambers.”

“That’s not even real,” Walker scoffed. “That’s comic book shit.”

“So are we,” Yelena shot back.

Bucky rubbed his jaw, said nothing.

Bob looked up from where he’d been twiddling with the strap of his watch in the corner of the room. “I liked the song.”

Four heads turned toward him.

He blinked slowly. “I listened to the audio logs too. It was catchy.”

Alexei made a noise like he was preparing to argue with the furniture itself. “She took out twenty-five men, minimum. With her hands. And rhythm. I am sorry, but this is not someone who just wandered in from the street. This is not some random playlist enthusiast. You know her.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

That answer hung there, not quite satisfying.

Yelena stepped closer, arms folded, chin tilted like she was examining a lie for cracks. “Okay. So who is she. What’s her name.”

“I don’t know if she’s using one right now,” Bucky lied easily. “We worked together a long time ago. That’s all.”

Walker barked out another laugh. “Bullshit.”

“We ran ops in a couple regions,” Bucky said. “Mostly when things got too quiet for comfort. Off-books. Years ago. She walked away before everything really came apart.”

“She tracked you across a continent,” Yelena said.

He met her eyes. “She likes to be thorough.”

“Was she CIA?” Ava asked. “Because I’ve seen their psychological profiles and that was not the average ex-operative response to stress.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. Not Langley.”

“HYDRA?” Walker said too quickly.

“Jesus,” Yelena muttered.

“She moved like someone from a program,” Ava said, voice quiet but deliberate. “Someone conditioned. That kind of precision doesn’t come from basic black-ops.”

“She trained under someone worse than HYDRA,” Bucky said.

And just like that, the room shifted. The quiet got heavier. Bob looked away. Alexei stopped fidgeting. Ava stilled completely.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Red Room?”

“I didn’t ask,” Bucky said. “Didn’t need to.”

“But she knew you.” Ava again, calm, focused. “That kind of familiarity doesn’t just show up after a few jobs.”

Bucky looked up at her. “I didn’t say it was just a few.”

“You said she walked away.”

He paused.

“She did.”

Silence again.

Walker shifted, elbow on the back of his chair. “Well, wherever she walked to, she kept your damn tracking frequency. I still can’t get the ringing out of my left ear.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome, by the way. For being alive.”

“Sure,” Walker said dryly. “Thanks to your mystery friend with a war crime mixtape.”

“And now she’s… what? A rogue asset?” Ava asked, tilting her head. “A merc? A vigilante with a playlist?”

“She’s not on anyone’s leash,” Bucky said simply.

“Except yours,” Walker muttered.

Bucky’s glare snapped to him. “She doesn’t answer to anyone. Not to me. Not to you.”

Alexei muttered something in Russian under his breath that sounded vaguely admiring and possibly inappropriate.

Bob finally spoke again, more alert this time. “She’s not joining us, is she?”

“No,” Bucky said.

He said it fast.

A beat.

“I’m sorry, why not,” Alexei said, throwing both hands into the air. “We have room! We have so much room! She could have the bunk above mine, I would even switch.”

“She doesn’t want to be on a team,” Bucky said. “She’s not the type.”

“You mean she’s not the type to follow orders,” Yelena said, eyes narrowing again.

“No,” he said slowly. “I mean she doesn’t give a shit about headlines, or missions, or doing this the right way. She shows up because she wants to. That’s it.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Ava asked. “Someone that volatile just showing up whenever she decides?”

“She’s not volatile,” Bucky said, the words a little sharper than intended.

Yelena caught it. Instantly.

She stepped forward, crossing into his space—not aggressive, but direct. Like someone circling a bruise. “You trust her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” she said, “but you didn’t have to.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“She’s not just an old op,” Yelena said, eyes still locked on his. “That wasn’t nostalgia out there. That was instinct. You moved like someone watching something yours walk into fire.”

Ava glanced between them. “She did save your life.”

“She saved all of us,” Bucky threw back.

“Okay, but why doesn’t she have a file,” Walker cut in. “Why doesn’t anyone know about her? If she’s that good, someone would’ve picked her up.”

“She’s good at disappearing,” Bucky said.

“And you just let her go?” Walker said. “After she pulls a fucking Mission: Impossible and struts off into the fog like a Bond girl?”

“I don’t let her do anything,” Bucky said. “She’s not mine to handle.”

Yelena leaned back in her chair. The protein bar wrapper crinkled in her palm.

“She’s not going to show up again, is she?”

Bucky shrugged. “Depends on whether I do something stupid again.”

He didn’t mention that you’d texted him two hours ago asking if he wanted to stop for groceries on his way back. He didn’t mention that the front porch light would be on tonight. That you’d probably be curled on the couch in socks and one of his old shirts, pretending you hadn’t crossed any borders this week.

They didn’t need to know that.

He rose from the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. The room watched him like he was walking out of an interrogation and back into something no one else could follow.

“Tell Val I’ll finish the debrief report tomorrow,” he said.

Yelena tilted her head. “And where are you going?”

Bucky paused in the doorway.

He didn’t look back.

“Home,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The porch light was on.

Not a floodlight, not a security cam. Just the soft golden bulb above the narrow step that flickered twice when the wind caught it wrong. One of the screws had loosened a few months back during a storm. Bucky had said he’d fix it. You’d said it didn’t bother you. It still hadn’t been fixed.

His boots were scuffed and his shoulder ached and there was probably still smoke in his hair, but he stood on the welcome mat for a second longer than necessary anyway, hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to feel something solid.

Then he unlocked it. Quiet. Familiar. Two clicks, one turn.

Inside smelled like clean laundry and old books and that lemongrass balm you always used for burns.

The record player was humming in the background, stylus long since run dry. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off again. He stepped into the living room and shrugged off his jacket, moving through the space like muscle memory. His eyes caught on the half-finished mug on the end table, a folded blanket on the couch, the sleeves of one of his shirts pushed up over your forearms where you were curled up sideways, knees tucked, reading a book with your bare feet propped against the armrest.

You didn’t look up. Just turned a page.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” you said softly.

“Got cornered by the team.”

Your voice was light, almost teasing. “They want answers?”

“They want blood.”

You snorted and finally glanced over the edge of the book. “Yelena first?”

“Obviously.”

“Did she throw anything?”

“Just looks.”

You hummed and set the book aside, leaning forward to make room as he collapsed onto the couch beside you. He sat like a man whose bones hadn’t stopped vibrating. You shifted, swung your legs over his lap, and rested one arm lazily across his chest like it had always belonged there.

He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes for a moment, the side of his head tilted toward yours.

You let the silence stretch. He needed that.

Then—

“Bob said he liked the song.”

You grinned against his shoulder. “He’s got taste.”

“He said it was catchy.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Again, you blew up a parking garage.”

“I was subtle.”

“You were wearing a speaker rig stitched into your coat.”

“I didn’t say I was quiet.”

He huffed, a small thing. Almost a laugh.

You leaned your head back against the cushion and studied the ceiling. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

He didn’t ask what.

You didn’t clarify.

“They’ll dig,” you continued, “because that’s what they do. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they can’t afford not to. You don’t keep ghosts around without asking where they sleep at night.”

“They’re not stupid.”

“No,” you said. “Just loyal.”

He rubbed a thumb along the inside of your wrist. You’d skinned it, just barely, probably during that slide beneath the gunfire. 

“They think we’re ex-coworkers,” he said after a beat.

“Mm. That won’t last.”

“I know.”

You shifted to look at him, gaze steady. “You want me to stay gone next time?”

“No.”

It came out faster than he meant it to. And quieter.

You didn’t say anything.

His fingers ghosted across the edge of your thigh. “I just—this thing with the team. It’s still new. Messy. They’re watching me like I might snap. Or disappear.”

“You’ve earned that,” you said, not unkindly.

He nodded.

“They trust you more than they think,” you added after a moment. “Even Walker.”

“Walker thinks I’m one fight away from dragging a metal arm through a convenience store and snapping someone in half over a cereal shelf.”

You smiled. “You did that once.”

“I was sleep-deprived and the guy had it coming.”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured. “They’re not wrong to wonder.”

He let the silence settle again, the weight of your legs grounding him where he sat. Then he glanced over at you. “And you?”

You raised a brow. “Do I think you’re going to snap and kill the team in a cereal aisle?”

“Do you think you’re going to keep crashing my missions with bubblegum pop and a body count?”

You smiled, sharp and warm at once. “Only if you keep making it interesting.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then he reached out, brushed his fingers under your jaw—light, thoughtful, like he was confirming you were still here.

“I meant what I said,” you added, quiet now. “I wasn’t there to play hero. I’m not looking for redemption. Or recognition. That world chewed me up and spat me out long before I met you. I’m not going back.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll always come back. For you.”

His throat tightened.

You felt the shift before he said anything. The way his fingers stilled just under your jaw, how his gaze dropped for the barest second, like whatever he was about to admit weighed more than it should have.

“They’re going to find out,” he said finally. Voice low. Steady, but only just. “Not just who you are. What we are.”

You didn’t look away. “You sound like you’re bracing for it.”

“I am.” He leaned back slightly, enough to study your face. “I’ve kept a lot of things buried over the years. Some of it for good reason. Some of it because I didn’t know how to tell anyone without it sounding like a confession. But this—us—it’s not something I want in the crosshairs.”

You tilted your head. “You think they’ll aim at it?”

“I think people don’t like what they can’t label. And right now, you’re an anomaly with a body count, a comms breach, and no file. Add in a secret marriage to someone like me, and that’s a storm waiting to happen.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You really didn’t tell them anything?”

“No.”

“Not even that we live together?”

“No.”

You nodded. Not in judgment. Just understanding.

“You scared they’ll treat me like a threat?”

He hesitated. “No. I’m scared they’ll treat us like one. Like I’ve been compromised. Like I’m… hiding something dangerous.”

“You are,” you said, with a small, lopsided smile. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

He didn’t smile back. Just ran a hand down his face, thumb braced at his temple. “Yelena’s already circling. Ava’s not far behind. Walker’s an idiot, but even he knows something’s off. And Alexei—Christ, I think he’s trying to adopt you.”

“I could do worse,” you deadpanned.

“He asked if you wanted the bunk above his. Said he’d move.”

You laughed, soft and sharp. “God, he’s going to be crushed when he finds out I’m not single.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”

You reached for his hand, interlaced your fingers with his. His skin was calloused, palms scarred, familiar in ways your body had memorized years ago.

“James,” you said, and your voice gentled, “I don’t care if they like me. Or believe in this. Or approve. I don’t need them to. I didn’t marry them. I married you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something fierce and unspoken just behind them.

“You’re not a risk I regret,” you added. “And if they want to dig, let them dig. We’ve survived worse than a nosy debrief room.”

He leaned forward again, this time slower, and rested his forehead against yours. The press of skin, the shared breath, the quiet tension wound tight between your ribs—none of it felt like surrender. Just something harder to name.

He spoke quietly. “If this gets out, they’ll question my judgment.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll dig into your past.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll—” He cut himself off, exhaled. “They’ll try to separate us.”

You tilted your chin. “They can’t.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It was a fact. Solid. Unmoving.

Bucky didn’t answer, but you felt the way his breath dragged out through his nose, how his grip on your hand shifted—fingers tightening, not like fear, but habit. Like holding onto you was muscle memory. Like letting go wasn’t an option he entertained anymore.

You reached up with your free hand and pushed your fingers into his hair, slow and loose at the nape where it was just starting to curl from the heat. It was damp. He hadn’t showered yet. He hadn’t really come home yet. Just crossed the threshold.

“Go wash off the garage dust,” you said. “You smell like diesel and nerves.”

“Thought you liked how I smelled.”

“I do,” you murmured. “But I like it better when it’s under cedar soap and not post-combat sweat.”

He stayed where he was for another beat, forehead still resting against yours. Then he pulled back enough to look at you, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth. He didn’t kiss you. Just studied you the way he always did when you told him the truth—like he was adding it to some invisible tally, a list only he kept track of.

Then he rose without a word.

You watched him walk down the hallway, unzipping the tactical vest as he went, shoulder muscles moving beneath the black fabric like tension still hadn’t learned how to let go. The bathroom door clicked open. You heard the water pressure shift in the pipes before the sound of the shower started.

You waited thirty seconds. Then you stood, peeled his shirt off your frame, and followed.

It had been nearly five months since Bratislava.

Since the parking garage. Since the Pussycat Dolls. Since you’d lit up half a mercenary task force with a smirk and a frequency bounce. Since you’d vanished again into the smoke like a goddamn myth, only to be curled up on the couch that next night asking if he wanted to split a sandwich or order out after the two of you spent far too long in the shower.

In that time, the team had gotten better. Not good, no one in that unit would ever be clean enough to call themselves that, but sharper. More in sync. Intel got vetted. Missions ran smoother. Yelena had even stopped threatening to stab Walker more than once per week.

But the bruises still came. The blood still dried in the seams of their suits. And when shit did go sideways, which it inevitably did, it was always in ways that no one could predict.

The second time you showed up, Bucky had barely made it through the post-mission patch-up before Yelena cornered him outside medical with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

“Was that Britney Spears?”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t need him to. Ava had already ID’d the audio footprint as a hacked signal ping bounced from a cell tower two miles outside the safe zone. Alexei had hummed the song for three days afterward. Walker sulked about it until Bob offered him a playlist of his own.

Three weeks after that, you crashed an op in the Balkans with the entirety of Beyoncé’s Renaissance album queued up in reverse order. You landed halfway through “Pure/Honey,” took down thirteen hostiles, winked at the drone cam, and disappeared before the satellite feed could reorient.

By the time mission four hit, some remote hellhole near the Georgian border with shit reception and worse exits, the team was already halfway joking about which track you’d use next.

It was Kesha again. Naturally.

You’d popped out of a burning APC with "TiK ToK" already mid-chorus and a grin like you’d been waiting for someone to hit the big red button. That time, you didn't leave right away. You passed Bucky a protein bar before the team got on the extraction chopper, kissed his temple, and told Alexei he had a nice ass. He hadn't shut up since.

They were still digging, of course. Yelena and Ava, mostly. Alexei kept making increasingly unhinged guesses about your background—sometimes Russian ballet, sometimes MI6, sometimes something about Vatican ninjas that no one had the heart to correct. Bob just watched. Always quiet. Always listening. And Walker…

Walker had developed a twitch.

He’d started referring to you—loudly, bitterly—as “Bucky’s little bat-signal,” like if he said it enough times it’d turn into a punchline and not an ache. It never landed. Not really.

No one could prove anything. Not about your identity. Not about your methods. You moved too fast. You left nothing behind.

And Bucky never said much.

He never needed to.

But they were all watching. Closer. Louder. Testing the tension in every mission like they were waiting for it to snap.

Which is why, when everything finally went to hell, no one was surprised when Yelena snapped first.

The op was supposed to be simple. In and out. A weapons drop moving across eastern borders, underground tech funneled through an abandoned train yard. Bucky had checked the coordinates himself. The team had split into pairs. Ava and Walker on overwatch. Alexei by the perimeter with a surveillance drone. Yelena at Bucky’s six, teeth gritted, gun loaded.

It wasn’t an ambush.

It was an execution.

There had been too many of them, real mercenaries this time. Not freelancers. Not idiots. Not chaos agents looking for a payout. These ones moved together. Synchronized. Coordinated. Ava had gone down first, wounded. Not out, but down. Phasing between pain. Walker had followed, clipped hard in the leg, trying to cover her.

Alexei was pinned.

And Bucky was breathing too hard, right arm shattered at the elbow, the sound of blood slapping metal every time he moved.

Yelena was cursing. Loud and vicious. Ducking behind rusted train cars as bullets slammed through metal and concrete like the world had narrowed to pure impact.

“Fuck,” she spat, reloading. “We are going to die in a parking lot for stolen tech and Valentina’s shitty paycheck—”

Bucky’s teeth were red. His side was worse.

He grunted, low. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” she hissed. “This is bad. This is the bad kind. Unless your little friend plans to show up again with backup dancers and a boom box, we’re dead.”

Bucky would have replied—maybe something bitter, something deflective—but his jaw locked before he could open his mouth. His vision was graying at the edges, muscles refusing to follow orders. His right arm was entirely dead weight now, slung awkwardly against his chest, blood still slick at the wrist. He couldn’t tell if the warmth in his boots was from a burst vein or just the heat of the rail yard’s scorched concrete.

And you weren’t here.

That was the thought that hit him hardest. Not the pain, not the bodies, not the brutal math of angles and ammunition. You weren’t here.

You’d always been here before.

Not early. Not announced. But you showed up. On the edge of disaster, somewhere between the breaking point and the fallout, wrapped in leather and snatched frequencies and songs that shouldn’t have made sense on a battlefield but always did when it was you. And he never called you, never asked. You just came.

Because you always found him.

Because you tracked him.

Because you always knew.

He’d grown used to it without realizing. The hum of music bleeding in when the comms got too quiet. The shape of you moving through smoke like it wasn’t a threat but a threshold. He’d never said it aloud, but it had comforted him. Knowing you were out there, watching, waiting. Knowing he couldn’t disappear without you noticing.

But this time?

This was the worst it had been in months.

And still… nothing.

A part of him, the part that hadn’t already fractured under the pressure, felt it like abandonment. A dull edge of fear pressed hard to his sternum. Not because he doubted you, but because it meant something was wrong. Maybe the tracker hadn’t worked. Maybe the jet wasn’t prepped. Maybe you were late. Maybe you were hurt.

Before Bucky could fully spiral into his own thoughts, a sound split the air.

A low, dull rumble that climbed too fast, too smooth, to be more gunfire.

His head snapped toward the east quadrant of the yard, vision still smeared at the edges from blood loss. The others heard it next—Yelena ducked lower, muttering another string of obscenities. Walker flinched, dragging Ava back behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, weapon raised. Alexei braced one arm against a splintered wall of aluminum and groaned something about incoming air support.

“Jet,” Ava gritted out, barely upright. “No clearance on the feed. That’s not ours.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard.

The shape sliced low across the clouds. A short-range VTOL, clearly military-grade, but gutted and rebuilt. Fast. Loud. 

Yours.

And then the music hit.

“Let’s go, girls.”

“Is that—” Walker squinted, staggering.

“I swear to God,” Yelena muttered, slapping another magazine into place. “If that hatch opens and she’s wearing denim, I’m going to cry.”

The jet didn’t touch down gently. It landed loud and hot, braking hard against concrete and kicking up a storm of soot that coated every blown-out car and corpse in a hundred-foot radius. The engines hadn’t even cooled before the rear hatch cracked open with a hiss and the speakers ratcheted louder.

“Man, I feel like a woman…”

And there you stood.

Framed by smoke and floodlights, one hand braced on the hydraulic frame, the other already holding a med bag like you’d jumped in from a dream with combat boots and a temper.

No weapons. No fanfare. Just get in the fucking jet energy radiating off your entire body.

“Everyone in,” you barked. “Now.”

Walker didn’t wait. He hauled Ava toward the ramp with one arm slung around her waist. She was still phasing in and out, blood coating her knuckles, the blur of her shoulder wound sparking faint with tech static.

Alexei limped next, muttering something about Canadian pop singers and spinal trauma. Bucky barely registered it. He couldn’t feel his arm. Could barely hear the pounding in his ears over the scream of the engines and the bassline.

You moved before he could, stepping off the ramp and into the smoke, boots crunching across grit and glass as you crossed the yard at a dead sprint.

“Jesus,” you snapped as you reached him, one hand already going to the blood-soaked hem of his jacket. “What the fuck, James.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You pressed one palm to his side, felt the heat radiating off his ribs, and looped your other arm under him to carry him to the jet.

“I couldn’t get the signal,” you said, voice tight. “The tracker was acting up.”

He hissed through his teeth as you shifted his weight, setting him down on one of the jet seats. “Where was it this time?”

You didn’t blink. “The right boot. Back corner. You never put your shoes back in the closet, so I figured I’d stick one there.”

Yelena turned her head so sharply it was audible. “What?”

You ignored her.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, breath still ragged. “I hadn’t even worn those boots in a week.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice edged and sharp, as you tugged off his jacket, “and you left them by the dryer again, James, so guess what? That’s where I put it. Along with three aspirin packets, a ten-dollar bill, and the spare keys you keep forgetting to bring with you.”

Yelena’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait, what?”

“Not now,” you snapped. “Stitches first, questions later.”

Yelena froze.

She had just stepped into the bay behind Alexei, one arm looped around a support pole, blood streaked down her left cheek. Her head turned slowly—very slowly—back toward the now closing loading ramp, where you were currently pressing gauze to Bucky’s side and muttering something about his inability to buy new med kits even though you were the one who’d asked for them on the last Target run.

“Hold on. Spare keys,” Yelena repeated, voice pitching up like a red flag had just gone up in her brain and she was sprinting to catch it.

You didn’t look up.

Neither did Bucky.

There was a beat—just one—but Bucky felt it ripple through the cabin like a hairline fracture under pressure. Yelena didn’t blink. Ava, still bleeding and silent, lifted her head just an inch off the headrest. Walker muttered something low under his breath, too quiet to catch. Alexei stilled completely.

You were still working.

You’d stripped back the ruined plate of his tac vest, fingers moving fast over the gauze tape. Your hands weren’t shaking, but they weren’t calm either—tight at the knuckles, decisive in that way they always were when someone you cared about had bled more than they should have.

Bucky sucked in a breath. It rattled at the end.

He could feel it happening. The shift. The attention tilting, zeroing in. It was like watching a tripwire get brushed in real time.

“Did you just say Target run?” Yelena’s voice cracked straight through the tension. “Like the store?”

You didn’t respond.

Walker made a strangled sound. “Hold on. You’re telling me this—this frequency-hacking psycho just casually shops for med kits in her downtime for you?”

“I didn’t say I shopped,” you muttered. “I said I asked. He’s the one who keeps forgetting the list.”

“I got the shampoo,” Bucky said through his teeth.

“You got the wrong shampoo.”

“It had the same label!”

“It was 3-in-1.”

“That’s efficient—”

“It’s disgusting, James.”

And just like that, the whole jet tilted again—only this time it wasn’t from blood loss or the pitch of the wind. It was the silence. The stunned, dawning silence that came from realizing something was very, very off.

Ava blinked. “James?”

Yelena’s mouth opened.

Then: “No, no. You don’t get to just drop a spare key confession mid-evac and not explain. What the fuck are you two on about?”

“Explain what?” Bucky barked, more out of pain than defensiveness, but it landed anyway.

Alexei staggered up from his seat, bleeding from the shoulder and grinning like he’d just watched his favorite soap opera hit a mid-season twist. “You two live together, yes?”

“No,” you said, at the same time Bucky said, “Yes.”

Yelena stopped cold. “What.”

“Fine. She has a drawer,” Bucky muttered, wincing as you pressed harder with the gauze.

“You have a drawer?” Yelena repeated, voice rising. “Do you have a shared grocery list too? Matching towels?”

“Technically,” you said, “we share an Amazon account, but only because I hate ads—”

“You share an address?”

You didn’t answer.

Walker limped past, dragging himself into the seat across the aisle. “I swear to God, if this turns into some Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit, I’m out.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like,” Yelena snapped. “Because the last I checked, secret girlfriends don’t get comm access and personal extraction aircraft with customized playlists!”

“She’s not—” Bucky started, then stopped.

You paused, fingers frozen just inside his tac vest as you reached for the dressing pack in his inner lining. “James.”

His jaw flexed. “She’s not some secret girlfriend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yelena said, eyes wide now, practically vibrating with the sudden thrill of someone else’s exposed personal business. “Are you saying she’s not a girlfriend because she’s a roommate with benefits, or because she’s a literal government ghost you, what? Accidentally fell into bed with during an overseas op and neglected to tell us for five fucking months—”

“She’s my wife.”

The words snapped out like a misfired round—loud, brutal, final.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

You straightened slowly, the antiseptic wipe still in your hand, now hovering somewhere between the edge of Bucky’s ribs and the cratered hole in his bloodstained shirt.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Then Walker, voice hoarse and stunned: “I’m sorry. Wife?”

Ava, barely conscious, cracked one eye open. “What?”

Alexei groaned from the corner. “I knew it. I said they were either married or psychic. Maybe both.”

“Wait. Wait, no,” Walker held up a hand, bleeding. “You’re married? Like—married married? To her?”

You finally looked up. “Do you have another her in mind?”

Bucky winced. “Now’s not the time—”

“No, no, I think it is exactly the time,” Yelena said, stepping forward, pointing between the two of you. “Because we’ve all been getting tossed around like ragdolls for months while you two have been playing he’s mine, she’s chaos behind the scenes.”

You rose slowly, blood on your palms, face shadowed by the hatch lighting.

“We weren’t hiding it,” you said simply.

Yelena threw both arms in the air. “You were absolutely hiding it!”

“We were keeping it quiet,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Walker sat down hard on the floor. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Ava, leaning against the wall, finally let out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “That explains so much.”

“I—what the fuck?” Walker’s mouth opened and closed twice. “Like with rings and vows and tax brackets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “It was a courthouse in Budapest. No photographer. No playlist. Not even a Pinterest board.”

Alexei, who had been silently mouthing tax brackets, perked up. “How long?”

“None of your business,” Bucky said immediately.

“Four years,” you said, at the exact same time.

Yelena made a noise like a cat being punched.

“Four years?” she barked. “You’ve been married for four years and not one of us knew? Not even a hint? Not even a bad fake name on your emergency contact form?”

“Technically, it’s under her alias,” Bucky said, wincing as you pressed gauze to his side with more force than strictly necessary.

“Her alias,” Ava echoed from the back, eyebrows barely raised but eyes locked on you. “That’s comforting.”

Yelena dragged her hands down her face. “I need to sit down.”

“You’re already sitting down,” Walker said numbly. “We’re all sitting down. In hell.”

Alexei was shaking his head slowly, staring at you like you’d sprouted horns. “I can’t believe we have been flying into death zones with Captain Popsicle and his mystery combat Barbie and the two of you have been married this whole time?”

“Don’t call her that,” Bucky snapped.

“I meant it with admiration!”

“She’s a human being,” Ava said flatly.

“And his wife,” Yelena added, throwing her hands up again. “Which apparently gives her license to break every rule of engagement we’ve ever signed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out, finally stepping away from Bucky just long enough to snap a fresh syringe out of the case and toss it to Ava. “Would you have preferred I not show up with an extraction vehicle and leave you all dying in a pile of your own egos?”

“You’re not even cleared!” Walker said, still stuck somewhere between disbelief and cardiac arrest. “You don’t have files. You don’t have a record. You married a former Hydra asset with no fucking paper trail—”

“John,” Bucky said, and his voice didn’t rise, didn’t shout. But the threat in it stopped everything.

Dead.

Walker’s mouth clamped shut.

You turned your back and crouched again, cracking open a package of suture strips with steady, sharp fingers. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t move away either.

“You married him,” Yelena said slowly, like she was putting the last piece into a conspiracy board. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Correct,” you said, without looking up.

“Why?”

You paused. For the first time since stepping onto the jet, you were still.

Then, quieter: “Because it was ours.”

Yelena blinked.

Walker slumped sideways, muttering something that sounded like Jesus Christ, I’m too concussed for this.

Ava didn’t say anything. She just studied you like she was adding this new truth to a map no one else could read yet.

Alexei, voice quieter now: “You could’ve told us.”

You straightened again, turned, met his eyes.

“We didn’t owe you that.”

And no one, not one of them, could argue with that.

No one said anything for a long time.

The jet rumbled beneath them, steady now. Altitude rising. Stabilizers evening out. The air had gone colder, thinner. Bucky could feel it in his lungs. How the heat of the rail yard had been replaced by that sterile chill of recycled pressurized air and drying blood.

He sat slumped against the inner wall of the aircraft, the pain at his side dulled but ever-present, a pulse of heat beneath the bandages. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. Across from him, Walker had gone quiet. Not passed out, just silent. That silence that came when you didn’t know how to re-enter a world that had just rearranged itself without warning.

Yelena didn’t have that problem.

“Where are the rings?”

You didn’t even blink. Just kept pressing the edge of a suture strip flat against Bucky’s ribs, calm as ever. “We don’t wear them on missions.”

“No, I mean—where are they. What are they. Are they like, hidden daggers? Laser-tracking nanotech? Poison darts? Do they explode?”

“We got tungsten bands off a street vendor in Pest,” you said, flicking the end of the strip down with surgical precision. “Ten bucks each. Mine’s probably under the couch.”

Yelena stared. “You’re telling me you got married with street metal and hid it like it was a war crime?”

You finally looked up. “We didn’t hide it. We protected it. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah,” Yelena muttered, flopping back against the padded bulkhead, “try that line at our next psych eval.”

Alexei perked up slightly. “Did you write vows?”

“Alexei—”

“No, I’m curious! Was it romantic? Did she threaten him? Did he cry?”

You turned to Bucky then, not grinning, not smirking—just steady. “Did you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He remembered the cold marble floor of the consulate. The cheap pen. The tension in your hand when you signed. The way you didn’t smile, not once, but your shoulders had dropped like something finally let go. He remembered how you’d kissed him afterward, not like a new beginning but like something that had already been burned into your bones and you were just honoring the facts of it now.

He hadn't cried.

But he remembered feeling something break open inside his chest that hadn’t fully closed since.

“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”

That earned a scoff from Walker, who still looked half-sick. “You people are insane.”

“And you’re alive, you’re welcome,” you shot back, not even looking at him.

That shut him up.

Ava tilted her head slightly from where she sat, chin resting against her shoulder. “Are there any other secrets we should be aware of? Kids? A bunker in the Alps? Shared Spotify?”

“We don’t talk about the Spotify,” you said immediately, too flat to be joking.

“I knew you had a playlist,” Yelena muttered.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? I have several,” you corrected.

Bucky let the rhythm of your voice wash over him, the way it always had. It calmed something in him he didn’t have the words for. He wasn't sure he'd ever have the words for it. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You’d never asked for the language of it. You just stayed. When everything else fractured. When he did.

He let his head tip back against the wall, the throb of the flight engines a dull hum against his skull.

You kept talking.

Yelena asked about Budapest—what song was playing in the cab, what flavor the celebratory gelato was, whether you’d told anyone or if you’d just ghosted the next assignment like it never happened. You didn’t flinch under any of it. You answered what you wanted to. Dodged the rest with a precision that made it clear you'd spent years doing exactly that.

And Bucky watched you.

Listened to the cadences you used with the team—how they shifted only slightly when you got tired, how your sarcasm always dulled at the edges when you were checking someone's wound without being obvious about it. How you deferred to Ava without making it feel like yielding. How you redirected Yelena’s prying with just enough detail to satisfy, just enough space to stay unreadable.

They’d come around.

Eventually.

They always did.

But it wasn’t for them that you showed up in a jet at the eleventh hour. It wasn’t for glory. Or redemption. Or to earn your seat.

It was for him.

And that, Bucky thought, pressing a blood-soaked gauze pad tighter against his ribs, was something no intel report could ever quantify.

He let his eyes slip shut, your voice still in his ears, arguing now with Yelena about the legality of impersonating air traffic control in four different countries. He didn’t smile. Not really.

But he breathed easier.

For the first time in hours.

Maybe days.

Maybe longer.

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[fandomlovver]

flour ; bucky barnes

fandom: marvel

pairing: bucky x reader

summary: sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him… but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?

notes: dear lord, i’m so sorry about this. i started it over a year ago, so it is probably a little disjointed, and i tried writing in present tense for some reason ??? anyway, i hope it isn’t too stupid! i’m trying really hard to get back into writing :)

word count: 5537 (i’m sorry)

“You astound me,” Natasha says, her words fed through the small radio piece tucked into your ear, “your heart rate is barely above seventy b.p.m.”

Your frown is only slight, your demeanour remaining cool and casual as the escalator descends toward the mall’s food court. Beside you, Sam has his cap pulled low on his brow and his sunglasses pushed high on his nose, one hand is resting on the handrail while the other is wrapped softly around your waist. You turn to him to feign conversation as you ask Natasha, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in the middle of a covert mission,” she says, “possibly gone wrong and you’re still so calm, but the minute Barnes is within a twenty-foot radius your heart rate goes of the Richter.”

Heat flushes through you, blood concentrating in your cheeks and turning them an embarrassed shade of pink, “Nat, what the-”

Sam chuckles and pulls you closer to his side, “Calm down. He lost our signal between the third and fourth levels below.”

Oh. The thrumming in your chest begins to slow again and you focus on keeping your balance as you step off the escalator. Bucky wouldn’t have heard Nat’s stupid remark because he is currently waiting beneath six levels of solid concrete inside a room made entirely of metal. Assuming he hasn’t been found out and tied up, he would be silently watching the mall’s CCTV footage of you and Sam making your way through the food court.

“Meet him outside, in front of Subway,” Nat instructed, “greet him like an old friend you didn’t expect to see. He knows the drill.”

Keep reading

[fandomlovver]

could be me ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with (loosely inspired by this song)

notes: okay, i admit defeat!!! i am in love with this man and it is consuming my life! i was so excited to write this, but i rewrote it and rewrote it, and it still doesn't feel right :( i hope it isn't too awful, but i promise i'm going to write something perfect for this boy, because wow, i love him... please let me know what you think! good or bad, i love feedback!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship/s (nothing detailed or major), negative father / daughter relationship, one brief mention of 'offing oneself', very little and most likely incorrect knowledge about the us navy, and some generally poor writing i'm sorry

word count: 10597

“That guy sucks,” Mickey mutters into the mouth of his beer bottle.

The whole squad is jammed into a booth on the beach-side of The Hard Deck bar, their necks craned and eyes fixed on the large blond man towering over their best friend at one of the tall tables beside the jukebox.

“He’s so rude,” Natasha states, “and cold.”

The only one not blatantly staring across the bar is Bradley. He’s too busy picking at the soggy label on his half-drunk beer and sulking. The corners of his mouth have been turned down from the moment you walked through the door with that hulking mass of man muscle by your side.

“Rooster,” Reuben says, nudging his friend’s side and knocking him out of his imaginary pity party.

Bradley glances up, “Hm?”

“Move, I need to get another drink.”

Realising why he had been feeling pressure on his right side, Bradley sighs and slides out of the booth, allowing his friend to shuffle across to freedom.

“Do you want a drink?” Reuben asks.

Bradley shakes his head and slumps back into the booth, returning his attention to the beer bottle’s label.

“Why is she with him?” Mickey asks, his brows furrowed.

“He’s got money,” Bradley replies dryly, “and rank.”

Natasha shoots him a scowl. “Come on, Rooster. Y/N’s not that shallow.”

Bradley scoffs, “You want to bet?”

Her brown eyes glance toward you, watching as your hand grips the thick forearm of the blond boy toy standing over you. She grimaces and shakes her head. “No, not really.”

“Exactly,” Bradley sighs, leaning back in the booth and finally dragging his eyes up to look at his friends. “Her dad has high standards and apparently dating some stupid commander with more bicep than brain and more money than manhood is her idea of being the perfect daughter.”

“You sound jealous,” Jake states, the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Bradley snorts a laugh, though there’s no amusement behind it. It’s dry. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Hangman?”

Before Jake can answer the rhetorical question, Mickey pipes up. “Who’s her dad, again?”

Natasha sighs, turning her head to face him. “The admiral,” she replies, “you know, Cyclone’s superior.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Mickey says. “He’s terrifying.”

Reuben returns to the table with wide eyes, gingerly setting four beers on the table before ushering at Bradley to scootch further into the booth. “Oh, my God,” he says as he sits down. “I just asked Y/N if she wanted to join us, and that dude basically growled at me.”

“Gross,” Natasha mutters, before taking a generous swig of her fresh beer.

“I did catch his name, though,” Reuben adds. “Johnny.”

Bradley scoffs, “Johnny.”

The squad spend the better part of the next hour making fun of the man whose arm is draped across your shoulders, all but Bradley. He’s too busy scratching the label off his beer bottle and shoving all thoughts of you and your newest Ken Doll out of his mind.

Across the bar, you pinch the stem of your wine glass between your thumb and forefinger and start moving it in small circles, making the yellowish liquid swirl. You hate white wine, but Johnny doesn’t seem to recall you mentioning that on your date last week. His arm is heavy on your shoulders, compressing your spine and making your neck ache as you try to maintain a decent posture on the uncomfortably high stool. You’ve never liked sitting at the tall bar tables, you prefer a booth.

It takes all your self-control not to gaze across the bar to where you’d rather be. It wasn’t that you hadn’t expected your friends to be in their usual booth at The Hard Deck on a Saturday afternoon, but when Johnny asked you to get drinks with him and meet his friends, you’d still hoped they wouldn’t be here. Especially Bradley.

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since you were ten years old. He was the first boy to ever make your heart skip a beat, and the only one you’ve ever truly fallen in love with. Not that you’ll willingly admit that last part to anyone but your own reflection, and even then, you need a considerable amount of liquid courage to do so.

When your father, the admiral, was assigned to assist in overseeing the TOPGUN programme at MCAS Miramar, he moved your family to San Diego, right next door to the Bradshaws. Your mother and Carole Bradshaw became quick and close friends, and you soon learnt all about Bradley’s late father and the man who had since stepped in to help raise Bradley.

Your father wasn’t subtle about disliking the Bradshaws, or more specifically, Pete Mitchell, but your mother couldn’t have cared less. You spent most of your weekends and summer days with Bradley, since your mothers were practically inseparable, and the same was soon said for the two of you. It didn’t matter that Bradley was a few years older, you simply matchedeach other’s energies. Soulmates, Carole would say.

Years passed and you both grew, but your crush never wavered. You were there the day his mother passed away, and the day he sent his application in to the Naval Academy. You were also there the day he found out that it was Pete who pulled his papers, and if you close your eyes and think back hard enough, you can still hear the screaming and shouting.

It got a little complicated after that. Bradley decided that he was going to study at UVA for the four years before he could reapply to the academy, and despite your heart’s protests, you helped him pack and promised to look after his family’s home while he was gone. Without the honey-eyed boy next door to spend all your time with, you focused on school and growing up. Bradley would call every now and then, mostly to let your mom know that he was doing okay, but he didn’t visit for two whole years.

It was the year you turned eighteenth that everything changed. You were in your front yard, wearing your favourite red bathing suit and trying to water the poor, sunburnt flowers back to life. When Bradley turned the Bronco into his driveway, he nearly drove right through the garage door, slamming the brakes on just in time. His jaw popped open and his eyes almost fell out of his head as he stared at you bopping along to whatever music was playing in your headphones.

It took you more than a minute to notice the car in the driveway next door, but once you did you dropped the hose and ran across the lawn, jumping over the short fence that divided your yards. Bradley didn’t move until you wrenched the driver’s side door open and asked if he was okay, and he certainly was not okay when you wrapped your arms around him and pressed your scantily clad body against his.

After that, he visited a lot more. Every break he could, he would fly across the country to see you, and if he couldn’t come to San Diego, you would fly to him. The two of you gave ‘inseparable’ a whole new meaning. You spoke every day, sent each other letters and packages containing thoughtful presents or silly gifts, and whenever you could, you would video chat for hours on end. There wasn’t a single day that went by that you didn’t feel a tug in your gut toward the boy across the country who you were head over heels in love with.

Eventually, he reapplied and was accepted into the Naval Academy. You were happy for him, of course, but the bubble in which you were living had to pop at some point. It was harder to see him while he was in the academy, and even harder when graduated and got deployed, but the hardest part was not knowing where he was.

One morning, when you were on your way out the door to work, your father stopped you. He told you that Bradley had been accepted into the TOPGUN programme and would be moving back to San Diego for a while, but the look on his face was a stark contrast to the excitement on yours. It was that morning that really burst your bubble. You’d created this imaginary little world where Bradley would eventually come home to you, kiss you, and tell you that it’s always been you, but your father wasn't going to let that happen.

He lectured you for twenty minutes about the fact that Bradley Bradshaw is not good enough for you. He told you that he’s been holding it in for long enough, because your mother had begged him not to interfere with your life and your choices, but he can’t take it anymore. He said that Bradley is a flighty boy from a mixed-up family, raised by a dishonourable man, and he isn’t wealthy or worthy enough for you. He told you to let go of your stupid crush and find an honourable who could make you happy, or else he would ruin Bradley’s career.

Any sane person would have told him to fuck off, but you were too young and too scared, and you loved Bradley too damn much to risk something he’s worked so hard for. So you simply nodded and slipped out the door, spending the next few weeks avoiding your father and mourning the loss of a relationship that never was.

It was about that time that you started dating assholes. You couldn’t live in a world without Bradley, but you had to protect him, so you always had an honourable commander or captain on your arm to distract your father. You stayed close with Bradley, even when he flew off around the world again. When he was called back to TOPGUN for a special detachment, you were over the moon, and everything seemed to fall into place after the uranium mission. The dagger squadron became a permanent unit based on North Island, and you quickly became friends with the whole group.

After years of distance and uncertainty, everything feels good. That is, except for your shitshow of a love life that is getting harder to maintain as you juggle keeping your father happy while also trying to assure your friends that you’re not a clinical masochist who enjoys toxic relationships.

“Babe,” Johnny’s voice knocks you back into reality. “You good?”

You blink a few times, trying to refocus on the man sitting beside you instead of the waves out the window. “Sorry,” you say. “Just daydreaming.”

He chuckles. “What could you possibly have to daydream about when I’m sitting right here.”

Your eyes betray you, casting their gaze across the bar toward your friends, landing on the boy with the golden-brown hair. Johnny sighs, as if exasperated by you. “If you want to go see your little friends so badly, then go.”

You force yourself to shake your head. “Don’t be silly. I’m here with you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Except squished into that booth beside Bradley, breathing in his scent and feeling his thigh pressed firmly against your own.

Johnny smirks before leaning forward with puckered lips. You try not to seem awkward as you lean forward and give him a kiss, but you can’t help feeling uncomfortable under the hard stares of his friends.

“I’m just going to get another drink,” you say, slipping off the high bar stool. You hurry away from the table before he can point out that you haven’t touched your wine, beelining for the bathrooms.

Once safely in the fluorescent lit lavatory, you plant both hands on the vanity and stare at your red cheeks in the mirror. You’re not sure why, but it’s getting harder being with men like Johnny. It used to be easy to pretend, to flip your hair and bite your lip, and flirt until they believed that you were into them, but lately, all you can think about is Bradley.

His soft hair and tan skin. The way his mouth curls into a smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders, long legs, and the way that every move he makes is so sure. When you close your eyes, all you can see are his honey-brown irises staring back at you, making you blush even when you’re miles apart. It’s like there’s a rope anchored in your gut and the other end is tied to Bradley. It used to be loose and languid, giving and taking as needed, but now its taut. One end of the rope is being wound up, pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. You worry that one day you’re going to wake up unable to breathe without him near you.

“Fuck,” you sigh, smacking your left hand on the vanity. “This is ridiculous.” You look up at your reflection, raising your right hand to point at the mirror. “Pull yourself together.”

You wash your hands and fix your hair before exiting the bathroom. You keep your eyes trained on your destination as you walk toward the bar, finding a vacant space to lean your forearms against the dark wood.

“Hey gorgeous,” Penny says with a soft smile.

“Hey Penny, could I just get the usual, please?”

She laughs lightly. “Of course. I was a bit worried when I saw that commander hand you a white wine.”

You breathe a half-assed laugh through your nose. “He’s still in training.”

She grabs a beer from the fridge behind the bar before turning back to you with a knowing smirk. “Well, I don’t see why you keep fostering these disobedient dogs when you have a perfectly well-trained puppy at home.”

You frown, tilting your head as your mind races to decode the metaphor. Only when she glances over at the booth of your friends and back to you does it click.

Your eyes widen. “Penny!”

She laughs again before adding, “And that is a cute puppy, if I don't say so myself.”

You roll your lips to stop yourself from grinning, because yes, Bradley is an adorable puppy and you would love nothing more than to take him home with you. “Thanks for the beer, Penny,” you say before she turns away to serve another patron.

You take a long swig from the bottle before weaving your way back through the bar to Johnny and his friends. The night wears on, and you try as hard as you can to remember how to pretend but you just can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Bradley every few minutes. You know Johnny is getting annoyed too, you’re just glad that he can discern exactly which one of your friends it is who’s stealing your attention.

"Alright,” Johnny says, pushing off his stool. “Let’s get out of here.”

Your eyes snap back to him and you nod. “I just want to say hi to my friends first.”

“Whatever,” he sighs. “I’m going to take a leak.”

You watch him walk across the bar and wait until the bathroom door closes behind him to roll your eyes. You slip off the stool and quickly squeeze through the groups of people standing between you and your friends, the grin on your face growing the closer you get.

“Hey!” Natasha greets you first, her face lighting up.

Your eyes scan the familiar faces of your friends. “Hi.”

The last to look up at you is Bradley, but the moment his honey-brown eyes meet yours, the corners of his lips start to curl up. You could never get tired of seeing that smile.

Mickey gasps dramatically. “Rooster, is that a smile?”

Reuben snorts a laugh. “I didn’t know your face made that expression.”

“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, flipping his friends the bird from where his hand is resting on the tabletop.

“Anyway,” Natasha says, turning from the boys to you. “How are you?”

You drag your eyes away from Bradley. “I’m good. Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I was meeting some of Johnny’s friends for the first time and it was a bit awkward.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “We’re kind of glad you didn’t bring your new Ken doll over here.”

“Which model is this?” Mickey asks with a cheeky grin.

Reuben chuckles. “Ken on Steroids, comes with his own syringe.”

Laughter rumbles through your friends, and once again you roll and rub your lips together to stop yourself from joining in. You can’t let them know that you intentionally date douchebags, because then there will be more questions than you’re willing to answer and you're already struggling to keep those skeletons inside their closet.

“Very funny,” you sigh, before glancing over your shoulder. “I should go, but I’ll see you guys-”

“Babe!” Johnny hollers across the bar, earning a lot of confused looks. “Hurry up!”

You want to close your eyes and sink into the floor, totally embarrassed and utterly fed up with this stupid, disobedient dog. But when you glance back at your friends and your eyes easily find Bradley’s, you remember why you’re doing it.

You plaster on a smile. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you later.”

You barely hear their goodbyes as you turn and hurry through the bar toward the door. You can’t help your body from recoiling when Johnny wraps an arm around you, but you play it off by pretending to be cold. The walk to his car is silent, as is the first half of the drive, until he takes two wrong turns in a row and you realise that he isn’t driving toward your house.

“Which way are you going?” you ask.

His Cartier bracelet twinkles under the passing streetlights. “What do you mean?”

“My place is back that way.”

He sighs and shifts a little in his seat, reaching out the Cartier arm to place a hand on your thigh. “I thought you could stay at mine tonight.”

“Oh.” Your stomach swirls nauseously. “I’m actually not feeling too well, I think I should-”

“Again?” he snaps.

You take a deep breath, your hand itching to find the door handle. “Yeah, again. I probably need to go to the doctors.”

The car screeches to a halt and your body strains against the seatbelt. “Good idea,” he says. “Why don’t you go right now?”

You frown. “Now?”

He nods at the door, and only then do you realise that your hand is gripping the handle. His face is cast in shadow and streetlight, making him look more menacing than he really is. You know he only acts tough, but you’re still not willing to push it given his significant size advantage over you.

You pop the door open. “Fine.”

You’ve barely got two feet on the asphalt before he hits the gas and takes off again, speeding down the dark street and leaving you behind.

“Fuck.”

You glance around and try to find something familiar. You might have grown up here, but you definitely don’t know the area as well as you should. You know your usual places and the direct routes to and from those places, but right now you’re standing on a street you’re fairly sure you’ve never been on before. It also doesn’t help that it’s dark, because everything is different in the dark.

You pull your phone out and open your maps, using two fingers to twist and turn the map on the screen until you can figure out how far off your usual route Johnny had driven. He lives further from the base and the bar than you do, in some schmancy mansion he inherited from his parents that you hope never to see in person.

“Fuck,” you groan again. The little blue dot showing your location is a good ten miles from either the bar or your house, and you’re definitely not doing a trek like that in the middle of the night.

You flick away the maps app and pull up Uber, your thumb hovering over the location box where you should type your home address and hit enter, but you can’t stop thinking about Bradley. Even the thought of him has an effect on you now, making your insides mushy and your brain foggy. The tug in your gut has you wandering across the street in the general direction that The Hard Deck would be, and you switch from the Uber app to your contacts list. You scroll to the top where your favourites are pinned and tap on Bradley’s name without a second thought.

It only rings once. “Hello?”

“Bradley,” you say, relief washing through you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you guys still at the bar?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “What happened?”

You lean against the nearest streetlight, guilt and anticipation warring inside of you. “You can say no, but I’m kind of lost.”

“Hang on,” he mutters. You can hear shuffling and distant voices, then the squeak of a door and the background noise dies down. “What do you mean you’re lost?”

“It’s a long story,” you sigh, “but like I said, you can say no-”

“Where are you?” he demands. “I’m coming to get you.”

Your chest aches. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, and then the background noise returns. There’s music and chatter, and you can hear the jingle of keys while Bradley quickly explains himself to the squad.

Then there’s Mickey’s voice, loud and clear. “Go, Prince Charming! Go!”

“Fuck off,” Bradley mutters, and you can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up your throat.

There’s another few seconds of music and chatter before you hear a car door slam, and then it’s so quiet you can hear Bradley’s heavy breathing. “You still there?” he asks.

“Haven’t been kidnapped yet.”

He sighs. “Please don’t joke about that.”

You shift your shoulder against the light pole, trying to ignore the excitement in your stomach. “Don’t worry, they’d bring me back pretty quickly.”

Bradley chuckles dryly. “Not before I found you and killed them.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, feeling swollen and ready to burst. “Why would you kill them?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

Maybe you are a masochist.

“Because I don’t like it when people take what’s mine,” he replies.

Your stomach does a somersault, and you wait for a laugh or a chuckle, but it doesn’t come. Bradley is dead serious right now, and somehow, he's managed to make you horny from ten miles away.

You clear your throat. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It looks like you’re near the old fire station.”

You pull the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker before flicking out of the call screen and tapping on the ‘Find My’ app. Bradley’s contact photo is floating on the map a small distance from your little blue dot, moving closer. You shared your locations with each other a few years ago, mostly because you wanted to see where Bradley was in the world, but it’s come in handy more than a few times. Like right now, for example.

“Thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But you do have to tell me why.”

You frown, still watching his location. “Why what?”

“Why you’re suddenly stranded when I saw you leave with your boyf-” He hesitates and clears his throat. “Your boy toy.”

You sigh and roll your head back, staring up at the dark sky for a moment before looking back down at Bradley’s slowly moving contact photo. “We had a bit of an argument and-”

“And he kicked you out of his car and left you?”

“No, no, he-” Now you hesitate. “Well, yes, technically, but putting it like that sounds bad.”

“Because it is bad!” Bradley exclaims.

You take a deep breath of cold night air before sighing it out. “I know.”

A moment of silence stretches into a couple of minutes, but neither of you hang up the phone. You know it’s for safety, in case the worst were to happen, but you also like to hear Bradley’s soft breathing. As creepy as that might sound. It’s comforting to know that he’s there and he’s on his way. He might even be mad at you for being stupid and dating an asshole, but he could never let his anger get in the way of your safety.

“Are you speeding?” you ask him.

“Um, no?”

You scoff. “Okay, that was convincing.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? My best friend stranded in the middle of nowhere at midnight.”

Friend. You roll your eyes. “You’re supposed to make sure you get to her safely.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

You frown. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Because I know you.”

Your pulse thrums harder, filling your ears and making your breath come and go in quick gasps. You don’t know what to say, because it's true. He knows you, better than you know yourself sometimes, and that makes you wonder if he knows exactly what you’re hiding from him.

“I think I see you,” he says.

Your eyes snap up toward the headlights that appear half a mile down the street. “I think I see you too.”

Your heart beats faster the closer he gets, and you wait until you can clearly recognise the front of the Bronco before hanging up your call. The car rolls to a stop in front of you, and Bradley ducks his head to look at you from the driver’s side. “Need a ride?”

He is fucking breathtaking. All golden-brown tousles and soft eyes, his lips perfectly kissable and his cheeks a little flushed.

“Mom told me not to get in strangers’ cars.”

His face breaks into a grin, and you’re pretty sure your heart stops altogether. “I have candy,” he says.

A giggle bubbles from your lips. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

You pull the door open and fall into the seat, his scent wrapping around you like a blanket. For the first time tonight, you feel safe.

“Hey,” you breathe out, staring at the boy beside you like he hung the moon. You’ve been looking at Bradley this way since you were ten years old, and sometimes you try to hide it, but after the night you’ve had, you can’t find the strength to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “I’m a lot better now.”

The light inside the car is dim and his face is partially obscured by shadow, but you’re pretty sure you can see the colour in his cheeks deepen. You search each other’s eyes for a few too many seconds before he looks away, focusing on the street ahead as the car begins to roll forward.

The drive is silent, but not in the same way it had been with Johnny. This silence is thick with something unsaid, tangible and heavy as it hangs between the two of you. His right hand is resting on the gear stick out of habit, and your fingers itch to slide between his, feel his hot skin against yours in any way possible.

He clears his throat. “So, are you going to tell me what happened?”

You sigh. “Do I have to?”

He glances at you and shrugs a shoulder. “No, but it might feel good to talk to a friend.”

Friend. You turn your gaze out the windscreen, focusing hard on the road ahead to avoid rolling your eyes. Maybe you should talk to someone about the shit you’re dealing with. It might be self-inflicted shit but at least complaining to someone about it might relieve some of the frustration.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you begin. “After about ten minutes of driving, I noticed that he’d taken a couple of wrong turns, so I asked where he was going, and he said I should spend the night at his house tonight.”

The steering wheel squeaks in Bradley’s tight grip.

“Are you sure you want me to tell you this?”

“Yes,” he replies, using a tone of voice that leaves no room for argument.

“Okay,” you sigh, turning back toward the road before continuing. “I told him that I didn’t feel well and just wanted to go home, but he got a little annoyed because I’ve been sick for the past couple of weeks.”

“You haven’t been sick,” Bradley states, brows furrowed.

"Well, not really, but-”

“So, you’ve been lying to him?”

Your stomach twists nervously. “I guess.”

Bradley nods slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Well, anyway,” you continue, “I said that maybe I need to go to see a doctor, so he stopped the car and told me to go right now.”

Silence envelopes you both again. The only indication you have that Bradley actually heard you is the way his knuckles are turning white as he grips the steering wheel. His face is stoic, his eyes fixed on the road but still distant. You know this look, it's the look he gets when he’s stuck in his thoughts.

You don’t want to interrupt him for the fear of being scolded. You know Bradley would never belittle you or tell you that you're stupid because of the decisions you make, but there’s no doubt that he’s mad at you for putting your own safety at risk.

He doesn’t speak until the car stops in the garage beneath his apartment block, and only then do you realise that he hadn’t driven you to your place. He moved here when the dagger squad got their permanent placements on North Island, after finally deciding to sell his family home.

“I’ll sleep on the lounge,” he says, pulling the key from the ignition. “You can have my bed.”

You hate the way your stomach squeezes at the idea of being in his bed. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll take the lounge.”

“No, you won’t.”

Before you can argue, he pops the door and steps out of the car. You quickly fall out of the passenger’s side and hurry after him, almost bumping into his broad back when he stops abruptly at the elevator.

“Bradley,” you sigh, standing at his side. “Please don’t give me the silent treatment.”

“I just spoke to you, didn’t I?”

You huff. “Well, yes, but I don’t like how you’re talking to me.”

He scoffs, his brows shooting up toward his hairline. “Oh! You don’t like how I’m talking to you?”

The elevator doors open and you both step inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the back wall of the cabin. “I just think it’s funny how you let those men treat you like shit and talk to you like crap, but as soon as I don’t feel like being playful, then you’ve got a problem.”

You frown at him, your breath coming and going much faster than before as anger bubbles in your stomach. You’re not sure what to say, because how can you defend yourself against fact. Silence stretches until the elevator dings and the doors part.

“I’m just not like those other guys, am I?” he says, brushing past you as he steps out of the cabin.

You follow him, doubling his steps to keep up. “No, you’re not like them. You’re better.”

He jams the key into his apartment door and laughs bitterly. “Better but not good enough, right?”

He shoves the door open and stalks inside, leaving you to catch the heavy door for yourself. You follow him in, quickly kicking your shoes off in the hall before stepping into the kitchen after him. He stands on one side of the island, both large hands planted on the countertop. You stop on the opposite side, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Bradley, what the fuck?”

He stares down at the bench. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re with them!” he exclaims, head snapping up. “Why do you deal with that? Why do you choose those guys when you could have anyone you fucking want?”

Your chest aches as your heart starts slowly tearing itself apart. “Bradley, please don’t-”

“You date these assholes that don’t give a fuck about you, but then when you need someone, when you’re scared or alone, you call me.” He pauses, his shoulders rising and falling with laboured breath. “Why?”

You close your eyes, wishing once again that the floor would open up and swallow you whole. But it doesn’t, so you open your eyes to meet his intense honey-brown gaze. “Because I know you’ve got me.”

“No, I don’t,” he snaps. “I thought I did once, but I know now that I never will.”

“Bradley-”

“I’m not mad,” he quickly adds, his features softening slightly. “I could never be mad at you, and I will always be there for you, but I need you to know that it kills me to see you with these guys.”

You want to ask why, because you’re a masochist and you want to hear him say it, but you can’t speak. Your throat is too thick and your emotions too wired. You knew this argument was inevitable, but you hadn’t expected it tonight. Maybe it’s not just yourself that you’ve pushed too far, maybe you’ve pushed the limits of your friendship too.

“I need sleep,” he mutters, dropping his gaze before turning toward the short hallway.

You watch him disappear into his room, feet anchored to the floor despite how hard that rope in your gut is trying to pull you toward him. You’ve never wanted to touch him more in your life, hold him and kiss him and tell him that you’ve only ever loved him, but you can’t. Your father might be busier these days and less of a threat to you, but he’s still a threat to Bradley’s career.

After a couple of minutes, he reemerges in a pair of grey sweats. Only grey sweats. You’ve seen Bradley shirtless more times than you can count, but you’re never ready for effect that it has on you.

“Bed’s all yours,” he says, throwing a pillow and a blanket onto the lounge.

You want to argue. You want to stomp your feet and tell him everything you’ve held back for years, and then you want him to kiss you and take you to bed where the two of you will stay for the next month. But you can’t, and you’re about to burst into tears.

You nod once before shuffling into his bedroom, shutting the door most of the way before turning to face the bed. When you see a pair of boxers and an old shirt laid out for you, the floodgates burst and tears stream down your cheeks despite your efforts to choke them back. Your throat aches and your nose stings, your vision blurred as you slowly peel your clothes off and wrap yourself in the comfort of Bradley’s.

You wonder if Bradley can hear you crying quietly as you crawl into his bed. The apartment isn’t very big, but you’ve done your best to suppress your sniffles as you washed your face in the ensuite bathroom. Your head hits the pillow and his scent overwhelms you, filling you with the most conflicting mix of sadness and horniness. You’ve been in Bradley’s bed plenty of times before, but not often sober and never after he just almost confessed to being in love with you.

Eventually, you fall asleep and have the best sleep you’ve had in years. You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating on the bedside table and startle when you see the time in the top left corner of the screen; it’s almost midday. You hang up on Johnny’s call, only to see ten missed calls from earlier in the morning and a ridiculous number of texts. You roll your eyes and throw the covers back, rushing out the bedroom door and into the lounge room.

Your heart sinks when you see the lounge is empty and the blankets are folded neatly on one end. There are no missed calls or messages on your phone from Bradley, but you can vaguely recall him making plans with the squad earlier in the week to go to the beach today. You go back into the bedroom and change into your own clothes, dropping your borrowed pyjamas in the hamper by the ensuite door before walking back into the main space.

You’re about to leave the apartment when a folded piece of paper on the kitchen island catches your eye. You snatch it and open it up, quickly reading Bradley’s scrawl.

Had to go. Coffee is fresh.

I’m sorry about last night, I overstepped.

You’ve always got me. I love you.

Breath catches in your throat and tears fill your eyes. You thought you’d cried yourself dry last night, but apparently not. It isn’t as if Bradley has never told you that he loves you. He’s said it before deploying and he’s said it to save himself after some particularly snarky jokes, and you’ve said it back, but this feels different. This feels like a confession.

“Fuck,” you mutter, wiping the tears from your cheeks. You shove the note into your pocket and continue toward the door, making sure it’s locked before it falls closed behind you.

It’s only a ten-minute walk to your place, and you quietly wonder if Bradley intentionally chose an apartment not far from yours. You wait impatiently as the elevator ascends to your floor, slipping through the doors the second they part and half jogging toward your apartment door. Once inside, you shower and pull on some clean clothes before running right back out the door.

Your mind races as you drive to the beach, trying to come up with the right words to say to Bradley. You don’t want to make it awkward, but you know you can’t leave last night unresolved. You would have to act normally in front of the squad, maybe pull him aside and tell him that you’re the one who's sorry. Or perhaps you should act like nothing has happened and text him later tonight.

You bounce back and forth between different ideas the entire drive. The only thing you do know is that you’re not going to take those last three words too seriously. Bradley loves you and he’s told you that before, this note is no different.

You slide your sunnies up your nose and scan the beach, easily spotting Javy’s broad frame and Jake bouncing around like an energetic border collie.

Mickey sees you first as you jog toward them. “Hey!” he calls, waving his arms like a maniac.

“Hey.” You’re a little breathless by the time you reach them, your eyes searching for Bradley amongst the bodies playing volleyball. “Where’s Rooster?”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Mickey chuckles. “He’s not here.”

You frown. “What?”

“Hey!” Natasha jogs up to you, abandoning the game. “Are you okay? Rooster told us you were stranded last night.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You push your sunnies to the top of your head. “It’s a long story but Rooster helped me out. Do you know where he is?”

She cocks her head, confusion written across her face. “He messaged the group chat this morning saying he couldn't come because he had to see Mav.”

“Mav,” you echo. “He’s at Maverick’s?”

Mickey nods. “As far as we know.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly pull it out, letting out a sigh when you see Johnny’s name across the screen. You look back up at your friends. “I’ve got to go see him, so I’ll see you guys later.”

“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.

You nod. “Of course, I just need Bradley.”

You turn and start jogging back toward your car, your legs burning as your feet sink into the soft sand. The drive to Maverick’s isn’t long, but you have to remind yourself several times to slow down and not be stupid. Your stomach sinks when you can’t spot the Bronco parked anywhere nearby, but you still climb the front porch and knock on the door.

Only a few seconds pass before Maverick answers. “Y/N?”

“Hey Mav, I’m sorry to bug you but-”

“Are you okay?” he interrupts, concern painting his face.

“Yeah, why?”

He leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Well, Rooster told me what happened last night and you’re looking a little flustered right now. That Johnny guy isn’t giving you a hard time, is he?”

“Oh, no,” you reply. “I mean, he’s been calling, but I haven’t answered. I was actually just looking for Bra- uh, Rooster.”

Maverick hesitates for a moment, his eyes reading you like you’re an open book with size forty-eight print. Every emotion on your face so easily distinguishable.

“He’s not here,” he finally says. “He left a little while ago. Not sure where he was headed, though,”

You take a deep breath to try and wrangle your nerves. You need to calm the fuck down. “Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“Last night.”

The tiniest of smirks lifts the corner of Mav’s mouth. “He said that asshole you’re dating kicked you out of the car and left you stranded.”

You nod once, brows raised as if asking for more.

“He also said that he might have overstepped a little.”

You lift your hands to your face and groan into them, frustration and anxiety seeping from every pore in your body.

“I’m going to ask again,” Maverick says. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, face still hidden in your hands. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, trying to think of all the consequences that could possibly come from telling Maverick your problems. When you finally pull your hands away, they’re wet with tears.

You sniffle, looking up at the captain. “Yes please.”

He steps aside and ushers you in, offering you drinks and snacks as he guides you through to the back patio. You take a seat in the most comfortable looking wicker chair and catch a whiff of Bradley’s cologne, which only causes more tears to fill your eyes.

Maverick quickly joins you with a pitcher of water and two cups, and a box of tissues. “I’m going to start charging you kids for these therapy sessions,” he sighs.

A wet laugh leaves your lips as you press a few tissues to your face. “Sorry Mav.”

He chuckles. “Don’t be.”

After a minute, you manage to calm down enough to tell Maverick everything, even though he already knows a lot of it. You tell him about the first time you saw Bradley, the first time you realised why you felt a certain way around him, and the first time you had a feeling Bradley might feel the same. You fill in all the gaps about your family that Maverick missed when he was flying in and out on assignments, and you tell him all about the years that he and Bradley didn’t speak. You even tell him about your father, how he never liked Maverick and later threatened you with ruining Bradley’s career.

By the time you finish, you feel so light you could float. You’ve stopped crying, and you realise now that all the weight on your chest had been put there by your father. The same father who hasn’t given you more than a minute of his attention since the day he told you not to go near Bradley Bradshaw.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Maverick sighs at the ground. He has his elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands as he stares at the deck beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “My dad is a dick.”

He looks up, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because he had no reason not to like you, but he did anyway.”

He chuckles. “I’m not a stranger to being disliked, especially by admirals.”

You laugh softly before taking a long swig of water.

“You’re right about him being a dick, though,” he says. “The fact that he ever thought he could tell you who to date is the worst example of parenting I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh again, but it’s more of a snort.

“Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?” Mav asks. “What about your mum?”

You shrug. “I was scared, and I loved Bradley too damn much to risk anything.”

His lip lifts into a smirk. “Be that as it may, your father has no right to threaten Bradley’s career.”

“What do you mean?”

Maverick chuckles now, elbows still leaning on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “Do you think that I would still be here if one admiral was able to do completely derail someone’s career?”

“Well, no,” you reply.

“Exactly.” He sits back now. “I don’t blame you for believing him, because that isn’t a threat that anyone would take lightly, but you really don’t need to worry. Bradley is a big boy now, he can stick up for himself, and if all else fails, he has a lot of other people on his side.”

You stare down at the empty cup in your hand, processing his words and letting them sink in, letting yourself believe them. “So, you’re saying-”

“You can love Bradley if you want to,” he says. “There might be other consequences for your relationship with your father, but as far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve a relationship with his daughter unless he changes his attitude.”

Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs. “Thanks Mav, for everything.”

He nods. “Any time."

“Just one more thing?”

He quirks a brow, waiting for your question.

“What else did Bradley tell you this morning?”

The laugh that escapes his lips startles you, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes to stand. “Well, sweetheart, I think you should just go talk to Bradley yourself.”

You roll your eyes and stand too. “Fine.”

You thank Mav again as he walks you out. He gives you a hug and promises not to tell anyone what you’ve told him, but assures you again that whatever happens, Bradley’s career is safe. You walk off his porch feeling a lot lighter than when you had walked in, and when you get in your car, you pull your phone out and type a text to Johnny.

‘Fuck off.’

Then you block his number and drive home. You decide to give Bradley a little space, because you need to school your own thoughts before you go letting the skeletons dance their way out of the closet. You need to figure out how you’re going to explain yourself, and you need to decide if you actually want to risk the friendship and tell him you’re in love with him.

Just because Maverick got all giddy when you told him you were head over heels for Bradley doesn’t mean he’s definitely in love with you. You were hoping Mav might give you a hint, but he was stubborn, focusing on you and your feelings instead of divulging anything about Bradley’s feelings.

You busy yourself for most of the day with random chores and errands. When the sun starts to set, you settle onto your sofa and take your phone out, typing out a text to Bradley that you’ve been workshopping all afternoon.

‘Thanks again for last night. I appreciate you. What are you doing after work tomorrow?’

You put your phone on silent and toss it across the lounge, nerves creeping across every inch of your skin as you sink into the cushions. You’ve never been nervous to talk to Bradley. In fact, he’s the number one recipient of your usual word vomiting, but right now, you feel like you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper wondering if he’ll be there to catch you when you jump. If you jump.

-

Five days. It’s been five fucking days since you messaged Bradley, and nothing. You’ve only ever gone this long without speaking when he was deployed without access to his phone or reception. To say you were nervous five days ago feels like a joke now. You’ve barely slept, you’ve barely eaten, and you’re pretty sure you’re starting to see things that aren’t there. Had you imagined Bradley this whole time?

“You look tired,” Natasha says the second you open your apartment door.

“Thanks.”

You step aside and allow her to walk in, which she does with a scrunched-up nose. “Do you not have any windows in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you here again?”

She spins on her heel and flashes you a smirk. “To make you feel better, obviously.”

“Doing a bang-up job so far,” you mumble sarcastically.

You move some of the blankets off the lounge to make room for her. You’ve been sleeping there the past few nights, falling in and out of consciousness while the TV plays reruns of old 90s sitcoms. You’re lucky you have the option to work from home, because you're not sure you’d have been able to drag yourself to work at all this week. Instead, you’ve been doing half-assed days at your desk while resisting the urge to put your phone in the blender.

Natasha sits on the lounge while you open your balcony door, letting in the brisk autumn air. “So,” she says, still smirking, “are you ready to feel better?”

You sit down beside her, curling your knees up to your chest. “I feel fine, actually.”

She raises her brows. “You do? Because the last time you missed pool night at The Hard Deck, someone had literally died.”

Shit. You’d completely forgotten about Wednesday night pool. In fact, you’ve forgotten about everything except Bradley, who has apparently forgotten about you.

“Did Rooster go?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“See,” she says, her smile widening, “you already feel better.”

You roll your eyes. “Again, I’m totally fine, just-”

“Cut the bullshit,” she interrupts you, her expression turning serious. “I’m not here because I think you’re going to off yourself. I know you’re a big girl who can deal with heartbreak when she has to, but the thing is, you don’t have to.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Ugh,” she groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know how painful it is to deal with the two of you when the answer is to all this tension is so simple?”

You wait a beat, letting her have her moment that she has clearly been waiting to have.

“I’m not going to tell you something that I don’t know for sure, but I am going to tell you that Rooster is miserable,” she says. “He’s obviously not sleeping, he’s barely eating, and he hasn't strung more than four words together all week. Now, I know something went down, we all do, but I also know that now you’re both just being stubborn.”

You frown and open your mouth, but she holds a hand up to stop you.

“I’m not done.”

You roll your lips and nod once.

“I know I haven’t known either of you nearly as long as you’ve known each other,” she continues, “but I think I know you both well enough to know that you’re better together than you are apart. Whether or not that means marriage and babies, I don’t care. All I care about is that two of the most important people in the world to me don’t lose each other, because it’s kind of fucking obvious that you two are soulmates… or whatever.” She tacks on that last part with a wave of her hand, clearly becoming uncomfortable with the mushy stuff.

You push your bottom lip into a pout. “Aw, Nat,” you coo. “Bob was wrong, you do have a heart.”

Her brows dip into a scowl. “What did that fucker say about my heart?”

You roll your eyes and ignore her question, leaning across the couch to wrap your arms around her. She hesitates but hugs you back, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. Natasha isn’t the most affectionate person, but she knows how to be there for her friends.

“Wait.” You pull back. “It’s Friday, why aren’t you at work?”

“They needed someone to cover a weekend, so Mav gave me today off.”

“Oh,” you nod before falling back into the couch.

“What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “Bradley might be miserable and all, but he’s still avoiding me. I’ve messaged him and called him, but he keeps ignoring me.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. “I thought he might be. He’s been avoiding every conversation where your name comes up.”

You roll your eyes. Not that you blame him. From his point of view, you look like a pretty big idiot. You’ve been best friends for over a decade, flirting nonstop for half of that, and yet you keep dating assholes despite giving him all the signals that you’re actually into him.

“I have a plan,” Natasha says, her lips pulling back into a smirk. “You still have security clearance because of your dad, right?”

Twenty minutes and one hot shower later, you’re following Natasha out the door of your apartment and into the elevator. Your stomach flips nervously as the cabin descends, and you start to gnaw at your bottom on the way to her parked car. You haven’t been on the base in years. In fact, you try to avoid it, because you know that your father is there somewhere.

“Don’t be nervous,” Natasha says, glancing at you from behind her sunglasses.

Your eyes are fixed on the road ahead. “Bit hard not to be.”

You don’t live far from the base, and after barely ten minutes of Natasha’s questionable pep talking, the car rolls up to the main gate of North Island Naval Air Station. You both show your identification cards to the security guard in the booth while other guards inspect her vehicle. The butterflies in your stomach haven’t settled from the moment you stepped out of the shower, and now you’re starting to worry that the banana you managed to eat for breakfast isn’t going to stay down.

Natasha cruises through the familiar base, parking in one of the expansive staff lots before turning to you with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good, let’s go.”

You force yourself to open the door and plant your feet on the tarmac. Step by step, you make it around the vehicle to where Natasha is impatiently waiting.

“Come on,” she sighs. “We have to get to there before they’re called in for the weekly debrief.”

You take a deep breath and force some confidence into your voice. “Okay, okay. Just a little anxious about doing the one thing I’ve spent a good chunk of my life specifically not doing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very big deal. Now hurry up!”

Another deep breath has you feeling a little more human, more confident and grounded. You walk beside Natasha with a little more courage, gazing around at the huge buildings and looping roads. You haven’t been on the base in years because of your father. You’ve dated assholes for years because of your father. You’ve hurt the only boy you’ve ever loved because of your father.

Anger starts to bubble in your stomach as Natasha raises her wrist to check her watch. “Can you run?” she asks.

You nod. “Let’s run.”

The two of you break out into a sprint, shoes smacking against the concrete as Natasha leads the way. You don’t recognise much, not that you ever took special notice of the buildings when you visited with your father, but you do spot the Ford Bronco parked in one of the lots along the way.

“This way,” Natasha says.

You both slow to a jog as you approach one of the hangars. Natasha waves to a couple of the officers, greeting them with a vague explanation for her visit while you zone out and gaze up at the huge structure.

Through the hangar and on the other side where there are long stretches of tarmac and a line up of fighter jets, you find a familiar group. You have to squint to see them properly, all appearing in various states of exhaustion and one still on the ground doing push ups while Hondo counts beside him. The golden-brown head of hair makes your heart skip, and you trip on your own feet as you continue to approach the group.

Mickey notices the two of you first. He grins and waves before nodding once and walking up to each of the others, whispering something in their ears. They each give you a smile and a nod before slowly walking away from the boy doing push ups.

Hondo tips his head when you get closer, and winks. “194… 195… 195.”

“What?” Bradley gasps. “You just-”

“Quiet lieutenant,” Hondo snaps. “You’re going to make me lose count.”

Natasha gives you a subtle thumbs up before skipping off in the same direction as the rest of the squad.

Hondo inches away too, raising his voice to continue counting. “197… 198… 199.”

Your heart thunders within your chest, trying it’s hardest to break free as you watch Bradley sink into his final push up.

“200,” you say.

His arms wobble and his knees hit the concrete just in time to stop himself from falling on his face. When he glances up, sweaty and on all fours, you feel like you could faint.

“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here?”

He sits back on his haunches and dusts his hands together, his eyes honey eyes sparkling under the setting sun.

“What do you think I’m doing here, Bradley?”

He glances around, noticing the absence of his squad. “Trespassing?”

You cross your arms and pop your hip. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” He pushes up and rises to his full height. “Last I checked, you were the one with a penchant for self-destructive behaviours.”

You narrow your eyes. “Define such behaviours.”

“Dating assholes for their money and rank.”

Anger sizzles through your veins, heating your skin and making your fists ball. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, before walking past you.

It takes you a moment to catch up, to find your voice and stamp down the angry monster rearing its horns. Bradley has a right to be angry. You expected him to be angry.

“Bradley,” you call after him.

He keeps walking.

“Rooster!”

He keeps walking.

“Bradshaw!”

His steps falter but he doesn’t stop.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw!” you exclaim. “For fuck’s sake!”

He halts and turns on his heel, his eyes stormy beneath furrowed brows. “You have no authority to pull rank. In fact, it’s kind of illegal and could get your father in some serious trouble.”

“Good!” You cover the ground between the two of you, stopping barely inches from him. “I hope he gets in shit, I hope he gets court martialled, or whatever the fuck it is that happens to you lot when you misbehave.”

His frown softens, curiosity taking over his expression. “What?”

You have to take a deep breath, because standing this close to him has your head spinning. “My dad is an asshole.”

Bradley tips his head. “Well, yeah, but why does that matter right now?”

“Because”– you take half a step back so you don’t hurt your neck looking up at him –“when we were younger, when you got accepted into the TOPGUN programme, he told me that you weren’t good enough for me.”

The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“I didn’t believe him,” you continue quickly, “but he threatened me. Well, he threatened you, your career. He said that if I didn’t get over my stupid crush, he would ruin your career, and I was young and stupid enough to believe that he could.”

His jaw relaxes and his expression softens. “He said he would ruin my career?”

You nod. “I couldn’t let him do that, but I couldn’t lose you either, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started dating assholes that dad would like, so I could stay friends with you. If he thought I was with these other guys, he wouldn’t question how much time I spent with you.”

His eyes go a little glassy. “You dated all those assholes so you could stay friends with me and protect me?”

You nod again, the bridge of your nose stinging as you stare up at the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. “I couldn’t risk him finding out that I’m in love with you.”

Despite the distant sounds of the ocean, the birds chirping, and the hum of machinery, you feel like the world has stopped spinning. You hold your breath, waiting for him to react, to say something.

“In love,” he whispers, “with me?”

You nod for the third time, your voice stuck in your throat with the last breath you’d captured.

“Fuck.” He rubs a hand up his jaw and through his hair, his eyes bouncing around the hangar before returning to yours. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You feel like the elephant sitting on your chest has finally moved, and you let out a long breath.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. “Because I am so in love with you, it-” He doesn’t finish his sentence before he dips his head and presses his mouth against yours, his hands holding your head.

His lips are as soft as you’d always imagined. They taste like mint and something sweet, and they move against yours in the most perfect way. Your fingers find the material of his flight suit and pull him closer, that rope in your gut demanding his body be against yours as you mouths move together. When he fits against you like he was made to be there, everything finally feels perfect.

“Hurts,” he whispers against your lips. “So in love with you, it hurts.”

“Does it still hurt?” you murmur into his mouth, not letting him more than an inch away from you.

You feel his lips curl into a smile. “A little less now, but you should keep kissing it better.”

He tilts your head back and deepens the kiss, making you gasp against his mouth. Your head spins and your knees give, but Bradley’s hands quickly fall to your waist and keep your body pressed to his.

He chuckles. “I’ve got you.”

“Always have,” you say.

He presses his forehead against yours as you both breathe. You know Bradley, you’ve known him since you were ten, and you know that he is doing exactly what you’re doing right now. He’s telling himself that this is real.

“Do you- um, do you want to come over tonight?” you ask.

In one swift move, his hands drop to the backs of your thighs and he crouches a little before hoisting you up off the ground. You yelp and wrap your legs around his waist, now looking down at his big, beautiful smile.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” he says. “Do we have to wait until then or do you just want to do it in the Bronco?”

You giggle, your cheeks burning. “It’s really weird to hear you say shit like that.”

He chuckles. “Oh, baby, you better get used to it. You’re going to hear a whole lot more come out of my mouth tonight.”

END.

[fandomlovver]

Meet Me Halfway

Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff,  angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Requested by : anon 

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

You were a tracker.

Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool. 

So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

-end.