forthebrokenheartedthings

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

You Better Knock - Part 8 - Your name on his file

TW: Torture, Mind Control, Emotional Manipulation, PTSD, Grief.

Word Count: 1700 +

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH - THIS ONE HURTS. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YA.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t supposed to dream.

But lately… you'd been slipping through the cracks.

A face. A name. A flash of warmth before the frost reclaimed him.

Then they handed him a file—with your picture clipped to the front.

You weren’t a memory now.

You were a target. Or an asset.

Or worse—just like him.

They hadn’t shocked him in three days.

Which meant one of two things: He was stable. Or they were about to test something new.

He sat in the restraint chair. The metal cuff on his left wrist was loose—just enough to let the arm twitch when the spasms came.

He didn’t ask for food anymore. Didn’t ask for names. Didn’t ask why the nightmares had started to come with a soundtrack:

A laugh. A piano. A voice saying, You better knock, Buck.

Sometimes the name slipped out. (Y/N). Sometimes he whispered it. Sometimes it played in the static where the commands didn’t quite drown you out.

The technicians noticed.

So they handed him a file.

The photo was black and white.

You were seated on a bench, long coat draped over your knees, head turned like you didn’t know you were being watched.

(Y/L/N), (Y/N). Designation: SUBJECT TWO. Status: In Evaluation. Psych Profile: Unstable. Compliant. Risk.

His thumb dragged across the page.

His chest hurt.

His breathing picked up.

“Barnes,” one of the handlers said. “You know her?”

His fingers tightened.

“I… I…”

He looked at your face again.

He remembered— A ring. A hand on his cheek. Your voice: You’re alive, Buck. I’m right here.

Right here.

Then the surge hit. Sharp. Electric.

“Override,” barked another voice.

The file was ripped from his hands. His wrists re-cuffed. A tech injected something into his spine that turned the world white.

Somewhere down the corridor—

You blinked under a harsh light.

Twitching. Sweating. Your bones ached.

Your memories were there—but so were others. Sharper. Colder. Drilled into your skull with a rhythm that wasn’t your own.

You held the ring again. Clenched it in your palm.

They told you if you passed the next phase, they might let you see him.

Not as a visitor.

As an operative.

______________________________________________________________

The room was built for control.

Steel. Glass. The kind of cold that made your marrow ache.

He was strapped upright to a vertical slab. Wrists locked. Ankles pinned. He wasn’t resisting. But his breath quickened when the side door hissed open.

He knew your footsteps.

Even before he saw you.

You entered like someone already broken—head low, arms trembling behind your back. Barefoot in a gray shift uniform.

But your eyes still found him.

And in them— Something sparked.

“Winter Soldier,” came a voice through the intercom, nasal and gleeful. “You remember Subject Two?”

His jaw didn’t move.

They stepped you closer.

He flinched as they positioned you in front of him.

Close enough that he could see the faint scar at your right temple. One that hadn’t been there before.

“Commence evaluation,” said the voice. “Trigger recall sequence. Subject Two.”

You blinked.

Then opened your mouth.

Your voice didn’t sound like yours.

“Seventeen.”

His hands jerked against the restraints.

“Rusted.”

He shook his head slowly. “No…”

“Furnace.”

“Stop.”

Your voice hitched—like a knife slipping on bone.

“Daybreak.”

He groaned, head dropped, eyes squeezed shut. His arm twitched violently in its bracket.

You stepped closer. Lip trembling.

“Nine.”

“(Y/N),” he rasped. “Don’t do this—don’t let them—”

“Benign.”

A sob broke free.

“Homecoming.”

His head snapped up.

You lifted your hand.

Pressed it gently to his cheek.

Their eyes locked—one last time.

He whispered, “Don’t say it.”

“One.”

He didn’t scream.

But what followed— It tore through him like fire through flesh.

You collapsed to your knees, clutching your chest like you could claw the words back into your throat.

The intercom clicked off.

Satisfied.

They left you there.

You crawled to his feet. Rested your forehead against the cold steel of his leg.

And whispered, again and again:

“Come back to me.”

______________________________________________________________

He didn’t wake up screaming anymore.

That’s how they knew something was wrong.

The Winter Soldier was supposed to be empty.

But now he was waiting. Watching. Breathing like a man with something to lose.

They noticed first when a tech grazed his shoulder too softly—and he flinched.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Later, when they ran his drills, the name slipped again.

(Y/N).

Not with pain.

With a hush. Like a secret.

He wasn’t supposed to have secrets.

Then came the photo.

The one he hid.

Not consciously.

Not yet.

They’d slipped it in with the rest—targets, handlers, traitors. He moved through them like a machine.

Until your eyes met his.

The picture said: Subject Two — FAILURE

He paused.

Just for a second.

But they noticed.

In his cell, he didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ring. Just a glint of it—stolen, hidden in his boot seam.

He didn’t know how it got there.

Didn’t know why he still had it.

But it calmed him. Like an ember refusing to die.

You were somewhere below.

Sedated now. Quiet. Small.

But in his head, you still laughed. Still yelled when he tracked mud in. Still said, You better knock.

And for the first time in years—

He smiled.

It didn’t last long.

But it was enough.

______________________________________________________________

They put you in side-by-side cells.

No blankets. No light.

Just the stench of steel, ammonia, and the sound of nothing.

You didn’t speak for twelve hours.

Neither did he.

Hydra watched. Logged it.

Two perfect subjects.

Quiet. Obedient. Empty.

Exactly what they wanted.

Exactly what you weren’t.

When the guards changed and the silence hummed in that familiar way—

He scratched three slow fingers along the wall.

You caught your breath.

One scratch in reply.

Still there.

Still you.

“You awake?” His voice was sandpaper.

“Always,” you whispered.

The vents buzzed. Surveillance dipped.

“I’ve got twenty seconds before the mic loop resets,” you murmured. “You good?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He smiled. Just a little.

You did this every night.

Not enough to be noticed.

But enough.

Enough to remember.

“You still got it?” you asked once.

“The ring?” he murmured. “Always.”

“I picture the house sometimes,” you said. “Brooklyn brownstone. Stairs that creak.”

“A mutt who sheds too much.”

“You coaching a team you hate.”

“You in the kitchen in that awful robe—”

“It’s warm and you loved it.”

“I lied.”

You laughed into your sleeve.

Then—

“I was gonna name her June.”

He blinked.

“The baby?”

“Yeah.”

______________________________________________________________

The next day, they fed you in silence.

Bucky didn’t flinch when the tray slid in.

You didn’t look up.

Hydra logged success.

But that night—

He scratched the wall again.

“Still there?”

“One knock.”

It meant yes. It meant I love you. It meant they hadn’t won.

Not yet.

______________________________________________________________

The vents kicked on.

You lay on your side, chains cold against your ankle. You reached out, fingers brushing the wall. Two slow knocks.

His breath was already there on the other side.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He let out the softest laugh. The kind you used to hear when his head was tucked under your chin.

“Hurts?”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He shifted closer. You imagined his back pressed to the same wall, both of you held together by the inches of air between.

A pause.

Then you said it.

“Do you think this was the plan?”

“What?”

“Us. Like this. Here.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling.

“No. But we were always gonna be messy.”

You smiled. You knew he could hear it.

“I still remember the night before you shipped out,” you said. “You didn’t sleep. Just kept cleaning that damn uniform like it was gonna win the war itself.”

“You cried into my chest like I wasn’t already drowning.”

“You kissed me like you were gonna live forever.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t die either.”

“…Not yet.”

Silence.

The kind that said everything without saying a word.

Then:

“I still see you sometimes,” you whispered. “Before all this.”

“Where?”

“By the stove. Cussing out the eggs.”

He chuckled. “They deserved it.”

“You’d look at me like I was the only thing that didn’t scare you.”

“You were the only thing that didn’t scare me.”

A beat.

“If this goes bad, Buck—”

“Don’t.”

“If it does—”

“It won’t.”

“Just promise me you’ll—”

“I will knock,” he said. “I will come back.”

You exhaled. Like that was enough.

Like it had to be.

Later, through the static, you said:

“I would’ve loved that house.”

And he whispered back:

“I would’ve hated those stairs.” ______________________________________________________________

They came at dawn.

Hydra never gave warnings.

Two guards. Rifles lazy in their hands. One barked your number.

Not your name.

They never used your name anymore.

You looked back at the wall between you.

Three knocks.

You didn’t get to hear his answer.

Bucky fought.

It was stupid. He knew that.

They were stronger. They were faster. They had the serum and the cuffs and the gas.

But he fought anyway.

They beat him down, restrained him, injected something sharp and cold.

When he woke, he was in the chair.

The same one.

Cold leather. Steel. A bite at his wrists.

He couldn’t move.

But he could see you.

They brought you through the far door.

You stumbled. Your lip was split. Bruises on your arms in the shape of hands that didn’t belong to him.

You saw him.

And smiled anyway.

“Hey, Buck.”

His breath hitched.

You sounded wrecked. But you said his name like it still meant something.

He yanked at the cuffs. “Let her go—LET HER GO—!”

The voice came over the speaker. Calm. Clinical.

“Subject One is resisting reprogramming. Emotional trigger confirmed.”

They forced you to your knees in front of him.

“Barnes,” the voice continued, “this is your final failure point. Observe. Internalize. Let go.”

One of the guards raised the gun.

You looked up at him.

Eyes bright.

Not scared.

Not ashamed.

You leaned forward.

Pressed your lips to his knuckles—cold, metal, trembling.

And whispered:

“You better knock.”

He screamed.

The shot cracked.

Your body hit the floor.

And the scream didn’t stop.

He was still screaming when they dosed him.

When they scrubbed the name.

When they erased your voice from his memory.

When they buried you under ice, silence, and what they hoped was nothing left.

That was the day they finally made him theirs.

But it wouldn’t last.

It never did.

Not with a heart like his.

And a ghost like you.

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

You Better Knock - Part 7 – The Winter Door

Again, so sorry. But this is the angst I live for.

WC: 1000+

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

TW: Hydra, Torture

He wasn’t supposed to survive the fall.

The way the rail snapped. The way the gorge swallowed him whole—no one should have.

But Hydra was good at finding what they weren’t supposed to.

They found him broken. Barely breathing. Blood frozen to his lips.

Still alive.

The chamber was metal and frost and agony.

Lights too bright above him. Restraints biting into his skin. Cold air pumping in like they were trying to freeze the humanity out faster than it could fight back.

He didn’t speak—not at first.

Then came the shocks. Then came the drugs. Then came your name.

“(Y/N)...”

A Hydra tech turned. “What did he say?”

Another leaned in. “A name. Female. American.”

“Catalog it. Use it.” _____________________________________________________________

You had stopped answering the phone.

Stopped opening the mail.

The only sound in your apartment came from the slow tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical turn of the record player playing nothing.

Until the knock.

Three soft raps.

Then silence.

You stood.

Three knocks.

You knew that rhythm.

Your hand trembled as you opened the door.

A man stood in a gray suit. Strange accent. A smile too clean.

“Miss (Y/L/N)?”

You didn’t answer.

“We have reason to believe Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is alive.”

You blinked.

“Who sent you?”

“We have a facility overseas. You’ll want to come with us.”

You didn’t move.

“Why would you come to me?”

“Because,” he said, “when he woke up, you were the only word he said.” ____________________________________________________________

They kept you blindfolded.

Through the flight. Through the transfer. Down a hallway that echoed like a tomb.

You didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t speak.

They strapped you into a chair in a holding room made of concrete and chill and silence.

One wall was glass.

You couldn’t see through it.

But he could see you.

The room was sterile. Gray. Dim.

You stood under a harsh overhead light, still in your coat, hands folded tight in front of you. The chain around your neck was tucked under your shirt, but the ring inside it pressed into your sternum like a second heartbeat.

The door hissed open.

You didn’t look.

Not at first.

But when you did, your whole body buckled inside.

It was him.

Kind of.

His hair was longer. His eyes—wrong. Empty. Hard where they’d once been warm.

And the arm—

God.

The metal gleamed under the fluorescents. Not sleek. Not elegant. Brutal. Bolted. Stamped. Industrial.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like a puzzle with no pieces that fit.

“…Bucky?”

Nothing.

You stepped forward.

“James?”

Still nothing.

Then a voice from the speaker: “Subject shows recognition hesitation.”

Your breath caught. “Do you know me?”

He tilted his head. Barely. Almost a flinch. Almost a twitch of something human.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you said, slowly. Carefully. “I swear. I—I just want you to see me.”

Still nothing.

You held out your hand and showed him the ring.

It caught the light —just enough to draw his eyes.

He stared.

Didn’t breathe.

His metal hand tensed. Curled into a fist. He staggered, just slightly, like the floor shifted under him.

And for a flicker of a second—

His voice cracked. Rough. Fractured.

“…(Y/N)?”

Your whole body shattered around the sound.

“Yes. Yes—it’s me—”

You stepped forward, tears already falling, hand reaching for his cheek.

He flinched.

Hard.

As if your skin burned him.

He stepped back with a grunt, chest heaving. Eyes wide. Something breaking loose behind them.

“Stand down,” came the voice again.

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, please—Buck, you know me, you know me, I’m right here—”

“Override memory fragment—initiate correction.”

A door behind the glass snapped open.

You screamed—

Too late.

The shock hit him like a bolt of lightning.

He dropped to his knees.

You lunged.

“STOP! Please—stop it! I’ll do whatever you want—please!”

Hydra’s voice crackled back.

“Subject unstable. Emotional imprint exists. Compromised by target female.”

You scrambled to his side.

He twitched, groaning, eyes open but gone again.

“Don’t do this to him—don’t you dare do this again!”

The voice paused.

Then the words you weren’t sure you could survive:

“Is the girl a pressure point… or a flaw?” ______________________________________________________________

You didn’t know how long you screamed.

Not until your throat bled.

But until the room stopped echoing with anything but his name.

They dragged you out.

Kicking. Clawing. The ring ripped from your neck.

They didn’t speak to you after that.

Didn’t feed you for two days.

Didn’t ask you anything.

Just left you in a dark room cold enough to turn your hands blue. Silent enough to make you wonder if you were still real.

You counted the seconds.

Then they came.

The woman wore white gloves.

Hydra always loved contrast.

She sat across from you at a table of ice-cold steel and indifference.

“You’re not useful,” she said, clinical and cold. “You’re emotional. Fragile. Prone to collapse.”

You didn’t respond.

“You caused a setback.”

Still nothing.

“Do you want to be useful?”

That made you look up.

She folded her gloved hands.

“You know what he used to be. James Barnes. The soldier. The man. But what stands in his place now is something infinitely more valuable.”

“Then why does he break when he sees me?” you rasped.

She smiled. Thin. Cruel.

“Because he was yours. And you were his. And unfortunately for us, some things... scar too deep.”

You leaned forward, voice raw. “So kill me, then.”

“We considered it.”

“Do it.”

The woman tilted her head. “But I’m curious. How much of you would you give to get him back?”

You didn’t blink.

“All of it.”

They left you with a syringe the next morning.

Didn’t say what was in it.

Didn’t explain the side effects.

Didn’t mention it came from a subject who hadn’t survived it.

You held it in your hand for a long time.

And finally, you whispered into the dark:

“I’m coming, Buck.”

And pressed the needle to your arm. Part 8

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

You Better Knock - Part 6 - The Fall

I'm just going to start off by saying I'm so sorry in advance. TW: Major Character Death (Implied), PTSD elements, Depression

WC: 1000+

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Snow hit hard that morning. The kind that muffled everything. The kind that made the world feel like it was holding its breath.

Bucky adjusted the strap on his rifle as you crouched beside him behind the ridge. “You ready for this?” he asked, glancing sideways at Steve.

Steve just nodded. “They’re protecting something. A scientist. Intel. Maybe both.”

“And we’re the lucky idiots who get to find out what it is.”

The plan was clean. In theory.

Board the train. Secure the cargo. Get out alive.

They dropped onto the roof in sync—Steve leading, Bucky flanking the side hatch.

The doors exploded open.

Hydra troops spilled out like they’d been waiting. Gunfire shredded the air. Grenades screamed. The train bucked beneath them.

It all happened fast. Too fast.

Bucky fired three rounds, dropped two men, vaulted to the next car—

Then the explosion hit.

Not big. Not direct. Just enough.

The rail beneath his boots cracked like dry ice.

He slipped.

“Buck!”

Steve’s voice tore through the chaos.

Bucky’s hands scrambled—caught a steel pipe halfway down the car. His boots kicked over open air, snow spiraling around him.

Steve ran, skidded to the edge on his knees, reached.

“Buck, give me your hand!”

Bucky looked up.

Breathing hard. Knuckles white on the pipe. But his face—still. Too still.

“You take care of her, Steve.”

Steve froze. “Don’t you dare.”

“I mean it. You promise me.”

Steve leaned further, arm stretched to its limit. “You take care of her your damn self. Just give me your hand!”

Bucky reached.

Their fingers brushed—

The pipe groaned.

A high, sharp sound.

“Promise me!” Bucky shouted.

Steve’s voice cracked. “I promise! Now take my—”

The rail gave way.

No time.

No scream from Bucky.

Only Steve’s.

“BUCKY!”

Then silence.

Steve stared into the white for a long time.

Snow swirled where his best friend had been.

And behind his eyes, your face was already breaking. ______________________________________________________________

The knock came just after midnight.

You were on the couch in one of Bucky’s old shirts, sleeves rolled past your elbows, reading the same paragraph for the third time without understanding any of it.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Not this late.

Not unless—

You nearly tripped over the coffee table.

When you opened the door, you stopped breathing.

Steve stood there, hat in hand, uniform dusted with snow, and a look in his eyes that made your stomach twist.

“Where is he?” you asked, immediately.

Steve didn’t answer.

Not right away.

His throat moved. Jaw locked. He blinked like he was trying to stop a reel of film from playing in his head.

You stepped back. “Steve—where is he?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice too soft.

You didn’t understand.

You refused to.

“No,” you said, shaking your head, palms up like you were warding off a lie. “No, Steve—don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this—”

“He fell,” Steve said.

The words hit like ice in your lungs.

You backed into the wall.

“No.”

Steve stepped inside but didn’t come near.

“They had him on the train. We were fighting. Ambush. He went over the side and I—” He stopped, fists clenched. “I had him. I had him, (Y/N).”

You sank to the floor.

“I told him not to let go,” Steve whispered. “But the rail—it snapped.”

Your hand went to your chest, shaking, searching for something that wasn’t there.

“He made me promise,” Steve said.

Your eyes rose slowly. “What?”

“He made me promise to take care of you.”

You let out a breath that didn’t sound human.

“I told him no,” Steve said. “Told him to do it himself.”

He sat on the floor across from you.

“I meant it.”

Neither of you cried at first.

Steve kept talking, voice barely above a whisper.

“Howard pulled strings. Forty-eight-hour liberty. I couldn’t write it. I couldn’t let you get a letter. Not for this.”

You stared at the floor.

Your voice was small. “Did he know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was waiting.”

Steve’s throat tightened. “That’s what he was holding onto.”

You pressed your palms to your eyes. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“I think he knew that too.”

You sat like that until the sun began to rise, pale light slanting through the blinds.

Steve stood first.

“I’ll go,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

He walked to the door.

“(Y/N)?”

You looked up.

“Keep the ring on.”

Your lip trembled. But you nodded.

He left.

You didn’t move for hours. ______________________________________________________________

The call came three days later.

You hadn’t left the apartment.

You barely remembered Steve leaving—just the door closing. The silence after, so loud it echoed.

You drifted room to room in Bucky’s sweatshirt, forgetting to eat.

You only answered the phone because the silence had started to ring in your ears.

“Miss (Y/L/N)?” came the voice. Crisp. Too polite.

“Who is this?”

“This is Colonel Phillips. I—listen. There’s no easy way to—”

Your fingers clenched the receiver.

“What happened?”

“There was a mission. A Valkyrie-class bomber headed for the States. Rogers diverted it.”

You blinked. “Steve?”

“He got everyone out.”

“…Except himself.”

A beat.

“Plane went down in the Arctic. No distress beacon. No body.”

“No body?” Your voice cracked.

“He’s missing, ma’am. Presumed—”

You hung up.

You didn’t cry that day.

You sat on the floor beside your bed, Bucky’s dog tags in your hand, the silver promise ring on your finger. Both cold.

The room around you felt too big.

The silence wasn’t quiet anymore. It roared.

You closed your eyes and whispered both their names until your voice gave out.

______________________________________________________________

Weeks Later

The newspapers ran his face.

“Captain America Lost in Heroic Sacrifice.” “The Star-Spangled Man’s Final Flight.”

People saluted posters. Wrote songs. Sewed patches.

They didn’t know he still owed you a knock.

And you?

You didn’t eat for days.

Didn’t change your clothes.

Didn’t return calls.

No funeral. No casket. Just a ghost of a goodbye and a war that never said thank you.

When you finally left the apartment, you walked like a woman underwater.

People glanced at your ring and said nothing.

By then, it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Until they came.

Part 7

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

The Ink Between Us - Part 2 To Whoever You Are

WC 1500 +

Thank you to everyone who read part 1. I appreciate you all <3 If you want to be added to my masterlist for this, please let me know!

___________________________________________________________

You don’t even mean to do it at first.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, mug of coffee gone cold beside you, the world outside your window going about its business like none of this is happening. You tell yourself you’re just going to peek. Just a quick check, just to prove it’s fake.

You open your laptop and type:

Steve Rogers Brooklyn 1943

The page loads.

And you stop breathing.

There are images. Old photographs in sepia and black-and-white. A draft card. Military service record. A grainy headshot of a skinny kid with serious eyes and hair parted too neatly. The name underneath: Steven G. Rogers. Born: July 4, 1918. Brooklyn, NY.

Deceased.

Presumed killed in action: 1945.

You click on a digitized obituary scan. It mentions bravery, a final mission, no recovered remains. You keep scrolling. There’s nothing extraordinary about the records—no claims of glory, no headlines. Just a missing young man from a lost war. One name in a sea of forgotten ones.

Your chest tightens.

You switch to image search. One photo stops you—he’s standing beside a taller man with a wide grin. Bucky. Has to be. Steve’s looking off to the side like he’s distracted, or like he already knows something terrible is coming and he doesn’t want the camera to see it.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your finger leaves a wet smudge on the trackpad.

It’s real. It’s too real.

You close the laptop like it might bite you.

The notebook is still on your desk, next to a half-burned candle and the charging cable you keep forgetting to use. It looks unassuming. A relic. A paper ghost.

You open it to a blank page.

You hold the pen over it for a long time before you write:

Where are you right now?

What’s outside your window?

What color are your walls?

What do you think this is?

What do you think I am?

You almost sign your name.

You stop.

Instead, you write:

Just write back.

You close the notebook slowly, hands trembling.

And for the first time since your brother died, you sleep like you’re waiting for someone.

_____________________________________________________________

The reply is waiting the next morning. You don't even pretend you weren’t hoping for it.

You flip open the notebook like it might say something different if you don’t look fast enough. But the ink is fresh. The pen-strokes heavy, like they were laid down by someone who doesn’t know how to write lightly.

You asked what’s outside my window.

There’s an alley. Brick walls stacked with crates and oil drums. A cat I think belongs to no one.

A jazz bar across the street. They play “Perdido” too loud on Fridays. I don’t mind.

My walls are flaking. There’s a crack above my bed that looks like France.

I think this is… something we’re both not supposed to understand.

I keep expecting you to disappear.

But every time I open this book, you’re here.

I don’t talk to anyone like this.

Your breath catches somewhere between your ribs.

The way he writes—it’s not flowery or overthought. It’s simple. Unpolished. Like he’s afraid to break something delicate.

You pull your laptop closer, still open from the night before, and re-type his name. You’re not sure why. Some instinct. A hunger in your chest you can’t name.

Steve Rogers Brooklyn 1943

The results look the same at first—archival scans, a few faded records.

But there’s a new one.

You pause.

“War Bonds Poster Features Local Hero: Pvt. S. Rogers”

You click. A black-and-white image loads—a young man holding a mock-up shield, not quite smiling. The face is sharper than the old photo. His shoulders broader. You know this isn’t what you saw yesterday.

You scroll faster.

A second article: “Experimental Soldier Project Advances in SSR”

His name is in the third paragraph.

You blink. Your skin prickles.

You check your bookmarks—the old obituary scan? Gone. Replaced by a military commendation with a golden seal.

It’s like someone’s editing him.

You close the laptop with a shaky hand.

You reach for the notebook and write:

Something’s changed.

I don’t know how or why, but your name is… everywhere now.

You’re in posters. Articles. Headlines that weren’t there before.

It’s like the world’s rewriting itself around you.

Are you okay?

You hesitate, then add:

What do you look like?

You regret it immediately. It’s too vulnerable, too open. You don’t even know what you’re asking for—a face? A lie? Proof he’s real?

The reply doesn’t come until night.

You almost miss it. But when you pass the book to move it off your desk, you see it’s heavier. You open it slowly.

Folded between the pages is a drawing.

A sketch in graphite, lines smudged where fingers lingered too long. A self-portrait—unfinished, maybe. Wide eyes. Strong jaw. Crooked nose. His expression isn’t proud. It’s like he’s still waiting for someone to tell him it’s okay to be seen.

At the bottom, in slanted letters:

This is me. I hope that’s alright.

You trace the edge of the paper. The graphite dust smears your fingertip.

You whisper, without meaning to: “Yeah. It is.” ______________________________________________________________

You tell no one.

Not your friends, not your sister, not your therapist—even though you’ve definitely hit the "bring this up in therapy" threshold. The secret isn’t heavy. Not exactly. It’s something else. Like holding a snow globe that shakes you every time you look at it.

You start Googling in the middle of the night.

James Buchanan Barnes. He’s real too. The face beside Steve in those old photos, always grinning like he knows something nobody else does. You find a grainy news clipping: “Brooklyn Boys Enlist Together.” The article talks about loyalty, duty. It doesn’t mention either of them coming home.

You dig deeper.

You stop reading when you get to the part about the train, about the mountain. You shut your laptop, press the heels of your hands to your eyes. The notebook stays closed for a day. Two.

Then on the third night, you open it.

He’s written again.

I kept thinking you’d disappear.

That maybe I imagined you.

But the notebook still opens. And every time it does, I hope I see your handwriting again.

It’s strange. I don’t know your name. But I feel like I know you.

What’s your favorite food?

Tell me everything.

So you do.

You make a list.

You write about toasted bagels with too much cream cheese, about dumplings from the place down the street that only takes cash, about popcorn with nutritional yeast (he’s baffled by that one), and about the first time you had mango sorbet after your brother’s funeral and it somehow made the world taste less like ash.

You fill the whole page. And another. Then you ask:

What about you?

What did you eat when the world still made sense?

The reply comes quickly.

I eat what I can get. Dried meat. Bread that goes stale too fast. I tried to make stew once and burned it so bad the pot still smells.

Bucky cooked when he was here. He used to put hot sauce on eggs, which is a crime.

Sometimes Ma would make chicken soup and hum while she stirred.

I remember the humming more than the soup.

You stare at that last line longer than you should.

You pull the book close, press your forehead to the page like that’ll bring you closer.

You don’t write anything that night.

You just let his words sit with you.

______________________________________________________________

The next entry isn’t dated, but the tone of it feels heavier.

He starts without a greeting.

I didn’t think you’d answer.

Not the first time. Not any time after.

I don’t know why this is happening, and I’ve stopped trying to understand it. But when you wrote that first page… it felt like something cracked open.

I’ve never said this out loud, not even to Bucky, but—there’s this space in me that’s always been empty. Not because of anything dramatic. Just… because no one ever really saw me.

You wrote to me like I was there.

Like I wasn’t just a body taking up space.

You sit in silence after reading it, fingers curled around the edge of the page. The room is too quiet, the kind that gets under your skin and makes you feel transparent.

You wait until it’s late—too late for logic. Then, by the dim spill of your desk lamp, you write back.

My brother’s name was Peter.

He was nineteen. He loved old movies and science jokes and used to draw little comic strips in my notebooks when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Two years ago, he walked into a corner store and never came out. They said it was random.

There was no trial. No explanation. Just... silence.

After that, people stopped talking about him. Like forgetting him would make it easier.

Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who remembers he was here at all.

Your handwriting wavers toward the end. You pause, your pen hovering over the page, then add one more line before closing the notebook.

Thank you for seeing him.

The reply comes before dawn. You find it when you get up for water and check the book without thinking.

I’m sorry no one kept him safe.

I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that. But someone should’ve.

You shouldn’t have had to bury a story that wasn’t finished yet.

I don’t know how to fix any of this. But I’ll keep writing, if you want me to.

There’s no signature. No date.

Just the echo of someone who means it.

You press the notebook to your chest and close your eyes.

You cry for the first time in weeks.

And it doesn’t feel like weakness.

It feels like remembering.

______________________________________________________________

The power goes out just after sunset.

You’re in the kitchen with a mug of tea you forgot you made, scrolling through your phone like the silence might bite. Then everything goes black. A pause. The kind of pause that makes you feel the size of the room.

Then the hum of the fridge dies. The lights blink off. And outside, thunder cracks like someone just dropped the sky.

You find a candle in the junk drawer and light it with shaking fingers. Your apartment flickers into amber—walls stretching taller, shadows bending.

The notebook is already open on your desk. Like it knew.

You sit down. Pick up a pen. Write slowly.

The storm knocked everything out.

I’m writing this by candlelight. Kinda dramatic, right?

My mom used to light candles during power outages when we were kids and tell us to “pretend it’s a memory.”

So here’s one.

My room used to smell like clean laundry and mint gum. Peter would lie on the floor and play old video games with the volume too low because he said “the soundtrack wasn’t doing the vibe any favors.”

I told him once that he was my best friend. He said, “I know,” like it was obvious.

He was good at knowing things you didn’t want to say out loud.

You pause, tapping the pen against your knee, then write:

What do you remember when it’s this quiet?

His answer doesn’t come for a few hours, but you’re still there when it does—dozing against your arm, eyes burning in the candlelight.

The first sketchbook I ever had was a gift from my Ma.

Brown cover. Paper thin as onion skin. Smelled like cinnamon and dust.

I lost it in the blackout of ’38. The lights cut out and I dropped it on the train tracks by accident. Couldn’t go back for it.

I still think about the pages I didn’t get to finish.

And the ones I didn’t start yet.

Funny how much you can miss something that was barely yours.

You press your fingertips to the page, just to feel the shape of the words.

You write, softly:

I think I’d miss you now, if you stopped writing.

The answer comes slowly.

I won’t stop.

Not unless you tell me to.

You sit in the candlelight until the wax pools and hardens, until the thunder quiets like it’s catching its breath.

For the first time in years, you say goodnight to someone out loud.

And you mean it.

Series Masterlist- @jason-todd-fangirl-14

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 5 - The Rescue

hi! This feels like more of a filler part to me, but it felt very cruel to leave you hanging. Keep them close, shit's about to get real.

It started with the sound of boots.

Not marching. Not precise. Just… running. Scrambling toward the east watch post.

You jolted awake on your cot, heart hammering. You hadn’t really slept. Just closed your eyes sometime around three and hoped the next time you opened them, you’d hear good news.

This wasn’t news. It was noise.

You were on your feet before you could think, yanking your coat over a wrinkled swing dress, sprinting out into the sharp morning air.

A group of soldiers was already gathered at the edge of camp, rifles slung low, eyes squinting into the fog rolling off the trees.

Then someone shouted:

“We’ve got men inbound!”

The world snapped into motion.

You shoved through the crowd, ignoring the shouts, the flurry of orders, the clatter of weapons being readied just in case.

You stopped at the fence line, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And then—

Through the smoke and mist, they came.

Men. Dozens. Maybe more.

Some limping, some bleeding, some barely walking.

But at the front, there was a figure with a round shield slung across his back, mud streaking the star.

Steve.

And behind him—

“Buck…”

It wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t a cry.

It was a detonation in your chest.

He was thinner. Paler. His hair longer than you’d ever seen it, tangled around his temples. His jacket hung off him like it had belonged to someone else. There was blood on his lip. A wound on his temple.

But it was him.

He was walking.

And when his eyes caught yours—

He stopped cold.

The world didn’t.

But he did.

You were already running.

Across the field, boots slipping in damp grass, dress whipping around your legs.

“Bucky!”

He blinked hard.

“No—no,” he whispered. “No, that’s not—she’s not here. That’s not her.”

“BUCKY!”

He stumbled forward like his legs didn’t trust his brain.

And then you slammed into him.

Arms around his neck, fingers fisting into the back of his tattered uniform, face buried in his shoulder.

He staggered, but didn’t fall.

Didn’t speak.

Just buried his face in your hair and stood there like a man who’d forgotten how to breathe.

“You’re here,” you said, breathless and choked.

“I thought you were a hallucination,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “They gave us stuff. Needles. I saw things.”

“Well, you’re seeing me now,” you said, pulling back just enough to cup his face. “And I’m real. I’m real, Buck.”

He blinked again, dazed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You smiled, tears slipping over your cheeks. “And you’re not supposed to be alive, so I guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He laughed—shaky, disbelieving—then pressed his forehead to yours.

“I didn’t break,” he whispered. “Not all the way. I kept thinking about you. About the ring. About your damn voice in my head saying, ‘you better come back.’”

Your fingers curled tighter into his collar.

“I meant it,” you said. “And I’ll say it again if you ever try this shit again.”

Behind you, Steve stood silently, watching with a softness in his jaw he rarely let show.

He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t need to.

He’d done what he came for.

_______________________________________________________

The medal ceremony was a joke.

Not because the men didn’t deserve it—they did. Every one of them.

But because the brass smiled and shook Steve’s hand while ignoring the dirt still under Bucky’s fingernails. Like he hadn’t clawed his way out of hell just days ago.

You stood beside Peggy, arms folded, hair pinned back with shaking fingers.

You didn’t clap. You didn’t blink.

You just watched.

And when it was over—when the speeches ended and the handshakes disappeared into tents with hot coffee—you went looking for him.

You found each other behind a supply truck, the sunset streaking the sky red and gold. He leaned against the fender, arms crossed, a little less pale than he’d been yesterday.

“You clean up okay,” you said.

He gave a crooked grin. “You should’ve seen me two days ago.”

“I did. You were terrifying.”

“Still am.”

“Not to me.”

There was a pause.

The air buzzed between you—soft and sharp at once.

Then:

“They’re sending me home,” you said quietly.

Bucky’s face fell. “What?”

“Orders came through this morning. Peggy told me. I’m a liability now—‘too close to the action.’”

“You were in the action.”

“They don’t care. I’m not military. I’m a distraction with red lipstick.”

“You’re mine,” he said, stepping closer.

Your throat closed.

“I tried to tell them that,” you whispered, eyes stinging.

He looked down, jaw tight.

“You’ll wait for me?” he asked, like he didn’t already know.

“I’ll wait forever if I have to.” __________________________________________________________

That night, you slept next to him in a cot too small for two.

You didn’t sleep well.

You spent the hours memorizing the sound of his breathing. __________________________________________________________

The next morning, you walked to the airstrip together.

You wore your coat like armor.

He didn’t speak.

When the call came, you turned to him and kissed him slow. Like a vow.

“You better knock when you come back,” you said, voice shaking.

“I’ll knock three times,” he said, “and then kick the door in if you don’t answer.”

You laughed, tears in your eyes and waved back at him.

Then you stepped onto the plane.

He watched until you were gone.

Part 6

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 4 - The Show

WC: 1000+

The sequins itched.

You shifted under the spotlight, a painted smile burning on your face as the band kicked into another forced-cheer swing tune. You sang. You danced. You said your lines.

Behind you, Steve flexed and waved and signed autographs on war bonds.

The crowd roared.

You had never felt so hollow.

______________________________________________________________

Backstage, Steve ripped off his helmet like it had personally insulted him.

“I’m not a dancing monkey,” he snapped.

You yanked off your heels. “I’m not either. But guess what?”

“What?”

“We both look real cute pretending to be.”

He slumped into a folding chair.

“This isn’t what I signed up for.”

“Yeah? Welcome to the club.”

You both sat in silence, the next act bleeding in from the tent outside.

You looked over. Steve was clenching and unclenching his fists like he couldn’t stand the strength in them.

“I was supposed to fight,” he said.

“You still can.”

“No, I can’t. They don’t want a soldier. They want a smile.”

You didn’t say what you were thinking—that he was starting to forget how to smile at all.

______________________________________________________________

The tour ramped up.

Cross-country first. Then Europe. France. Germany. Propaganda stops with armed escorts. You learned how to sleep sitting up on a transport truck, how to do your makeup in a broken compact, how to tune a guitar with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Steve got quieter.

He read every list of fallen soldiers like he expected to see Bucky’s name.

He never did.

Until Italy.

__________________________________________________________

You adjusted the strap on your satchel and cursed under your breath as you stepped in your third puddle of the morning.

The Army camp outside Azzano was a chaotic sprawl of mud, canvas, and short tempers. You’d already been whistled at twice and asked if you were “the mascot” once. Steve had threatened to punch someone before breakfast.

Your handlers said you were there to “raise spirits.” A few jokes, a shield spin, you in red lipstick and a swing dress to sing something peppy. That was the plan.

Then you heard it.

“107th got wiped out,” a soldier said, jogging past.

You froze.

You grabbed his sleeve. “What?”

He blinked. “Ma’am?”

“What did you just say?”

“Uh… the 107th Infantry, ma’am. Took heavy losses on the last op. Whole unit went dark. Most likely POWs.”

Your throat went dry. “Do you have a name? Anyone from the unit?”

The soldier shook his head. “No idea. Sorry.”

Ten minutes later, you stormed into the command tent behind Steve, nearly tripping inside.

“Colonel,” Steve said, trying to stay calm, “we just heard about the 107th. Can you confirm if Sergeant James Barnes was part of the captured group?”

Colonel Phillips barely looked up. “Barnes, Barnes…” He flipped a clipboard. “Yep. 107th Infantry. All presumed KIA or captured. We’re not wasting resources chasing ghosts.”

Steve stepped forward. “He’s not a ghost.”

Your voice cracked. “That’s my—he’s my fiancé. You can’t just leave them there!”

Phillips glanced between you. “With all due respect, you’re a mascot in a dress, and he’s a propaganda tool with abs. I’ve got real men out there dying. We don’t have the manpower to go looking for a few lost sheep.”

Steve clenched his fists. “Then I’ll go alone.”

“You’ll go back to your tent, soldier,” the colonel barked. “That’s an order.”

Steve didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

Then Peggy stepped forward. Calm. Icy. Furious under the skin.

“I’ll arrange the transport,” she said. “You’ll need Stark.”

Phillips stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

You turned to Steve. “I’m going with you.”

Peggy’s voice cut in like a blade. “No. You’re not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“This isn’t a stage show. It’s enemy territory. We’re flying into a death zone. You stay here.”

Steve looked between you and Peggy, already shaking.

He opened his mouth.

Peggy shut it with a look.

You stepped back. Just once.

“I swear to God,” you said, voice raw, “if you come back without him—”

“I won’t,” Steve said.

And then he was gone.

__________________________________________________________

They didn’t tell you when Steve left.

They didn’t need to.

You woke to the smell of engine fuel and the silence that follows defiance. The camp buzzed with confusion—soldiers whispering about how Captain America had vanished into the night with a dame and a rich kid in a plane too small to matter.

Peggy left a note on your cot. Neat handwriting. Dry.

He went.Don’t ask me how.Pray he brings them back. —P

You folded the note once, then again, then shoved it into the side pocket of your duffel.

You didn’t speak to anyone for hours.

______________________________________________________________

That afternoon, you sat behind the mess tent, knees pulled up and back against a stack of crates. Your dress was wrinkled, there was oil on your sleeve. You hadn’t performed. Hadn’t even brushed your hair.

The pen shook in your hand.

The page in your lap read only two words:

My Love —

You tried again.

I think you’re still alive. Because I can’t feel the part of me that would be missing if you weren’t. Steve went after you. He didn’t tell me until he was already gone. He does that now. He doesn’t mean to shut me out—he just thinks he has to do it all himself.

You stopped writing.

Looked out toward the tree line. Imagined horrors behind it.

Bucky tied up. Bleeding. Cold. Starving. Calling your name and hearing nothing back.

You wrote again.

If you’re reading this, it means you made it. If you’re not… then I’m already coming to find you myself.

You signed it with a smear where your hand had started to tremble.

Love always, (Y/N)

______________________________________________________________

Night fell.

You didn’t sleep.

You sat in your cot, hands tucked under your arms, listening to boots pass by, to the fire crackling outside the tent, to the faint whine of distant planes.

You didn’t cry.

You just sat there, mouth tight, whispering his name now and then, like if you said it gently enough, the universe might carry it to him.

Part 5

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 3 – When the Boys Ship Out

WC: 1500 +

TW: Deployment, Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader If you'd like to be a part of a masterlist please lmk, I appreciate all more than you know!

The street was too quiet that morning.

Brooklyn never stayed still, but that day, even the air felt like it was holding its breath. You stood at the window, arms folded, hip leaning against the peeling frame, watching as Bucky Barnes adjusted the strap of his duffel bag for the tenth time.

He looked too good in uniform. It made you want to cry and punch something at the same time.

Steve was a few feet away, smaller in every direction, hands jammed in his coat pockets, jaw clenched. He looked like someone trying not to sink into the concrete.

They didn’t speak much. Not down there. Not yet.

You ran your thumb over the edge of your ring.

You hadn’t taken it off. Not once. Not even when Mrs. Ginsberg from next door muttered something about “wearing something before a man’s earned it.”

You didn’t need to defend it. The silver did that all on its own.

Down on the sidewalk, Bucky laughed—too loud, too forced—at something Steve said. It was the kind of laugh that kept the panic from crawling up the back of your throat. You recognized it. You’d made it the night your brother left for the Pacific.

You stepped back from the window and grabbed the wax-paper wrapped sandwich off the counter. Egg and pickle. He’d said it once, offhand, that it was the only decent combination the Army couldn’t mess up.

You ran down the stairs two at a time.

Bucky turned as you reached him.

“There’s my girl,” he said, eyes already burning under the swagger.

“You’re early,” you said.

“You’re late.”

“I was folding your damn socks.”

He laughed and took the sandwich from your hands. “You spoil me.”

“Try not to die with that in your pocket,” you said, smoothing the lapel of his coat.

“I’m gonna die choking on this sandwich if you made it the way you like it.”

Steve looked away, lips pressed thin.

Bucky shifted, trying to hand the moment off to someone else. “Steve’s got that face again.”

“I’m just wondering why I’m still here,” Steve muttered.

You didn’t touch that.

Bucky did.

He stepped forward and clasped Steve’s shoulder. “You’ll get in. One of these days, they’ll see what you really are.”

Steve didn’t look convinced.

You reached out and tugged Steve’s sleeve gently. “Come walk with me for a second?”

Steve hesitated, then nodded.

Bucky watched you both go, chewing slowly. Watching your hand brush Steve’s sleeve and knowing—just knowing—that part of him would always be jealous. But never threatened.

Because you chose him.

“You okay?” you asked once you were out of earshot.

“I hate this,” Steve said quietly.

“Which part?”

“That he’s going. And I’m not.”

You stopped, turned to face him. “Steve. You’ll get there.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t want to sit here while people I love get ripped apart.”

You looked up at him. Really looked.

There were so many things you could have said. So many promises you could try to make—for him, for Bucky, for the world.

Instead, you said, “Then don’t. Find your way in. But come back, Steve. Don’t get lost in trying.”

He nodded.

You walked back together. The bus was pulling up.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped into Bucky’s arms and kissed him like you were trying to push oxygen into his lungs through your mouth.

He didn’t let go right away.

When he pulled back, he brushed your ring with his thumb.

“Every time I close my hand,” he whispered, “I’ll imagine this.”

You grabbed his coat. “You knock first when you come home. If you just show up, I’ll scream.”

“I’ll knock,” he said, smiling crooked. “But I’m not waiting for an invite.”

He clapped Steve on the back, muttered something about keeping his damn boots dry, and then he boarded the bus.

You stood with Steve on the curb, not touching. Just waiting.

And when the bus pulled away, taking Bucky with it, you didn’t cry.

But you didn’t speak again until Steve walked you home.

_____________________________________________________________

Steve’s apartment was too quiet.

Not like Bucky’s place, which had always smelled like soap and bread and warmth—even when he was gone. Steve’s smelled like pencil shavings and boiled potatoes, and the kind of silence that settles when someone’s been living alone too long.

You sat at the tiny kitchen table, cutting gauze.

Steve stood near the sink, shirt off, knuckles red and torn open from punching a brick wall behind the enlistment center.

“You know,” you said gently, “there are easier ways to lose a fight.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight anyone.”

“Then why’s your hand broken?”

He didn’t answer.

You leaned forward, took his wrist carefully. Cleaned the cuts with alcohol. He hissed, flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You shouldn’t have followed me there,” he muttered after a while.

“Why not?”

“You think I don’t know how they look at me?”

You didn’t respond.

He looked down. At your hand on his.

“They see the body. Not the rest of it.”

“I see all of it,” you said.

He met your eyes—just for a second. And you saw it: that flash of something bitter and aching and old. The grief of being small in a world built for giants.

“(Y/N)...” he started.

You stood quickly. Too quickly. The chair legs scraped across the floor.

“You’re not going to talk your way out of this one,” you said. “You’re not angry at them. You’re angry at you.”

Steve leaned on the counter, exhaled through his nose.

He looked like he wanted to scream or cry but didn’t know how to do either.

“You think it should’ve been you?” you asked, arms folded.

“No,” he said. “I think it could’ve been. If I had more time.”

“That’s not how war works.”

“I know.”

You stood in silence. The clock ticked too loud on the wall.

You crossed the room. Put your hand on his chest. Not romantic. Not tender.

Just there.

“You’ll get your chance, Steve.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we figure it out.”

He didn’t say thank you. He just nodded.

That night, when you got home, you opened Bucky’s last letter again and pressed your ring to it. You didn’t reread it.

You just held the words to your heart and closed your eyes.

______________________________________________________________

The train ride to the facility felt like something out of a dream you hadn’t asked to be in.

Steve sat beside you, hands clenched on his knees, posture rigid and upright—military straight—even though no one had told him to sit that way. Across from you, Agent Carter stared out the window like she already knew something was coming that none of you could stop.

You’d tried to ask questions.

No one had answered.

They walked him through a steel door marked Project: Rebirth. You followed without permission. No one stopped you.

Inside, the room was chrome and shadow and the low hum of science trying to act like certainty. Scientists buzzed around a strange-looking chamber like bees around a hive. A man in a white coat approached Steve with a clipboard and a kind smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dr. Erskine.

You stood back. Watched.

You hated watching.

“You ready?” Erskine asked him.

Steve glanced at you.

You nodded once. Arms folded tight across your chest, like if you let them fall, you might unravel entirely.

He stripped off his shirt. You tried not to react, but your breath caught.

It wasn’t the body—though it was shocking, how small he still was, how fragile he looked standing inside that machine.

It was the bravery.

That he still stood tall, even when the whole world expected him to break.

They strapped him in.

The machine closed.

You didn’t blink.

The serum injection made Steve scream.

His back arched. His eyes rolled. The chamber hissed and steamed, flooding the room with searing white light. There was a moment—a heartbeat—when you thought he’s dying.

Then silence.

The hiss faded.

The machine cracked open.

And he stepped out.

Larger. Taller. Sculpted in ways that looked almost unreal. Still dripping sweat.

But silent.

He looked at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

You stood frozen.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say it.

Peggy moved first. Walked straight toward him. Touched his chest like she didn’t mean to.

You just stood there.

When Steve’s eyes finally met yours—you smiled. Small. Strained.

“You’re still short,” you said.

He laughed.

It shattered the tension like breaking glass.

______________________________________________________________

That night, you sat on your cot, legs tucked under you, writing by lamplight.

The pen stuttered in your hand.

You tried to explain it. To Bucky.

Buck—Something happened. I was there when they did it. They changed him. His body. His voice. His presence. I don’t know how else to say it. He’s not just Steve anymore.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect: he’s still him. He still looks at me the same. Still laughs too loud when I insult him. But something behind his eyes is... different. Like he knows they’ll never let him be just a boy from Brooklyn again.

I don’t know what this means for him. Or for us. Or for you.

But I needed you to know. He made it in.

—(Y/N)

PS, Still yours, Always. Part 4

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 10: The Gotham Agenda

TW: dead body, injury, trauma WC: 1400+ Summary: It starts with a body. No blood. No questions. just a wound too clean to be natural. you don the suit, dodge the ghosts, and bleed into the shadows with your knives drawn. but what waits at the docks isn’t human—and neither is what’s left of you when the fight ends. clark doesn’t try to fix it. he just stays. and for the first time in months, you don’t run. not from him. not from yourself.

It started with a body.

Narrows alley. 3 a.m.

Bruce was already there when you arrived — crouched beside the tarp, gloves streaked with soot and something that smelled too clean to be chemical. No sirens. No cops. Just the heavy stench of something that should’ve bled—and didn’t.

You stepped over the body. Male. Mid-30s. Chest cavity split open like a flower. Not a drop of blood.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “What did this?”

Bruce stood but didn’t look at you.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

You stared at the wound again.

“No blade’s that clean. Not acid. Not even Asgardian shit burns that uniform.”

Clark landed behind you like he was made of air. Boots barely touched the ground.

“I’ve been monitoring low-orbit chatter,” he said. “There’s something hovering above Sector Six. No solid lock, but the signal’s… alien.”

You pulled your hair into a knot, voice dropping an octave.

“So we’re not just dealing with Gotham rats.”

“No,” Bruce said. “We’re dealing with something that knows how to stay just invisible enough.”

Clark glanced between you.

“I’ve seen tech like this. Not the body damage. But the energy signature? It’s K’tharic.”

You blinked. “I thought they were wiped out.”

“They were,” Clark said. “Or they went underground.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed.

“I need eyes on the docks,” he said to you. “If it’s an insertion point, it won’t be far.”

You were already moving.

No hesitation. No fear. Just focus.

Clark stepped forward. “I’ll cover from above.”

You shot him a tired, teasing look.

“Look at you. Finally admitting I need backup.”

“I said cover,” he said, smirking. “Not rescue.”

Bruce called after you both as you vanished into shadow.

“And if you find something breathing K’tharic air — don’t play hero.”

The docks were too quiet.

You moved between shipping containers like smoke. The moon barely touched you.

Near Dock 7, you found the access door twisted open—lock half-melted. Inside: stale heat, humming lights, and dust hanging in the air like static waiting to catch.

You crouched and traced a smear of black dust.

Tapped your comm. “Wayne. You seeing this?”

“Getting thermal now,” Bruce replied. “You’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “I figured.”

Overhead, you heard the ripple of a cape. Clark was watching.

You crept forward.

Quieter. Knife drawn.

And then you saw it.

A crate. Cracked open. Pulsing blue light inside. Something alive.

You stepped closer—and froze.

A whisper behind you.

You turned—too late.

Something dropped from the ceiling. Tall. Segmented. Part-organic. No face. No heat. Just motion.

You dove sideways.

Rolled. Came up swinging.

Your blade sliced air. The thing shimmered—then struck.

You hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Ears ringing.

Clark’s voice broke into your comm:

“(Y/N). Are you hit?”

You coughed once. Laughed.

“No. But whatever it is? It’s not here for cargo.”

Your eyes flicked to the humming crate. Jaw set.

“It’s here for us.”

___________________________________________________________

You move like you were born in combat.

Every pivot. Every breath. The second you roll away from the K’tharic stalker, you’re airborne—blades drawn, reverse grip. You launch upward off a container wall and bury the knife in its neck.

It doesn’t die.

But it staggers.

Clark drops from the sky like a hammer, slamming a second one into a steel crate. The metal folds inward with a scream.

“Two more incoming!” Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm. “South entrance.”

“On it,” you mutter.

You run low, lethal. Hair half-loose. Blood drying on your cheek. The third creature barely raises its arm before your boot hits its knee, reverses the joint, and your knife finds the soft seam beneath its ribs.

They move too smooth. Like wind in armor.

But you’re faster.

Not because you’re stronger.

Because you’re meaner.

By the time Bruce’s batarang detonates the last one, you’re panting against a crate. Knife dripping. Hands shaking.

Clark lands beside you. Eyes scanning the bodies.

“Is this the part where I tell you I’m impressed?”

You don’t look at him.

“No,” you rasp. “This is the part where you ask if I’m okay.”

He doesn’t.

He just looks.

And then—soft. Honest.

“You’re not.”

You slide down the crate. Sit in blood. Don’t even flinch.

You smile—crooked. Hollow.

“Feels good,” you whisper.

His brow creases. “What does?”

“The fight. The bruises. The silence after.” You look up at him. “I don’t have to think when I’m in it. Don’t have to feel.”

He crouches near you. Not touching. Just… close.

“That’s not peace,” he says. “That’s survival.”

You laugh—sharp. Bitter. “Peace is boring. And I never earned it anyway.”

Clark breathes through his nose. Lets the quiet stretch.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Bare.

“Do you still love him?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He nods once.

“Do you love me?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yes.”

“Then ask me what you really want to ask.”

You stare at your hands.

Then:

“If I let go of him…” “…do I lose myself too?”

Clark reaches out.

One hand. Open. Palm up.

“You don’t lose anything,” he says. “You find what he couldn’t carry.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t take his hand.

Not yet.

But you don’t move away either.

And in the blood-wet silence of Gotham’s docks, you let the idea settle:

Maybe survival isn’t the only ending written for you.

______________________________________________________________

The wind off the dock turns cold too fast.

Your sweat dries like punishment. The blood beneath your nails flakes with each twitch of your fingers.

Clark doesn’t move.

He just stays crouched beside you. One hand still open. Not demanding. Not comforting. Just… present.

You look at him—really look—and something inside your chest shifts.

Because he’s not trying to fix you.

He’s just there.

That somehow makes it worse.

Pain? You can handle. Silence? You know. Sex? Even easier.

But this—this quiet asking for nothing?

That’s what wrecks you.

So when Clark finally stands—brushes blood from his palms and turns toward the edge of the dock—

You panic.

Not loud. Not desperate. Just—

“…Don’t.”

He stops.

Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

You swallow. Then— “Don’t go.”

He waits.

You exhale like it hurts. Eyes closing.

“Stay.”

His voice is soft. Steady.

“Say it again.”

You look at him. Open. Bare.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you whisper. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

He walks back.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just back.

And when he reaches you—still seated on the ground, cuts on your hands, blood on your jaw—he kneels.

Cradles your face like you’ll vanish if he’s not careful.

You don’t speak.

You don’t move.

But you don’t look away.

And when he pulls you forward, your cheek to his chest—

You let yourself lean in.

Let your ribs press into his warmth. Let your fingers tangle in his shirt.

He holds you. Steady. Wordless.

Not as a god.

Not as Superman.

As Clark.

The man who never once asked you to bleed quieter.

The one who didn’t flinch when you said you were still in love with someone else.

The one who stayed.

And for the first time in months—

You let yourself stay, too.

______________________________________________________________ The penthouse is dark.

Just one lamp glowing in the hallway—left on by Alfred, probably. Or Clark. Maybe both.

You’re curled on the edge of the couch, hoodie pulled over bare arms, legs tucked beneath you. Your hair’s damp from a too-hot, too-fast shower. Your ribs still ache beneath the bandages.

Clark sits across from you. Not hovering. Not heroic. Just… there.

His legs are stretched out. Ankles crossed. A glass of water untouched on the table between you.

He hasn’t changed clothes since the fight.

The quiet isn’t heavy.

It’s honest.

You let your head fall back against the couch.

Exhale like the pressure in your chest finally eased enough to breathe through.

“I don’t know what this is,” you murmur.

Clark doesn’t move.

“But I know it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

Still silence.

Then the truth slips out. Unasked. “…It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it?”

He blinks once. Slowly.

Doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t reach for you.

Just breathes—and says, like he’s been waiting:

“I know.”

Your eyes sting.

But you don’t cry.

He moves then—calm, deliberate—and crosses to you.

One knee on the couch. Then the other. He slides in beside you without asking, without fanfare. Like you’ve always done this.

You let him.

You let him pull your legs across his lap, your shoulder to his chest.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just tucks his chin into your hair and holds you like you’re already home.

Your fingers curl into his shirt.

Your voice comes soft. Raw.

“I’m scared.”

Clark doesn’t even pause.

“I’m not.”

You smile—shaky. Grateful. “Don’t let go.”

He pulls you tighter.

“I won’t.”

And he doesn’t

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 9: Welcome to Gotham. Don't touch shit.

 WC: 1700 +

Pairing Clark Kent x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The jet lands in Gotham. Bruce says little. Clark says less. But you? You remember how to breathe here. Even when it hurts. As you settle in, Nat sends a message. No questions. Just: “Let me know when it’s safe to visit.” Back at the compound, the fallout begins. Because without you, the Avengers are unmoored. And Tony? He’s keeping a list of whose silence cost everything.

The landing is rough. Gotham doesn’t do smooth. The skyline rises sharp against a rust-stained sky, all jagged edges and broken promises. It looks like it was carved out of something that bled slow.

You step off the jet with your hood up, boots hitting the tarmac like you never left.

Bruce says nothing as he passes. He doesn’t need to. This is his city.

But it’s yours too.

You breathe it in—rain, smoke, electricity. It tastes like home.

Clark falls in beside you, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat, jaw set.

“Gotham,” he says, soft. “Charming as ever.”

“City of affection,” you murmur. “We give hugs in the form of brass knuckles.”

He almost smiles.

Bruce turns back. “You two done flirting with the skyline, or should I leave you on the roof?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re still dramatic.”

“You’re still in my city.”

“And you still love it.”

He doesn’t argue.

You descend into the Wayne penthouse without ceremony. No butlers. No press. No guards. Just shadows, polished steel, and quiet.

You drop your bag at the edge of the entryway. Your eyes sweep the place.

It hasn’t changed.

Dim lighting. Minimal warmth. The city visible through rain-streaked glass.

“You want a room with a view or one where you won’t be seen?” Bruce asks.

“Seen.”

He nods. “Second left. It’s stocked.”

Clark lingers by the door. Still dripping rain. Still watching.

Bruce pauses before vanishing into shadow.

“If you’re here to rest, rest. If you’re here to work, don’t waste my time.”

You smirk. “You missed me.”

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

That night, you’re on the penthouse rooftop. Legs over the ledge. Cigarette between your fingers. The city hums beneath you.

Your phone buzzes.

Natasha: Let me know when it’s safe to visit.

You stare at the screen. Then type:

(Y/N): Not yet. But I miss you, Red.

You don’t wait for a reply.

You don’t need one.

MEANWHILE: Avengers Compound — War Room

“Just to recap,” Tony says, waving a glowing report like a weapon, “we’re down the most combat-efficient asset, the alien insomnia poster boy, and Gotham’s broodiest trust-fund baby. All in one goddamn night.”

“And the one who actually leads without making it look like a power play,” Nat adds.

Everyone looks at Bucky.

He doesn’t move.

Thor lifts his mug. “I miss the one with knives.”

Tony sighs up at the ceiling. “Of course you do. She never turned down a drinking contest.”

“I miss her aim,” Sam mutters.

Steve leans forward. “We all do.”

Tony points at him. “Nope. Save the noble routine. You let her walk. All of you did. And now she’s holed up with two men who treat vulnerability like it’s contagious.”

“She’ll survive,” Nat says.

“I’m not worried about her,” Tony mutters, eyes locked on the map.

A red dot pulses over Gotham.

“I’m worried about what she does next.” _____________________________________________________________

The suit still fits.

You thought maybe it wouldn’t. That time or heartbreak or the weight of everything that came after might have warped it. But when you zip it up, it feels like muscle memory. Like breath.

Black tactical. Reinforced mesh. Underarm holsters. Thigh sheath. One modified grappling dart hidden in the belt buckle.

Bruce doesn’t say a word.

He just tosses you a comm, nods toward the locker. “Warehouse on 9th. Intel says the Maronis are running something new. Chemicals. Maybe worse.”

You tuck a blade into your boot. “Thought we weren’t working tonight.”

“I thought you didn’t come here for rest.”

Touché.

Clark doesn’t follow you down. You don’t ask him to.

Gotham’s rooftops are different.

Crueler. Steeper. Every ledge feels like a dare. The wind whistles like it’s carrying secrets.

You crouch at the edge of the warehouse roof. One knee down. Breath steady. Bruce three feet behind you, watching exits through a thermal scope.

“Four men inside. Two outside. Right side’s armed. Movement patterns inside—off.”

“Traps?”

“No. Not human.”

Your lips twitch. “Always love a good ‘not human’ night.”

He doesn’t smile, but his voice drops a note—dark, dry. “You sure you’re up for this?”

You don’t look back. “Ask me that again and I’ll put you through the window.”

That time, he almost smiles.

You move first.

The outside guards go down without a sound. You’re faster than they remember. Colder. You don’t waste motion.

Inside?

You let Bruce handle the brutes. He needs the release.

But when one of the “not humans” lunges—black-veined, biotech, twitching with something unnatural—you’re already there. Reverse kick to the solar plexus. Blade drawn mid-motion. One clean strike through the base of its skull.

It drops twitching. Lets out one awful, short scream. Then nothing.

You don’t flinch.

Bruce looks over. “Still got it.”

You wipe your blade on its jacket. “Never lost it.” ___________________________________________________________

Back at the penthouse, you strip the suit off in the dark.

You don’t turn on the lights. The ache in your ribs says you took a hit harder than you thought. Your hair is damp with sweat. Your hands are trembling—not from fear.

From memory.

You climb the stairs to the rooftop.

Clark is already there.

He’s not posing. Not floating. Just standing with the skyline behind him, cape unmoving, eyes unreadable.

You stop beside him.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Then:

“Did it feel good being her again?” he asks quietly.

You inhale. Exhale.

“It felt like nothing’s changed.”

He turns his head. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

You light a cigarette. Don’t inhale. Just need something to do with your hands.

“It’s not.”

He glances down. “You’re shaking.”

“Adrenaline.”

“Fear?”

“Memory.”

He nods.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t try.

Just says, “She was never the problem. That version of you. You only started bleeding when you tried to be someone else—for people who didn’t deserve the change.”

You don’t look at him. But your voice drops.

“Why do you always say the right thing after the fight?”

A flicker of a smile. Barely there.

“Because I’d never stop you from swinging.” ____________________________________________________________

The antiseptic stings.

Smells like memory. Like past wounds and warnings ignored.

Alfred dabs it gently across your ribs, his touch exact, voice dry.

“Three bruised. Possibly a hairline. If I hear you went out again tomorrow, I’ll have Master Kent sit on you until it heals.”

You wince. “You’d really sic Clark on me?”

“I’d sic me on you, but my knees aren’t what they used to be. And I can’t vaporize a sedan with my eyelashes.”

You smirk—barely—and let him tape the gauze. His hands are steady. Efficient. He presses just firm enough to stop the swelling.

Then he hands you a cup.

You sniff it. “Tea?”

“Tea.”

Another sniff. “That’s whisky.”

“Strong tea.”

You take a sip. Wince again.

“Still think I’m reckless?”

“No,” he says. “I think you’re grieving.”

You go still.

He looks up—eyes soft, not accusing.

“You come back like this every time. Bleeding where we can’t see. Your shoulders up. Your words sharp. You sleep less. You drink more.”

You don’t speak.

“You think it’s resilience,” he says. “But it’s rot. You’re not surviving. You’re numbing. And you came home to forget.”

You stare into the cup.

“And Bruce?” you ask.

“What about him?”

“He didn’t ask how the recon went.”

Alfred sets the gauze aside. Sits back.

“He didn’t need to. He knew you’d handle it. He always does. But he checked the front door six nights in a row before you came back.”

You blink.

Alfred’s voice doesn’t waver.

“He never asked. Never said a word. But every time a car passed on the street, he looked up.”

Your breath hitches.

“He loves you like family, you know” Alfred says gently.

“I know.”

“But he doesn’t know how.”

Silence.

Then he stands, cleans the kit, pours more tea.

Before he goes, he kisses the top of your head—like he used to when you were twenty and angry and couldn’t sit still for anything longer than a heartbeat.

“You always leave your knives in my kitchen drawer,” he says at the door.

“That’s how I know you’re staying.” ____________________________________________________________

It’s 3:17 a.m. You’re curled on the leather couch in the library, wrapped in a blanket Alfred definitely left on purpose. It smells like cedar and old scotch and wood smoke.

Not comfort. But stability.

You aren’t reading. Just staring at the rain on the tall windows. Thumb tapping the spine of a book you haven’t opened.

Your ribs ache. Your thoughts more.

Your fingers twitch toward your phone. Almost type his name.

Bucky.

But what would you even say?

Why did you say you loved me and then disappear?

Do you even remember how I taste when you’re not angry?

You don’t type any of it.

You just stare at the storm.

And then—

You feel it before you hear it.

Clark.

He steps in from the hall. Barefoot. Damp hair. Old T-shirt. Sweatpants. No cape.

He doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t speak.

He just sits in the armchair across from you—like you’ve done this before. Like this is a ritual, not a coincidence.

You blink. Then snort softly.

“You always show up after I’ve hit rock bottom. Ever think about showing up before the fall?”

He tilts his head. “You want me to catch you?”

“No.”

He nods. “Good. I don’t think you’d let me.”

You smile. Small. Crooked.

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I didn’t need an invitation.”

You shift, tuck the blanket tighter around your ribs. Look down.

Then—

Quiet. Honest.

“I don’t know what I’m choosing.”

His voice is soft. “You don’t have to.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

You meet his eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to choose,” you say. “It’s that I don’t trust myself to choose right.”

Clark doesn’t flinch. Just answers:

“Choosing wrong isn’t the same as being wrong.”

You swallow. Hard.

“You’re too good to me.”

“I’m not good to you,” he says. “I’m just not afraid of your sharp edges.”

You pull the blanket closer. Breathe.

Then:

“…Don’t say goodnight.”

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t move.

He just settles in deeper.

“I wasn’t going to.” Part 10

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 2: Things I couldn’t say out loud

Paring Bucky x Reader

TW: NSFW, Fluff WC: 1500 +

The hallway outside Bucky’s apartment smells like linoleum, dust, and the too-thick onion stew his neighbor always makes. Your footsteps are quiet, reverent, as you walk the length of it.

It’s nearly midnight.

You don’t knock.

The knob gives easily under your hand—still broken, still untouched. You push the door open and step inside.

The lights are low. One lamp glows dim near the bed. Bucky sits on the edge of it, elbows on his knees, hands laced tight, head bowed like he’s bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet—but will.

He doesn’t look up when you close the door behind you.

“You should lock it,” you say softly.

“Didn’t see the point,” he murmurs. “You always find your way in.”

You stay still a moment, coat still on, tension stringing tight between you. Then you drop it to the floor. Step out of your shoes. Slow. Deliberate.

He still hasn’t looked at you.

“I’m not here to say goodbye,” you say.

His head lifts.

Your eyes meet.

He stands—slowly, like he thinks you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. His shirt is wrinkled, half-unbuttoned, sleeves sloppily rolled to his elbows. His dog tags rest heavy on his chest.

He doesn’t speak.

You cross to him. Stop just inches away.

“I don’t want to talk tonight.”

He nods.

Your fingers move first—lifting his dog tags gently, letting them slide through your hands. Then you undo the rest of his shirt with shaking fingers and push it from his shoulders. He lets you. His skin is warm, golden in the lamplight, scarred in places you don’t know the stories for.

You press your lips between his collarbones.

His hands come up to your face. He cups your cheeks like you’re something fragile and burning. Then he kisses you like he’s been starving.

It isn’t soft. Not at first.

It’s gasping. Urgent.

He tastes like iron and coffee and goodbye. You push his shirt from his arms. It hits the floor.

Your blouse comes next. Fingers fumble. He watches like it’s the only thing holding him together. When your hands go for your skirt, he stops you.

“Let me,” he says.

You drop your hands.

He unzips it slowly. Kisses each inch of skin as it’s revealed. When you’re standing in just lace, he steps back and looks at you.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re—”

“Yours,” you say.

That breaks him.

He scoops you up like something sacred. Carries you to the bed. You pull him down with you. Your mouths find each other—wet, deep, greedy. His hands slide over your ribs, down your stomach, across the waistband of your underwear.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he pants.

“Don’t you dare.”

______________________________________________________________

Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud. The sheets are cool against your skin, but Bucky’s body over yours is pure heat.

He kisses you again—deeper this time. Open-mouthed. Slow. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, imprint it in his blood. His hands skim your sides, up your ribs, down again to your hips, touching every inch like he doesn’t trust memory to hold it.

Your legs part instinctively, one knee brushing the inside of his thigh. He groans into your mouth.

“God, you feel like a dream,” he whispers, voice already frayed.

You run your hands over his chest, nails light, trailing down. You find the waistband of his pants and tug, impatient.

“Off,” you breathe.

He doesn’t argue. Stands just long enough to strip everything—pants, boxers, the last barrier between you—and returns to you like he can’t stand the distance. He pulls your panties down with a kind of reverence, kissing your thighs, your knees, the inside places that ache. Your hips twitch under his mouth.

You’re already wet.

He groans again—deep, helpless.

“You’re killing me, doll.”

You grab his wrist. Pull him up.

“Then die with me.”

He positions himself between your legs, the weight of him settling over you, heavy and real and perfect. One hand cups your face. The other slips beneath your knee, drawing your leg around his waist.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rough.

“I am.”

And he pushes in—slow, thick, deliberate.

Your breath punches out of you. Eyes wide. You stretch around him, inch by inch, and he clenches his jaw hard, trying to stay in control. When he’s fully inside you, he lets out a noise that isn’t a word. Just need.

You both stay still for a second, panting. Shaking.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. Drag your hands up his back. Your nails bite at his shoulders.

“Move, Buck.”

And he does.

He starts slow. Deep, grinding thrusts that rock your body into the mattress. Your head falls back. A moan slips from your lips.

He kisses your throat. Your jaw. The edge of your mouth. Each push deeper. More desperate.

You match him, your hips rising, your breath breaking. It’s fast. Messy. Beautiful.

“I’m not gonna last,” he gasps. “You—God, you feel too—”

You clench around him, and he shudders.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Come with me.”

Your hands twist in his hair. The other grips the sheet. Your hips meet every thrust.

It builds—wild and sudden.

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit. Tight. Perfect.

You shatter.

You come with a cry, your back arching, legs shaking, the world white-hot and gone.

He groans, deep in his chest, and follows you over. One, two more thrusts, and he’s spilling inside you, head buried in your neck, body trembling against yours.

And then there’s nothing.

Just breathing. Just you. Just him.

He collapses on your chest. Your skin sticks together with sweat. Neither of you says a word.

Eventually, he rolls to the side, pulling you with him. Facing each other, legs tangled, breath warm between you.

You trace the curve of his shoulder. Down his arm. Across the inside of his wrist.

“You better remember this,” you say.

He stares like you’re the only thing left in the world.

“Like I could forget,” he whispers. “You’re in my blood now.”

______________________________________________________________ The room glows in that low, golden haze—the kind that makes everything feel like memory. Your body is still humming, skin dewy with sweat, your thigh pressed against his. Bucky lies behind you, curled close, one arm heavy across your stomach, his fingers tracing slow, useless shapes on your skin.

He’s breathing steady, nose tucked against the back of your neck, lips ghosting over your shoulder. The dog tag is warm against your collarbone. Your legs are tangled. Your body is sticky and sore and perfectly wrecked.

Outside, a siren wails and fades. Across the alley, someone’s record player is spinning too slow. The sax warps into something sad and strange.

You find the dog tag with your fingertips, hold it. Press it.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as quiet.

“I’m scared that when you leave, I’ll be stuck here. Waiting. And if you don’t come back…” You swallow. “I don’t know who I’ll be.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Then don’t wait,” he says. “Live. Just… don’t let anyone else hold what’s mine.”

You roll to face him, sliding your hand over his chest. “Bucky—”

He sits up slowly. Reaches to the nightstand. Pulls out a small bundle of cloth, tied in a knot. He unknots it, unfolds it, reveals something in his palm.

A ring.

Plain. No stone. Scuffed silver. Thin and imperfect.

Your breath catches.

“This was my ma’s,” he says. “She wore it to work. Didn’t want it catching on anything, so my pop had it made plain. Real silver, though. Heavy. Solid.”

He hesitates.

“I’m not proposing. Not yet.” His smile is crooked. Nervous. “I just want you to have it. So you’ve got a piece of me. Always.”

Your hand shakes as you take it.

It’s cold. Smooth in places, dented in others. It looks like love does—soft where it’s been touched, rough where it’s been through something.

“Here,” he says gently, taking it back. “Let me.”

He slides it onto your finger.

It fits.

“This,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckle, “is where I’ll come back to.”

You press your palm to his chest—right over his heart.

“I’ll never take it off,” you whisper.

He kisses your forehead. Your mouth. The edge of your jaw.

“You’re it for me, doll. You always have been.”

You press your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat is steady and loud.

“You come back wearing one of those ugly Army rings and I’ll knock you out with a heel.” You say, smiling.

He laughs, deep in his belly. “Like I could make it through without thinking about you every damn second.”

You fall back into each other—slower now. Breathing synced. Limbs wrapped like armor.

And in that hour before sleep, before war, before goodbye—

You fall asleep wearing a dog tag and a ring.

Both heavy.

Both his.

Part 3

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

🙈💕

You Better Knock

TW: Serious Fluff, Talks of deployment, Bucky Barnes Pairing Bucky Barnes x fem!reader WC: 2200 + ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part 1: Brooklyn Sundays 

The first thing you notice is the warmth—sunlight across your thighs, the soft cling of worn cotton against bare skin, and the ghost of a handprint on your hip that isn’t yours.

The second is the noise.

Something clatters in the tiny kitchen. A muttered curse. A pause. Then another clatter.

You don’t open your eyes. You just smile—slow and secret.

The shirt you’re wearing isn’t yours. It’s Bucky’s, slouching off your shoulder like it knows it doesn’t belong. The mattress dips next to you, still holding the shape of where he slept. You roll onto your back and stretch, letting the soreness sink in—good sore.

Another pause from the kitchen. Then a voice, tentative and flat:

“(Y/N)? You awake?”

You sigh. “Steve, if you break one more of Bucky’s mugs, I’m telling him it was me.”

Steve pokes his head around the corner. Blond hair tousled, sketchbook under one arm.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he says, eyebrows lilting that dry, polite way. “Thought you were working.”

“I did. Then I didn’t.” You sit up slowly, Bucky’s Henley slipping to reveal the strap of your bra. You don’t fix it.

Steve looks away—fast. “He went out for rolls.”

“Did he leave you unsupervised with appliances again?”

“Just the kettle,” Steve mutters. “In my defense, it’s not technically an appliance.”

You laugh, stand, and let the morning sunlight hit your bare legs through the dirty window. You look like you belong—and you know it.

“Where’d he go?”

“DiMarco’s. Said you yelled at him last time for buying cheap bread.”

“I did,” you say brightly. “Tasted like sadness and glue.”

Steve tilts his head. “He called you ‘my girl’ to the baker last week.”

You pause— just a moment too long.

“I am his girl,” you say finally, no hiding it.

“I know.” Steve offers a quiet smile. “He knows. Everyone does. Just nice to hear it like that, that’s all.”

You cross to the sink, pour a glass of tap water, and drink it slowly while staring out the kitchen window. A gentle breeze stirs your hair. Somewhere, a dog barks. On the radio: Billie Holiday.

The front door opens behind you.

“There she is,” Bucky says, full of affection. “And not even dressed yet. Scandal.”

He drops a paper bag on the counter and kisses the top of your head in one movement—as though gravity pulls him there. He smells like wind and flour and street dust.

“DiMarco says hi,” he continues, “and gave me two extra rolls because he likes your legs.”

Steve groans theatrically.

You grin, grab a roll, and bite in—warm and perfect.

“You tell DiMarco if he tries anything, I’ll put a nail in his tire.”

“That’s my girl,” Bucky says, ruffling your hair like you weren’t the one who stole his breath daily.

“You keep calling me that,” you tease. “Your girl.”

He looks up from the bag, suddenly serious.

“You want me to stop?”

You shake your head. “No. Keep saying it. Over and over.”

He closes the gap, cups your face in his hand, and kisses you once—slow, sure, a period not a question.

Steve doesn’t look. He’s pretending—but not really—busy at the table, flipping to a blank page in his sketchbook.

You break the silence. “I hope you know he’s sketching us.”

“Not you,” Steve replies without glancing up. “Just the roll. It’s got more character than both of you combined.”

Bucky laughs, low and familiar. He leans against the counter, arms folded while he watches you and Steve. Light flickers in his lashes.

None of you says it, but you’re all thinking:

This won’t last. Take the moment. Eat the roll. Say her name again.

“Doll,” Bucky whispers. “You look real good in that shirt.”

You bite again and grin around the roll. “I’m keeping it.”

He smirks. “Like hell you are.” _____________________________________________________________

Later, the sun lowers behind rooftops, turning the room golden and soft.

Steve’s gone quiet—he’s still sketching, but slower now, more pretending than drawing. Bucky’s head rests in your lap; his fingers lace behind his neck, eyes half-closed. You comb through his hair with careful, repetitive fingers—burning this moment into muscle memory.

“Three days,” he says suddenly.

You freeze—just for a second.

“I know,” you murmur.

“Feels fake, right? Like someone else’s life.”

“Like the point in a dream where everything falls apart and you try to wake up—but can’t,” you reply, voice low and raw.

He looks at you upside-down. “That’s poetic. Been reading?”

“I have a brain, Barnes. Not just for keeping my hair out my eyes.”

He smiles—quiet, but not touching his eyes.

Steve’s pencil scratches the page faintly.

“What’s the first thing you’re doing when you get back?” you ask, shifting so his head rests on your thigh.

He thinks, then says, “Getting a dog.”

You blink. “A dog?”

“Yeah. A big mutt. Something ugly. Drooly.”

“That’s actually sexy.”

He grins. “Name him something dumb. Pickles. Or Chair.”

Steve snorts.

“And then,” Bucky leans closer, “you and me move out. Walk‑up with fire escape, two lawn chairs, string lights. Brooklyn, but not too Brooklyn. Near a deli. Nosy old neighbor who hates the dog.”

You look at him—heart clenched. “Kids?”

He sits up, eyes solemn. “Oh yeah. Two. Maybe three. One’s gonna be a hellraiser, just like you.”

“I was an angel.”

“You were a menace with a pretty face,” he says, leaning in nose to yours. “Still are.”

You kiss him—like you never want to let go.

“I like your dream,” you whisper.

“Then you better be here when I get back. ’Cause I’m not doing that with anyone else.”

Steve stands abruptly, sketchbook shutting too harshly.

“I’m heading out,” he mutters.

You sit up. “You just got here.”

“You two need space.”

Bucky grabs his wrist. “Stay. Please.”

Steve hesitates.

“We'll be quiet,” you add. “You can sketch the ugly dog.”

Steve looks between you two—trying to memorize it all. “Alright,” he says softly. “But I get to name the dog.”

“What are you gonna name it?”

He stares at both of you, face softening. “Hope.”

You cringe. “Nope. Dealbreaker. Too on the nose.”

“Cowards,” Steve teases, heading to the window.

You all climb out onto the fire escape—Bucky barefoot, you in his shirt, Steve trailing with sketchbook. The sun glows copper across the skyline. It’s forgiving.

You pass the roll bag between you. A distant saxophone drones imperfectly.

“Do you think it’ll be fast?” you whisper.

“The war?” he asks.

You nod.

“It’ll be ugly. But fast,” Bucky says. “Gotta be.”

Steve stays silent.

You watch rooftops, laundry lines, a couple dancing in a window across the alley.

“This is the kind of night you make a memory out of,” you say softly.

“It already is,” Bucky replies.

You turn and find Steve sketching again—pencil tight in his fingers.

“What’re you drawing now?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “The way you look at him.”

You go still.

Bucky smiles, crooked and soft. “Show me.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Bucky leans back, arm around you on the railing. Metal creaks beneath.

“You guys ever think how fast it goes? One second, you’re throwing eggs at each other for last pancake—next, it’s uniforms and goodbyes.”

“Stop,” you whisper.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna think ’bout goodbye tonight.”

Bucky’s fingers intertwine with yours. He kisses your knuckles.

“Then we won’t. Not yet.” __________________________________________________

Blue edges of sky, flickering city lights—the world changes, never fully asleep.

You walk down the block with him draping his jacket over your shoulders—the smell of warmth and metal follows you.

No words. Just footsteps. A kid races by. Someone yells in Italian. Brooklyn dims, but never fully sleeps.

At your building, you stop under the fire escape—clanging metal, teenage secrets, stolen kisses history here.

He joins you.

“You gonna invite me in?” he asks.

You meet his gaze.

“You’re leaving in three days.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“So no. I’m not inviting you in.”

He blinks—hurt flashes.

You smile softly.

“’Cause if you come up tonight, I’m not letting you go in the morning.”

He steps closer—hands on your hips, thumbs under jacket’s hem.

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

You tilt your head.

“You think you’re gonna walk into Europe with a rifle and forget about me?”

He grins. “Forget you? Not likely.”

You run a thumb along his jawline. “You’d better not. ’Cause I’m not spending three years waiting on a half-assed letter from some French nurse.”

His grin fades. “You think I’d leave you and come home to find you married to a jazz trumpet player?”

Eyebrows raised. “You mean someone with real talent?”

He crushes you to him, forehead to forehead. “You’re mine.”

Your breath stutters at the weight of it. He says it lightly—but eyes serious.

You kiss him—soft, searching, trembling.

Then deeper—your heart racing.

When you break away, foreheads still touching, breaths hot, he says.

“Stay tonight,” he whispers.

“I’ll stay,” you breathe.

“Then let me make it count.”

You search his eyes. “All of it,” you reply. “No pretending.”

“No pretending,” he vows. “Only you and me.”

You don’t go upstairs. Not yet. Under that rusted fire escape, just two kids too in love to care about invincibility.

He traces your cheek. And for a moment—no war.

Only him. Only you. Only this.

Back inside, the air’s cooler. The kettle still sits, untouched. One light flickers over the table.

Steve is still at the table, sketchbook open, head down. He doesn’t look up as you and Bucky come in.

You peel off Bucky’s jacket, draping it on a chair. Bucky stands near the door, watching.

“I’m grabbing a shower,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Silence settles. Cool and heavy.

You pad barefoot across the floor toward Steve. He keeps moving the pencil, but you see the tension in his hand.

You slide into the chair opposite him, leg tucked under you.

He’s drawing—not the roll, not you.

It’s Bucky. Shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Half of a shape at his chest—maybe a scar or necklace. Unfinished.

“Can I sit?” you ask.

He nods.

“You okay?” Your voice is soft.

He nods again—Lie.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I know,” he says. “But maybe I’m supposed to be.”

You watch him shrink into himself—folding inward. The hallway behind holds the closed bathroom door where Bucky showers.

“You scared for him?” you ask.

“Always,” he says. “Since before the army. As kids, he’d mouth off to cops twice his size, fight guys at bars if I just looked at them.”

“Sounds familiar.”

He smiles faintly.

“He’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I have to believe it.”

He finally looks at you—eyes ancient with unshed grief.

“He’s lucky,” he says. “To have you to come back to.”

You swallow. “That wasn’t luck. That was a choice.”

He drops his gaze, but you catch that flicker—regret? Want?

You reach, almost touch his hand—but stop.

“Out of loyalty,” he murmurs. After minute he looks up at you.

“You’re good for him,” Steve says, voice rough. “He needs something to come home to.”

“I hope I’m enough.”

“You are.”

The bathroom door opens—steam pouring out. Bucky appears, towel over shoulder, hair damp.

“Interrupting?” he asks, playful.

Steve stands. “Nah. Just girl talk.”

“Did I miss pillow fights and secret-sharing?”

“Get over yourself,” you say, rising.

Steve grabs his coat and sketchbook. “See you tomorrow.”

Bucky nods as Steve heads out.

You turn to Bucky. “He loves you, you know.”

“I know.”

“He loves you so much he can’t look at me too long.”

He steps closer. “He’s a good man.”

“Yeah. The best one who’ll be left behind.”

He brushes hair from your face. “Not yet,” he whispers.

__________________________________________________

Silence again. Quiet after things almost said.

You stay frozen a moment. Then move to him.

He towels his hair; damp undershirt clinging intimate and fragile.

You take the towel and dry him—no words. Fingers threading through dark curls, gentle, slow—like holding him here by touch.

“You’re quiet,” he says softly.

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That when you leave, the apartment won’t smell like you anymore.”

He pauses, then retrieves a small dented tin box from the dresser. Opens it gently, pulls out a dog tag—his name stamped on metal.

He dangles it before you. “You keep that. Under your shirt, by your heart. If I forget who I am, you’ll still know.”

Your eyes fill. “That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“What isn’t?”

“That you say things like that—and expect me to let you go.”

He steps closer and slips the tag over your neck, settling it against your collarbone.

“There,” he murmurs. “Official government property.”

You laugh, watery. “Lucky me.”

He pulls you close. One hand on your head; the other around your waist, anchoring himself.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice thick. “You’re stuck with me. You better be here when I get back.”

You press your palm against the tag. “I will be.”

“I mean it.”

“I will be.” “This doesn’t come off.”

He kisses you—not soft, not sad. It’s a kiss of claim.

You hold the kiss long. Heart racing. The tag between you a vow.

Later, alone in bed, you’ll press your fingers to the metal and whisper his name like a prayer.

Three nights from now, you’ll give yourself to him fully.

But for now, there’s just the tag. The promise. His voice echoing:

“Like it or not, doll… you’re stuck with me.”

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Bucky Barnes Masterlist 🦾🖤

Ash And After - Bucky Barnes x Reader, Clark Kent x Reader Part 1: Ghosted by a Ghost 💔

Part 2: I hope they eat you 💔 (kind of)

Part 3: The Girl in the Floodlight (Flashback)

Pt 4: You’re the Only Thing I Don’t Forget (Flashback)🔥 Pt 5: The Girl Who Stopped Begging

Pt 6: A Hand Around My Throat (Yours or Mine?) 💔💔

Pt 7: Soft Things You Don’t Have to Earn 💖🔥

Pt 8: Don't Ask Me If I'm Okay 🔥💔

Pt 9: Welcome to Gotham. Don't touch shit.

Pt 10: The Gotham Agenda You Better Knock - Bucky Barnes x Reader Part 1 : Brooklyn Sundays 💖

Part 2: Things I couldn't say out loud 🔥💖

Part 3: When the Boys Ship Out

Part 4: The Show

Part 5: The Rescue

Part 6: The Fall 💔💔💔

Part 7: The Winter Door 💔💔💔

Part 8 : Your name on his file 💔💔💖💔

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

You Better Knock

TW: Serious Fluff, Talks of deployment, Bucky Barnes Pairing Bucky Barnes x fem!reader WC: 2200 + ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part 1: Brooklyn Sundays 

The first thing you notice is the warmth—sunlight across your thighs, the soft cling of worn cotton against bare skin, and the ghost of a handprint on your hip that isn’t yours.

The second is the noise.

Something clatters in the tiny kitchen. A muttered curse. A pause. Then another clatter.

You don’t open your eyes. You just smile—slow and secret.

The shirt you’re wearing isn’t yours. It’s Bucky’s, slouching off your shoulder like it knows it doesn’t belong. The mattress dips next to you, still holding the shape of where he slept. You roll onto your back and stretch, letting the soreness sink in—good sore.

Another pause from the kitchen. Then a voice, tentative and flat:

“(Y/N)? You awake?”

You sigh. “Steve, if you break one more of Bucky’s mugs, I’m telling him it was me.”

Steve pokes his head around the corner. Blond hair tousled, sketchbook under one arm.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he says, eyebrows lilting that dry, polite way. “Thought you were working.”

“I did. Then I didn’t.��� You sit up slowly, Bucky’s Henley slipping to reveal the strap of your bra. You don’t fix it.

Steve looks away—fast. “He went out for rolls.”

“Did he leave you unsupervised with appliances again?”

“Just the kettle,” Steve mutters. “In my defense, it’s not technically an appliance.”

You laugh, stand, and let the morning sunlight hit your bare legs through the dirty window. You look like you belong—and you know it.

“Where’d he go?”

“DiMarco’s. Said you yelled at him last time for buying cheap bread.”

“I did,” you say brightly. “Tasted like sadness and glue.”

Steve tilts his head. “He called you ‘my girl’ to the baker last week.”

You pause— just a moment too long.

“I am his girl,” you say finally, no hiding it.

“I know.” Steve offers a quiet smile. “He knows. Everyone does. Just nice to hear it like that, that’s all.”

You cross to the sink, pour a glass of tap water, and drink it slowly while staring out the kitchen window. A gentle breeze stirs your hair. Somewhere, a dog barks. On the radio: Billie Holiday.

The front door opens behind you.

“There she is,” Bucky says, full of affection. “And not even dressed yet. Scandal.”

He drops a paper bag on the counter and kisses the top of your head in one movement—as though gravity pulls him there. He smells like wind and flour and street dust.

“DiMarco says hi,” he continues, “and gave me two extra rolls because he likes your legs.”

Steve groans theatrically.

You grin, grab a roll, and bite in—warm and perfect.

“You tell DiMarco if he tries anything, I’ll put a nail in his tire.”

“That’s my girl,” Bucky says, ruffling your hair like you weren’t the one who stole his breath daily.

“You keep calling me that,” you tease. “Your girl.”

He looks up from the bag, suddenly serious.

“You want me to stop?”

You shake your head. “No. Keep saying it. Over and over.”

He closes the gap, cups your face in his hand, and kisses you once—slow, sure, a period not a question.

Steve doesn’t look. He’s pretending—but not really—busy at the table, flipping to a blank page in his sketchbook.

You break the silence. “I hope you know he’s sketching us.”

“Not you,” Steve replies without glancing up. “Just the roll. It’s got more character than both of you combined.”

Bucky laughs, low and familiar. He leans against the counter, arms folded while he watches you and Steve. Light flickers in his lashes.

None of you says it, but you’re all thinking:

This won’t last. Take the moment. Eat the roll. Say her name again.

“Doll,” Bucky whispers. “You look real good in that shirt.”

You bite again and grin around the roll. “I’m keeping it.”

He smirks. “Like hell you are.” _____________________________________________________________

Later, the sun lowers behind rooftops, turning the room golden and soft.

Steve’s gone quiet—he’s still sketching, but slower now, more pretending than drawing. Bucky’s head rests in your lap; his fingers lace behind his neck, eyes half-closed. You comb through his hair with careful, repetitive fingers—burning this moment into muscle memory.

“Three days,” he says suddenly.

You freeze—just for a second.

“I know,” you murmur.

“Feels fake, right? Like someone else’s life.”

“Like the point in a dream where everything falls apart and you try to wake up—but can’t,” you reply, voice low and raw.

He looks at you upside-down. “That’s poetic. Been reading?”

“I have a brain, Barnes. Not just for keeping my hair out my eyes.”

He smiles—quiet, but not touching his eyes.

Steve’s pencil scratches the page faintly.

“What’s the first thing you’re doing when you get back?” you ask, shifting so his head rests on your thigh.

He thinks, then says, “Getting a dog.”

You blink. “A dog?”

“Yeah. A big mutt. Something ugly. Drooly.”

“That’s actually sexy.”

He grins. “Name him something dumb. Pickles. Or Chair.”

Steve snorts.

“And then,” Bucky leans closer, “you and me move out. Walk‑up with fire escape, two lawn chairs, string lights. Brooklyn, but not too Brooklyn. Near a deli. Nosy old neighbor who hates the dog.”

You look at him—heart clenched. “Kids?”

He sits up, eyes solemn. “Oh yeah. Two. Maybe three. One’s gonna be a hellraiser, just like you.”

“I was an angel.”

“You were a menace with a pretty face,” he says, leaning in nose to yours. “Still are.”

You kiss him—like you never want to let go.

“I like your dream,” you whisper.

“Then you better be here when I get back. ’Cause I’m not doing that with anyone else.”

Steve stands abruptly, sketchbook shutting too harshly.

“I’m heading out,” he mutters.

You sit up. “You just got here.”

“You two need space.”

Bucky grabs his wrist. “Stay. Please.”

Steve hesitates.

“We'll be quiet,” you add. “You can sketch the ugly dog.”

Steve looks between you two—trying to memorize it all. “Alright,” he says softly. “But I get to name the dog.”

“What are you gonna name it?”

He stares at both of you, face softening. “Hope.”

You cringe. “Nope. Dealbreaker. Too on the nose.”

“Cowards,” Steve teases, heading to the window.

You all climb out onto the fire escape—Bucky barefoot, you in his shirt, Steve trailing with sketchbook. The sun glows copper across the skyline. It’s forgiving.

You pass the roll bag between you. A distant saxophone drones imperfectly.

“Do you think it’ll be fast?” you whisper.

“The war?” he asks.

You nod.

“It’ll be ugly. But fast,” Bucky says. “Gotta be.”

Steve stays silent.

You watch rooftops, laundry lines, a couple dancing in a window across the alley.

“This is the kind of night you make a memory out of,” you say softly.

“It already is,” Bucky replies.

You turn and find Steve sketching again—pencil tight in his fingers.

“What’re you drawing now?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “The way you look at him.”

You go still.

Bucky smiles, crooked and soft. “Show me.”

Steve shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Bucky leans back, arm around you on the railing. Metal creaks beneath.

“You guys ever think how fast it goes? One second, you’re throwing eggs at each other for last pancake—next, it’s uniforms and goodbyes.”

“Stop,” you whisper.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna think ’bout goodbye tonight.”

Bucky’s fingers intertwine with yours. He kisses your knuckles.

“Then we won’t. Not yet.” __________________________________________________

Blue edges of sky, flickering city lights—the world changes, never fully asleep.

You walk down the block with him draping his jacket over your shoulders—the smell of warmth and metal follows you.

No words. Just footsteps. A kid races by. Someone yells in Italian. Brooklyn dims, but never fully sleeps.

At your building, you stop under the fire escape—clanging metal, teenage secrets, stolen kisses history here.

He joins you.

“You gonna invite me in?” he asks.

You meet his gaze.

“You’re leaving in three days.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“So no. I’m not inviting you in.”

He blinks—hurt flashes.

You smile softly.

“’Cause if you come up tonight, I’m not letting you go in the morning.”

He steps closer—hands on your hips, thumbs under jacket’s hem.

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

You tilt your head.

“You think you’re gonna walk into Europe with a rifle and forget about me?”

He grins. “Forget you? Not likely.”

You run a thumb along his jawline. “You’d better not. ’Cause I’m not spending three years waiting on a half-assed letter from some French nurse.”

His grin fades. “You think I’d leave you and come home to find you married to a jazz trumpet player?”

Eyebrows raised. “You mean someone with real talent?”

He crushes you to him, forehead to forehead. “You’re mine.”

Your breath stutters at the weight of it. He says it lightly—but eyes serious.

You kiss him—soft, searching, trembling.

Then deeper—your heart racing.

When you break away, foreheads still touching, breaths hot, he says.

“Stay tonight,” he whispers.

“I’ll stay,” you breathe.

“Then let me make it count.”

You search his eyes. “All of it,” you reply. “No pretending.”

“No pretending,” he vows. “Only you and me.”

You don’t go upstairs. Not yet. Under that rusted fire escape, just two kids too in love to care about invincibility.

He traces your cheek. And for a moment—no war.

Only him. Only you. Only this.

Back inside, the air’s cooler. The kettle still sits, untouched. One light flickers over the table.

Steve is still at the table, sketchbook open, head down. He doesn’t look up as you and Bucky come in.

You peel off Bucky’s jacket, draping it on a chair. Bucky stands near the door, watching.

“I’m grabbing a shower,” he says quietly.

You nod.

Silence settles. Cool and heavy.

You pad barefoot across the floor toward Steve. He keeps moving the pencil, but you see the tension in his hand.

You slide into the chair opposite him, leg tucked under you.

He’s drawing—not the roll, not you.

It’s Bucky. Shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. Half of a shape at his chest—maybe a scar or necklace. Unfinished.

“Can I sit?” you ask.

He nods.

“You okay?” Your voice is soft.

He nods again—Lie.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I know,” he says. “But maybe I’m supposed to be.”

You watch him shrink into himself—folding inward. The hallway behind holds the closed bathroom door where Bucky showers.

“You scared for him?” you ask.

“Always,” he says. “Since before the army. As kids, he’d mouth off to cops twice his size, fight guys at bars if I just looked at them.”

“Sounds familiar.”

He smiles faintly.

“He’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No. But I have to believe it.”

He finally looks at you—eyes ancient with unshed grief.

“He’s lucky,” he says. “To have you to come back to.”

You swallow. “That wasn’t luck. That was a choice.”

He drops his gaze, but you catch that flicker—regret? Want?

You reach, almost touch his hand—but stop.

“Out of loyalty,” he murmurs. After minute he looks up at you.

“You’re good for him,” Steve says, voice rough. “He needs something to come home to.”

“I hope I’m enough.”

“You are.”

The bathroom door opens—steam pouring out. Bucky appears, towel over shoulder, hair damp.

“Interrupting?” he asks, playful.

Steve stands. “Nah. Just girl talk.”

“Did I miss pillow fights and secret-sharing?”

“Get over yourself,” you say, rising.

Steve grabs his coat and sketchbook. “See you tomorrow.”

Bucky nods as Steve heads out.

You turn to Bucky. “He loves you, you know.”

“I know.”

“He loves you so much he can’t look at me too long.”

He steps closer. “He’s a good man.”

“Yeah. The best one who’ll be left behind.”

He brushes hair from your face. “Not yet,” he whispers.

__________________________________________________

Silence again. Quiet after things almost said.

You stay frozen a moment. Then move to him.

He towels his hair; damp undershirt clinging intimate and fragile.

You take the towel and dry him—no words. Fingers threading through dark curls, gentle, slow—like holding him here by touch.

“You’re quiet,” he says softly.

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That when you leave, the apartment won’t smell like you anymore.”

He pauses, then retrieves a small dented tin box from the dresser. Opens it gently, pulls out a dog tag—his name stamped on metal.

He dangles it before you. “You keep that. Under your shirt, by your heart. If I forget who I am, you’ll still know.”

Your eyes fill. “That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“What isn’t?”

“That you say things like that—and expect me to let you go.”

He steps closer and slips the tag over your neck, settling it against your collarbone.

“There,” he murmurs. “Official government property.”

You laugh, watery. “Lucky me.”

He pulls you close. One hand on your head; the other around your waist, anchoring himself.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice thick. “You’re stuck with me. You better be here when I get back.”

You press your palm against the tag. “I will be.”

“I mean it.”

“I will be.” “This doesn’t come off.”

He kisses you—not soft, not sad. It’s a kiss of claim.

You hold the kiss long. Heart racing. The tag between you a vow.

Later, alone in bed, you’ll press your fingers to the metal and whisper his name like a prayer.

Three nights from now, you’ll give yourself to him fully.

But for now, there’s just the tag. The promise. His voice echoing:

“Like it or not, doll… you’re stuck with me.” Part 2

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 8: Don’t Ask Me If I’m Okay Pairing Bucky Barnes x fem!reader x Clark Kent x fem!reader

TW: NSFW, Trauma Bonding WC: 2000 + Didn't want you to count out our boy just yet.

The morning light doesn’t feel soft.

It creeps across the floor like judgment — gray and indifferent. You stand in the bathroom doorway wearing nothing but one of Clark’s old black shirts. Arms crossed. Hip against the frame.

He’s pulling on his boots.

Quiet. Steady. Like he has every intention of leaving the room intact.

You stare at the mirror across from you.

Your lip is bruised. Faint teeth marks on your throat. A fingerprint on your hip. Not regret. Just evidence. Proof that something real happened.

You swallow.

“You’re not gonna do the whole ‘I should’ve stopped’ speech?”

Clark doesn’t look up from lacing his boot. “Do you want me to?”

“No.”

Silence.

Your throat feels dry.

“You’re too fucking calm,” you say, stepping into the room.

Clark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. “I’m not calm,” he says. “I’m trained.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

“You asked me not to be gentle. You asked me not to leave. You didn’t ask for more.”

“And if I had?”

He looks up then — and it hits you. The restraint. The control. Like he’s been sitting on the edge of something all night and just barely not falling over it.

“If you had,” he says softly, “I would’ve given you everything.”

Your breath catches.

He stands. Walks toward you.

Doesn’t crowd you. Just stands close enough for your pulse to spike.

“You stayed,” you say.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You laugh — once. Bitter. “You weren’t supposed to.”

“I didn’t come here to win you.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because you needed someone to be.”

You step back.

Not far. But enough to mean something.

“I don’t know how to let you be good to me,” you whisper.

“That’s not your job,” he says.

Then adds, quieter:

“It’s mine.” __________________________________________________________

The corridor buzzes with tension.

You walk in barefoot. Tank top loose. Bruises still visible like invitations.

He’s there.

Bucky.

Sitting on the bench like he’s been waiting. Whetstone in one hand. Blade in the other. Dragging it slowly, uselessly — like he needs something to stay sharp.

He doesn’t look at you.

You should keep walking.

You don’t.

His eyes find you. Then the mark on your throat.

His grip on the blade tightens.

“Wearing his shirt?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He stands. Drops the blade. Walks toward you — slow, predatory, dangerous.

“You fuck him in this building?” His voice is low. Sharp. Designed to wound.

You don’t blink.

“You let him mark you.”

Your breath hitches. “You left.”

He doesn’t react.

“You let him inside you.”

“You’re not entitled—”

“Do you still love me?”

Silence.

That’s answer enough.

Bucky steps in close. Heat rolling off him in waves.

Then his mouth is on yours.

Hard. Brutal. Familiar.

This isn’t nostalgia.

It’s jealousy. Rage. Possession.

He grabs your ass, lifts you up. You wrap your legs around his hips without thinking. Your back hits the wall with a dull thud.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls against your skin.

You don’t.

You yank his shirt over his head.

He kisses you again. Messy. Desperate.

Clothes peel away between gasps.

He pins you to the wall. One hand between your legs. Two fingers inside you — fast, rough, practiced.

Your head drops back. You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Don’t be sweet,” you pant.

“I forgot how,” he snarls.

Then he drops to his knees.

Mouth between your thighs. Tongue relentless. Hands locking your legs open like he’s afraid you’ll disappear before he finishes ruining you.

You come with his name shattered on your tongue.

Then again.

And again.

When you finally yank him up by the belt and growl, “Do it,” you mean it.

He turns you. Bends you over the rack. Pushes into you in one brutal thrust.

You gasp. Choke. Dig your fingers into the cold steel for balance.

Bucky growls into your neck.

“You think he makes you feel like this?”

You don’t answer.

He slams into you again.

“You still fucking love me.”

Still nothing.

Because this isn’t about love.

This is about ache.

And you want it all.

He fucks you hard. Fast. Unforgiving.

When he comes, it’s your name wrecked out of his chest. His body trembling. His face buried in your shoulder like he’s breaking open.

You slide to the floor together.

Still tangled.

Still shaking.

And when he whispers, “I still love you,” it guts you more than any silence ever could. And you almost believe him.

Almost. _____________________________________________________________

The bed is cold.

Not empty — cold.

No body heat. No creased pillow. No sign that he ever came back.

You sit up. Naked. Sore. Marked.

You check your phone.

No message.

Nothing.

You type:

Y/N: Where’d you run off to? Don’t you think we should talk?

Three minutes later:

Bucky: About what?

Your chest tightens.

You type:

Y/N: Last night. Us.

Three blinking dots.

Then:

Bucky: There’s nothing to talk about.

You don’t scream. Don’t cry. You just move.

You grab your go bag.

And you text Bruce:

Y/N → Bruce I need to leave. You still with me?

Bruce: Always. ___________________________________________________________

The hallway is silent.

Your boots make no sound on the polished floor as you pass the conference wing. One duffel over your shoulder. Hair still damp from the fastest shower you’ve ever taken.

This isn’t an escape. It’s an extraction. Your own.

You pull your phone from your pocket. Text three people.

You → Clark Leaving. You coming?

The reply is immediate.

Clark: Send coordinates.

You do. He sends back a single pin and one word: On my way.

You pause.

Fingers hover. Then—

You → Steve You’ve been trying to keep everyone from breaking again. I won’t be the crack in the next Civil War. I’m stepping out before I split this team in half.

Seconds tick by.

Then:

Steve: You’re not the problem. But I won’t stop you. Not if this is what you need. Be safe. Stay in contact. You’ll always have a place here.

You swallow hard.

Then type the last one.

You → Sam Don’t try to talk me out of this. Don’t try to follow me. You’ll just make it worse.

No response.

You slide the phone back in your pocket. Keep walking.

Ten minutes later—

You’re at the base of the jet’s ramp. Bruce and Clark are already inside, silent behind the cockpit glass.

Sam’s boots hit the tarmac like thunder.

“You’re really doing this?” he asks.

You turn.

Your expression cracks. Just slightly.

“I have to.”

“No,” Sam snaps. “You don’t. You want to. Because he—” he gestures back toward the building “—can’t get his shit together long enough to say one true thing out loud.”

“It’s not about him.”

“You’re lying.”

You flinch. Sam steps closer.

“You think leaving fixes this? You think running is better than choosing someone who actually—finally—wants to stay?”

Your voice breaks. “I can’t choose if I’m still bleeding from every angle, Sam. I love you. But I can’t be the reason this team breaks again. I watched you all fall apart once already. I won’t watch it happen again just because I stayed.”

His jaw tightens.

His voice softens. “Then take me with you.”

Your breath catches. “No.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I can survive.”

“Sam—”

“I go where you go. You’re my girl. Don’t care if you’re sleeping with the alien or throwing knives at Bruce’s head. I go where you go.”

You grab his jacket. Tight.

“I need you here. I need someone who’s not afraid to throw the truth at them when I’m gone.”

He looks at you for a long time.

Then nods. Silent. Wrecked.

You wrap your arms around him like it might break you in half.

Whisper, “Don’t let him turn this into a tragedy.”

And climb the ramp without looking back.

The jet lifts in silence.

No fanfare. No comms.

Just the dull echo of thrusters fading into the clouds.

You don’t look out the window.

You don’t need to.

You know he’s there.

Watching you disappear.

Across the hangar, Bucky stands on the upper platform, hands on the rail. Staring at the shrinking speck of the ship like it might still fall back to earth.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Sam’s on the ground below. Shoulders squared. Jaw locked.

Steve steps up beside him, slower now.

And says—

“You let her go.”

No answer.

“You could’ve stopped her.”

Still nothing.

Steve’s voice breaks a little. “I’ve been holding this team together by the seams, Buck. Since before Wakanda. Since Sokovia. Since—goddamn—New York.”

He exhales.

“I made choices. Between right and wrong. Between truth and loyalty. Between people I love.”

He turns to face Bucky.

“And I always picked you.”

Bucky finally looks over.

Steve nods once.

“And now I feel like I lost both of you.”

Then Sam’s voice cuts in — sharp as a knife:

“Don’t give him that.”

He steps closer, fists clenched.

“He doesn’t get your guilt. Or your grace. Not after this.”

Steve opens his mouth — stops.

Sam doesn’t.

“You didn’t choose her. You used her. Then punished her for trusting you twice.”

Bucky says nothing.

“Say something,” Sam growls. “Come on. Say one goddamn word.”

Silence.

Sam’s fist pulls back—rage and heartbreak behind it.

Steve catches it mid-swing.

Not to stop him. To protect all of them.

Sam breathes hard. Stares into Steve’s eyes. Then lowers his arm.

“You let her leave,” he says. “You watched her walk out with a man who’d burn the world to keep her breathing. And you didn’t fight for her.”

He backs away. Chest heaving.

“You don’t get to feel bad now.”

The hangar stays silent.

And somewhere far above you— Already halfway across the skyline— You’re gone. ____________________________________________________________

The war room is dead quiet.

No missions. No updates. No distractions.

Just everyone sitting in the dark, waiting to admit what none of them want to say.

Tony slams a file down.

“Let’s take stock,” he mutters. “We lost Y/N. We lost Clark. And we lost Wayne. That’s a sniper, a demigod, and Gotham’s favorite bastard. You wanna explain how the hell we let all three walk out the same goddamn door?”

No one answers.

Nat’s arms are crossed. She hasn’t spoken. Not since you left.

Bruce’s seat is empty.

Thor asks, confused and frustrated, “Why did they go? What cause is greater than ours?”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “It wasn’t about the mission.”

Tony scoffs. “It never is.”

Steve clears his throat. “She left to save us.”

That lands.

“She told me,” Steve says, softer now. “She didn’t want to be the crack in another Civil War.”

Nat blinks hard. Tony sighs.

“She waited,” Nat says. “She waited for us to see her. And we didn’t.”

Every head turns toward Bucky.

Still. Silent. Stone.

Tony steps forward slowly.

“If the Winter Soldier’s dead,” he says, “then what the fuck is left?”

That lands hard. Even Steve winces.

Tony doesn’t stop.

“What I see? Is a guy who doesn’t know how to stay. Doesn’t know how to speak. And when someone hands him something real?”

His voice lowers.

“He crushes it with silence.”

Still—Bucky says nothing.

“Even Banner said goodbye,” Tony mutters.

Steve looks down at his hands. Like they don’t belong to him anymore.

Sam’s voice cuts through — low and final:

“She left because she loved us enough not to watch us tear each other apart over her.”

“And the others?” Thor asks. “The bat. The alien?”

“They didn’t follow her,” Nat says. “They chose her.”

Silence.

Then Tony, quieter now:

“Some of the three of the most dangerous people on the planet just left this team.”

He looks around.

No anger. Just weight.

“And not one of us tried to stop them.”

He meets Bucky’s eyes.

“We didn’t just lose them.”

A pause.

“We drove them out.”

And no one says a word. Part 9

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

I’ve had this idea itching around in my skull since I read the book Divine Rivals. I knew I needed to get it out, didn’t know I would be sharing it here, but here you go ❤️ Ignore any errors please, as I’m writing this on my phone. I’ll try and fix it soon.

Part 1: You Find It First

Pairing Steve Rodgers x fem!reader

Steve Rodgers gets all the fluff, always 💕

Summary: You find an old notebook in a used bookstore and write in it one night, just to get the grief out.The next morning, someone writes back—from 1943.His name is Steve, and he doesn’t know how this is happening either.

________________________________________________

The rain comes fast. One second you’re walking home with headphones in, the next you’re soaked, hair plastered to your cheeks, cursing the Brooklyn sky.

You duck into the first open door you see—a bell chimes weakly overhead as you slam it shut behind you. The air is warm and thick with dust. The sign above the door had just said “BOOKS.” Nothing else. Like it was trying to stay hidden.

Inside, the shop feels like it’s been asleep for years. Shelves sag under the weight of forgotten novels. Piles of books lean like exhausted drunks. There’s no music, no clerk in sight—just the muffled drum of rain against the windows and the scent of old paper, binding glue, mildew, and something faintly sweet, like cherry tobacco.

You exhale. Something about the quiet pulls at your chest, a little release valve.

You wander. Touch spines out of habit. Skip the newer shelves and drift toward the back, where the floorboards whine louder. There, half-buried behind a row of thick encyclopedias labeled “World Events: 1900–1950,” something catches your eye.

A notebook.

It’s jammed between two volumes, like someone stuffed it there in a hurry. The cover is soft leather, faded, scuffed at the edges. The corners are curled, and it’s held closed by a warped elastic band that’s long since lost its stretch. You pull it out and it resists, like the shelf doesn’t want to let go.

You flip it open.

Most of the pages are blank. But here and there—tucked like secrets—are short entries. Dated. Some in pencil, others in black ink faded to sepia. The handwriting is neat, careful, almost old-fashioned. It doesn’t read like a diary. More like fragments. Half-thoughts. Sentences that end too early.

“Feb 14, 1943 — Rained again. Dripped through the roof, soaked the charcoal. Drew anyway.”

“March 3, 1943 — Bucky laughed so hard he spit coffee. Haven’t seen him smile like that in weeks.”

“April 1 — Pretended I didn’t hear the recruiter. Couldn’t take the look on Ma’s face.”

Your fingers pause on that last one. The paper is soft, slightly brittle. You run your thumb over the indent of the penstroke, and for a second, you imagine the hand that wrote it. The kind of hand that presses too hard.

You glance around the shop. Still empty.

You don’t know why—maybe it’s the way the rain sounds, or the ache that’s been lodged in your ribs all week—but you close the notebook and take it to the register. There’s a chipped brass bell there. You tap it once. No answer.

Eventually, you leave five dollars and a note that just says “Found this. Taking it. Hope that’s okay.”

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. You hold the notebook to your chest as you walk home, water dripping off your hair, your coat, your lashes.

You don’t know it yet—but someone’s waiting on the other end of that page.

—————————————————————————-

Your apartment is exactly the way you left it—too quiet, too cold, and somehow still smelling faintly like the takeout you abandoned on Tuesday.

You drop your keys, hang up your coat, and toss the notebook onto the cluttered table by the window, the one already littered with unread mail, half-melted candles, and three unread books you swear you’ll finish one day. The notebook lands with a soft thud, leather against wood, and you don’t look at it again for hours.

You make tea. You scroll. You try to write and end up deleting everything.

Around midnight, the silence starts to hum in that way it always does—low and heavy, pressing against your chest like a weight you forgot you were carrying. You lie in bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling fan that hasn’t spun in weeks. Your fingers twitch.

You try not to think about your brother.

But you do. You always do.

The notebook is still on the table. You get up like you’re sleepwalking, barefoot on cold tile, and pick it up without turning on the light.

You sit cross-legged on your couch, notebook open in your lap, pen poised. You’re not even sure why. Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s the way his handwriting felt—careful. Like someone who didn’t get a lot of space to say what he needed to.

You flip past the older entries, past Bucky and the charcoal sketches and the missed call from the recruiter, until you hit a blank page. Then, almost absently, you start to write.

I don’t really know why I’m doing this.

You’re probably just someone’s weird VR game or something—congrats on the immersive design, I guess. But I couldn’t sleep tonight. I haven’t been able to sleep since he died.

My brother.

He was kind. And stupid. And stubborn. And he laughed with his whole body.

They said it was random. That’s the word they used. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

That doesn’t mean anything. It’s a phrase people use when they don’t know how to say “sorry we couldn’t stop it.”

I don’t talk about this out loud. Not anymore. Everyone got tired of the story. Of the grief.

But you’re a notebook. You don’t get to leave.

You stop there. Stare at the page for a long time.

You don’t sign it. You don’t read it again.

You just close the book slowly and leave it on the nightstand.

Then you curl into your pillow and pretend that felt like nothing at all.

—————————————————————————-

The kettle shrieks from the stove just as you open the notebook again. You don’t know why you’re reaching for it. Maybe you wanted to reread what you wrote last night, see if it felt stupid in the light of day.

But it’s not your handwriting that catches your eye.

Beneath your last line—beneath “You don’t get to leave”—there’s more.

A different ink color. Darker. Smoother. Tighter strokes. Clean lines with a slight rightward lean. The kind of handwriting they don’t teach anymore.

I’m sorry for your loss.

I’ve never known what to say to someone who’s grieving. Seems like everything that comes out sounds like it was written by someone who’s never been close to it.

But I read your words. Every one of them. And for what it’s worth, you don’t sound crazy.

You sound like someone who cared very deeply.

I’ve never lost a brother. But my best friend, Bucky—he’s like that for me.

I’m not sure what this is, or how it’s happening.

But I’m here.

Sincerely,

Steve

Brooklyn, NY

March 27, 1943

Your breath catches.

You close the notebook like it might catch fire.

You stare at the cover, then flip it open again—maybe you imagined it. Maybe your pen bled through. Maybe you were writing in your sleep. Your brain scrambles for a rational explanation. Any of them. All of them.

But the words are still there. Still not yours.

You put the notebook down like it’s alive.

This has to be a joke. Some kind of creepy interactive story. An AI bot. Or a particularly well-read troll with way too much time on their hands.

You check the spine for a QR code. You flip through the pages for a serial number, a branding stamp, anything. But there’s nothing. No title page. No back cover sticker. Just empty paper and the faint smell of something burned.

You put the notebook under your bed.

You don’t touch it again for three days.

—————————————————————————

It’s not that you mean to keep thinking about the notebook.

It’s just that the words won’t leave you alone.

Three days later, it’s still sitting exactly where you shoved it—wedged between a pair of boots you don’t wear and a box of candles that melted last summer. Every time you pass the room, you feel it. Like it’s watching. Or listening. Or worse—waiting.

You tell yourself it’s just a story. A little rush of magic you accidentally stepped into. Something a lonely brain cooked up to keep itself company.

But on the fourth night, you cave.

You fish it out just before midnight, your laptop already glowing. You scan Steve’s message again—March 27, 1943. The mention of ration stamps. Bucky. A speech Roosevelt supposedly gave “yesterday.”

You Google it.

And there it is. March 26, 1943—FDR gave a fireside chat urging Americans to support the war effort by buying more war bonds. The quote Steve referenced—“This is not a war of conquest. It is a war of liberation”—was real. Word for word.

You search Bucky Barnes. Then your stomach twists.

There is a James Buchanan Barnes listed in multiple historical war databases. 107th Infantry Regiment. Brooklyn. Presumed KIA in 1945. You click deeper. His records link to a man named… Steven G. Rogers.

Born 1918. Died 1945. Also presumed KIA.

You sit back. Blink at the screen. Your skin feels too tight.

You grab the notebook, flip to a blank page, and grab your pen with a muttered, “Okay, asshole. Let’s play.”

You write:

Sure, “Steve from 1943.”

Tell me who won the World Series that year.

Tell me what brand of toothpaste you use.

Tell me something only someone from 1943 would know.

Tell me you’re not just messing with me.

You hesitate before signing it, then just scribble:

–Y/N

Then you close the notebook and slide it beneath your pillow.

You leave your laptop open all night.

————————————————————————-

You wake up already annoyed with yourself.

The first thing your eyes land on is the corner of the notebook sticking out from under your pillow, like a dog waiting to be let back in. You tell yourself you’re not going to check it. You make coffee. You brush your teeth. You stare at your phone for half an hour. You even open a work email.

And then—of course—you do.

You flip open the notebook, expecting maybe one line, maybe a “Nice try.” But there are paragraphs. Full ones. Written in that same deliberate, careful hand.

Well, you don’t pull punches, I’ll give you that.

I don’t know how to explain this. I really don’t.

I tried to convince myself I’d dreamed you. That maybe I’d fallen asleep with the book open and wrote something weird in my sleep. But here you are again, writing back. Unless I’m dead and this is hell.

As for the World Series: 1943, Yankees beat the Cardinals in five games. Keller was MVP.

I use Colgate. The old kind, in the metal tube. Hurts like hell if you press it too hard.

And… a war bonds poster went up on my block yesterday. Big red letters. There’s a woman on it, holding a child with one hand and a rifle with the other. I stood there staring at it for five minutes. Felt like it was yelling at me, like I wasn’t doing enough.

My friend Bucky would’ve made a joke about it. Said the woman looked like his aunt Sheila, who once hit a burglar with a broom.

I didn’t laugh.

I keep drawing, but my charcoal’s down to stubs. It smudges everything. I think it’s because the roof leaked again, and the paper smells like smoke. Everything does.

I don’t know what this is.

But I don’t want it to stop.

You stare at the ink. It’s not even dry. It shines faintly when you tilt the page toward the window. The scent rises up faintly from the paper—burned wood, old paper, something sweet underneath like pine sap.

Not a single one of your sarcastic explanations makes sense anymore.

You don’t remember moving, but somehow you’re holding a pen.

You press it to the paper.



Okay. Let’s say—for the sake of my sanity—that this is real.

Then I guess I should start by saying…

Hi.

You don’t sign it this time either.

But your fingers linger on the edge of the page before you close it.

The notebook feels warmer now.

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 7: Soft Things You Don’t Have to Earn

TW: NSFW, PTSD

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

WC: 1300 + Summary: There’s no pretending, no performance — only need, honesty, and heat. This is not about rescue. It’s about choosing presence when everything else hurts.

__________________________________________________________

The medbay cleared hours ago, but sleep doesn’t come.

You wake from a half-remembered nightmare with blood on your lip and fists clenched like you never made it out of the chair. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sit.

Until the knock comes.

Until he walks in.

And for the first time — you don’t ask him to stay.

You just… don’t ask him to leave.

______________________________________________________________

You wake strangling a breath.

The sheets are twisted around your legs like restraints you forgot to fight. Your heart pounds — not fast, not panicked. Just loud. Like it wants to speak before you do.

Your ribs ache. The edge of a bandage tugs against your skin. Copper bites your tongue.

Blood. Bit your lip in your sleep... again.

You didn’t dream of the mission. Not really. Just a hallway. Hands around your throat. A voice too far away. But that isn’t what keeps your lungs tight.

It’s the silence.

The part where no one came.

Except—

A knock. Soft. Once.

You don’t speak. Don’t move.

He steps inside anyway.

Clark.

No words. No dramatic entrance. Just... presence. Quiet and huge.

You exhale. It trembles more than you’d like.

“Nightmare?” he asks.

“No,” you lie. “Just loud inside.”

He closes the door. Doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t reach.

You’re the one who breaks first.

“Can you sit?” you murmur. “Just—there.”

You nod at the foot of the bed.

He does as you ask. No more. No less.

“I don’t know why I want you here,” you say.

“You don’t have to,” he answers.

The silence stretches. Then—

You lean forward, just enough to let your head rest against his shoulder.

He stays still. Doesn’t wrap his arms around you. Doesn’t shift.

Just breathes.

Solid. Steady. Real.

“I feel like I’m cheating on grief,” you whisper.

“You’re not.”

“I don’t know how to want something soft. Not without guilt.”

“You don’t have to want it. You just have to not run from it.”

You don’t reply.

But you don’t move away either.

______________________________________________________________

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

Your hand curls lightly in his shirt. Your ribs ache. But there’s warmth. There’s a pulse.

No dreams.

No blood.

Just silence.

You wake hours later.

You’re still in his arms. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t slept.

You whisper his name. “Clark.”

He hears you. Of course he does.

“You didn’t sleep,” you murmur.

“I haven’t.”

“Since...?”

He doesn’t answer.

You say it for him. “Lois.”

He breathes.

“I dream about the last thing she said to me.”

“Was it ‘I love you’?”

“No,” he almost smiles. “She told me not to hesitate.”

“Did you?”

“I hesitated... after.”

A beat.

“Why does your kindness hurt?”

His eyes soften. He looks younger like this.

“I think it’s because you’ve never been touched by someone who didn’t want something in return.”

That lands like a body blow.

“You make it hard to stay numb.”

“You were never numb,” he says. “You were just hiding the pulse.”

And for the first time in what feels like months—

You sleep.

And don’t wake with blood in your mouth.

______________________________________________________________

The range is quiet.

You don’t ask him to come. But he shows up anyway.

You text one word. Range?

He hands you the gear. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t crowd.

Three targets. Thirty feet. One breath.

You miss one. Curse under your breath. Reset.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lecture. Just watches.

Patient. Steady. Still here.

“You’re doing that thing,” you mutter.

“What thing?”

“Looking at me like you know.”

“I don’t know anything you’re not telling me.”

“You didn’t sleep.”

He nods.

“And you still followed me here.”

“Because you didn’t ask me to stay away.”

You stare at him.

“You’re going to kill me with that quiet,” you whisper. “One day you’re just going to look at me like that, and I’ll forget I was ever trying to stay upright.”

He steps closer. Still doesn’t touch.

“I’m not waiting for you,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I’m not here to be chosen,” he says. “I’m here to stay.”

Your grip steadies.

Three more shots. All center mass.

“I didn’t ask you to wait,” you say.

“I know.”

___________________________________________________________

You don’t knock. Don’t text. Don’t pace the hallway rehearsing something brave.

You just open your door. And wait.

He doesn’t knock either. Doesn’t ask.

Clark steps into the room like the building itself let him in. Like the silence carved space for him.

The door clicks shut behind him. You don’t flinch.

You’re standing in the middle of the room — oversized t-shirt, bare legs, no armor, no war paint. Just skin and breath and nerves lit like a fuse.

“I don’t want comfort,” you say.

He takes a step forward.

“I don’t need soft.”

Another step.

“I just want to feel something that doesn’t make me hate myself in the morning.”

He stops a foot away. Doesn’t touch you.

“Don’t be gentle with me.”

He looks at you — not like you’re fragile. Like you’re the goddamn weapon.

His voice is low, gravel-wrecked.

“I haven’t been gentle with you,” he says. “Not since the first time I saw you bleed.”

You break.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull like gravity just reversed. The kiss is fire and teeth and tongue — no lead-in, no hesitation.

Clark responds like this is the moment he’s been holding back from for weeks. His hands land on your hips — rough, deliberate, not tentative. Possessive. Like he already knows what your skin tastes like and is desperate to relearn every inch.

He walks you backward, lips devouring yours, until the bed hits your knees. He drags your shirt off. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He doesn’t gawk. He stares. Like he’s memorizing.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Then die right,” you whisper.

He drops to his knees.

You don’t gasp when his mouth hits you — you whimper, low and broken. He eats like a man starved — slow at first, then faster, deeper, relentless.

His fingers work your slick folds open with maddening precision, teasing your clit until your thighs tremble. His mouth doesn’t stop. His tongue moves like he knows how to break you apart on sound alone.

You grab his hair and grind against his face, sobbing his name — not delicate. Desperate.

You come hard — shaking, loud, ruined.

Then he’s crawling up your body, leaving kisses on your ribs, your sternum, the hollow between your breasts. His cock grinds against your thigh — hot, heavy, aching.

He lines up.

Holds.

“I’m not going to be what breaks you,” he murmurs.

“You already are,” you breathe. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”

He slams into you in one brutal, perfect thrust.

Your back arches. You claw at his shoulders. You bite his neck.

He groans your name into your skin like a promise.

Every thrust hits deep. Hard. Exact. Like he knows you’re already stitched together by trauma and he’s choosing to carve pleasure through the cracks.

No mercy.

No slow.

You want it rough. You need it to hurt — not pain, just enough pressure to replace every memory of being touched like something disposable.

And Clark? Clark makes you feel holy.

You don’t say don’t stop.

You say “harder.”

And he gives it to you.

You come again around him, gasping like you can’t breathe without him inside you.

He follows seconds later — deep, raw, trembling.

Doesn’t moan. He growls your name like a confession and a prayer.

He doesn’t roll away. You don’t push him off.

You just stay.

Because for the first time, you’re not begging to be loved.

You’re being held.And you didn’t have to earn it. Not with him.

Part 8

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 6 - A Hand Around My Throat (Yours or Mine?)

Summary: You go in alone — because you always do. But this time, you don’t call for help. And that’s what makes him come. Not the grief. Not the guilt. Just the pull. And when the smoke clears, everyone sees who you didn’t choose. Word Count: 1900 +

The lights in the briefing room flicker overhead — not because the power is unstable, but because Tony still hasn’t replaced the cheap German bulbs.

Steve stands at the head of the table, a holographic map flickering in shades of infrared red and hostile green.

“Three of their carriers fell back past the thermosphere last night,” he says, pointing to the screen. “Scans show a full retreat.”

“And when have they ever just left?” Bruce asks without looking up.

Everyone pauses.

Tony leans forward, arms crossed. “You think they’re playing possum?”

“I think they’re smarter than we’ve been treating them.”

Sam taps his fingers on the table. “So what’s the play?”

Steve hesitates. “Split team. I want recon on the retreat paths. Sam and I will take the sky grid.”

“Containment team on the satellite ruins,” Tony adds. “Nat, Thor, me. Standard infiltration.”

“I’ll go forward flank,” you say.

Every head turns.

Steve frowns. “Alone?”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Clark’s jaw shifts. “I’ll go with her.”

You don’t look at him. “No.”

“(Y/N)—”

“I work faster alone.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Bruce finally says, voice quiet: “They’re baiting you.”

You turn to him.

“They’re repeating their pattern from last month,” Bruce says. “Short burst signals. Faint movement. The way Joker lured me into Dock 9. Same logic.”

“And you still went,” you reply, sharp.

“I didn’t say don’t.” He looks you in the eye. “I said expect the teeth.”

You nod once. “I’ll manage.”

Clark takes a step forward. “Let me at least stay in range—”

“I’m not a damsel, Kent,” you cut in. “You don’t need to throw planets to protect me.”

“It’s not about strength,” he says. “It’s about proximity.”

You look at him — really look — for the first time all morning.

The vulnerability in his voice is not performative.

And that makes it worse.

You turn away.

From the back corner of the room, Bucky watches — arms folded, saying nothing.

Sam glances between you and him.

His mouth twists, like he wants to spit.

You strap your gloves on and walk out without another word.

______________________________________________________________

Ten minutes later, the jet doors close.

Clark stands on the tarmac, staring at the runway lights.

Bruce walks up beside him.

“You’re not used to not being listened to,” Bruce says.

Clark doesn’t answer.

“She’s not rejecting you,” Bruce adds. “She’s testing you.”

“What’s the test?”

Bruce meets his eyes. “How loud you’ll get when she stops calling for help.”

Clark’s jaw tightens.

Then he’s gone — straight into the sky.

______________________________________________________________

Inside the jet, you sit alone.

No backup.

No heartbeat to follow.

Just a faint signal on the screen. Barely more than a pulse.

But it’s moving.

Calling.

And you’re already too deep to stop.

The corridor pulses with alien light — bioluminescent veins running through the walls like the guts of a thing pretending to be a building.

You move quietly, weapon drawn, scanning.

The forward signal is faint — too faint.

You crouch by the floor paneling, pressing fingers to the interface.

No recent exit paths. No power in the ceiling. No heat signatures beyond a single, flickering dot.

Too easy.

Too clean.

You exhale.

Not fear.

Focus.

“Forward flank reporting—,” you start to say, and then everything shifts.

The lights cut.

Doors slam shut behind you. Steel teeth, locking in.

A hiss of pressure.

And gas.

White. Sweet-smelling. Fast.

“Shit,” you mutter, pulling your shirt over your nose and launching toward the door.

Too slow.

Your legs go first — not all at once. Just the knees. Then the wrist. Your knife hits the floor with a metallic clatter.

Then your lungs stop listening.

No sound. No comms. Just the pounding in your ears.

Clark—

It isn’t a call for help.

It’s a reflex.

______________________________________________________________

Somewhere above the clouds, Clark Kent stops mid-flight.

His head snaps toward nothing.

His hands clench in the air, breath suddenly too loud in his chest.

Back at the compound, Bruce looks up from the monitor at the same moment.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

Sam: “She’s not responding.”

Steve: “We need to get in there—”

“No time,” Clark says.

And then he’s gone.

He doesn’t land.

He hits the ground — full force — shattering half the landing platform and tearing through the facility in one breath.

His eyes burn red in the shadows.

He doesn’t wait for locks to disengage. He melts them.

Doesn’t scan for traps. He is the trap.

Two guards. Gone in a blink. One hits the ceiling. The other vanishes into the wall.

He finds you in the last room.

The gas is thick now.

You’re slumped against the chair, metal bindings twisted around your forearms. A bruise blooming beneath your left eye. Blood at your lip.

Still breathing — barely.

Clark doesn’t hesitate.

He crosses the room in less than a second, rips the restraints apart, catches you before you fall.

Your lashes flutter. Blood in your mouth.

“You’re late,” you rasp.

His hand cups the back of your head, fingers in your hair, forehead to yours.

“I’m here.”

“You’re not supposed to come.”

“I don’t care.”

You close your eyes.

He lifts you — carefully, but not slowly — and carries you out.

Every alarm still screaming.

And the men who took you?

Wouldn’t scream again.

______________________________________________________________

The medical bay doors slam open.

Clark doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t ask for help.

He walks through the chaos of voices and equipment and startled medics like nothing around him matters.

Because right now — it doesn’t.

Your arms are limp. Your skin pale. Blood cakes across your mouth and temple. But you’re breathing. You’re conscious — barely. Your fingers curl into the fabric of Clark’s shirt.

Sam reaches them first, hand on the edge of the stretcher.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “(Y/N)—”

“She needs oxygen and stabilizers,” Clark says, voice low and flat. “Now.”

The medics move fast. Tony barks orders. Nat appears in the doorway, white-faced and silent.

Bucky doesn’t move.

He stands at the edge of the corridor, staring.

Watching Clark lower you to the bed, gently brushing hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckle.

Watching your eyes flutter open — and immediately find him.

Not Bucky.

Clark.

That’s when it cracks.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Bucky snaps, stepping forward. “Why the hell was she alone?”

Steve moves to block him. “Now’s not the time.”

“No—” Bucky shoves past him. “She went in without backup and no one stopped her?”

“She didn’t want backup,” Sam says tightly.

“She didn’t know what she needed—”

“And you do?” Sam shoots back. “Now? After vanishing for months and showing up when it’s convenient to pretend you give a shit again?”

Bucky turns on him. “This isn’t about me.”

Sam steps closer, jaw clenched. “You’re right. It’s about her. And she didn’t call your name. She didn’t cry for you. That’s what’s pissing you off.”

“Shut the hell up—”

“No,” Sam snaps. “You don’t get to grieve the house you set on fire. She begged you to see her, Barnes. You blinked. Now someone else sees her.”

Bucky looks toward the bed.

You’re sitting up now — dizzy, pale, but alert.

You’ve heard all of it.

Your gaze meets his.

You don’t look angry.

You look done.

Steve steps back from the shouting, rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders tight.

“This team is falling apart,” he mutters.

Bruce finally speaks.

He hasn’t moved from the doorway.

“She’s not why it’s breaking,” he says. “She’s just the only one you can’t ignore.”

Everyone turns.

Bruce steps into the room.

Looks directly at Bucky.

“You left her,” he says. “He didn’t.”

______________________________________________________________

The rooftop is colder than before.

You step into the wind in bare feet, arms folded over the hoodie you don’t remember putting on. Your ribs still ache when you breathe too deep. Clark wanted to follow you — didn’t.

Good.

You need to do this alone.

Bucky stands near the edge, arms braced on the railing, metal hand flexing like it can’t decide whether to hold something or let it go.

You don’t speak right away.

He does.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

You give a humorless smile. “No one sleeps after what happened down there.”

Silence.

Then—

“I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

You lean against the wall beside him, eyes on the sky.

“No,” you say. “You shouldn’t have left way before that.”

He turns to you, jaw tense. “I didn’t know how to stay without hurting you.”

“You hurt me anyway,” you say, voice soft.

Another silence.

The wind tugs at your sleeves.

“I loved you like a constant,” you say. “Like gravity. Like I could anchor myself to you and still survive the fall.”

Bucky closes his eyes.

You don’t stop.

“But it wasn’t gravity, Buck. It was drift. I kept chasing where you used to be.”

He looks at you — really looks.

And you see it in his face: the ache, the regret, the wanting.

But not the reaching.

He’s not stepping forward.

He’s not saying come back.

And you’re not asking him to.

“I still love you,” you say. “But I don’t know how to need you anymore.”

That hits harder than anything you’ve said before.

Because it’s the truth.

And because it means you don’t belong to him now.

Not in the way he assumed you always would.

“You’re not coming back to me,” he says quietly.

“I don’t think I ever left you,” you say. “But maybe that’s the problem.”

You stand in silence for a long time.

Then you turn to go.

At the door, you pause.

“He didn’t come because I called for him,” you say. “He came because he felt it.”

Bucky doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

You walk away. And this time, he lets you go.

Part 7