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nicksolemnlyswears · 23 days ago

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secret wives and girlfriends always get me going 🤭

Comms Interference | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: The team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music and precision. What they don’t know is that you’re Bucky Barnes’ secret wife.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood and injury detail, combat violence, gunfire, language, references to past trauma, mentions of HYDRA and Red Room conditioning, high-adrenaline tension, implied PTSD, emotionally repressed idiots in love

Word Count: 9.3k

Author’s Note: ok this was unhinged levels of fun to write and i regret nothing. i love the chaos. thank you again to the incredible request!! will i be writing more of this flavor of secret marriage? absolutely. also: i’m working through more requests soon so if i haven’t gotten to yours yet, i promise i haven’t forgotten!! thank you for being here and screaming with me always <3

The mission had gone to shit six minutes ago.

Yelena had called it first, with that vicious kind of sarcasm she reserved for the moments just before blood hit the concrete. “Ah, yes. Reinforcements. Wonderful. So glad we were not warned about that.” Somewhere ahead of her, gunfire cracked in frantic bursts, too far left for the recon drone’s range. The team had split off in the chaos. Ava had gone radio silent, Alexei had wandered too far into the smoke, and John—somewhere in the middle of it all—was bleeding too much for someone who insisted he had it handled.

Bucky moved like a phantom, silent and sharp, pulse pacing steadily with the beat of crisis. Not panic. Not anymore. He’d spent too many years being the last line between chaos and carnage to waste energy on nerves. But this was the kind of mission that reeked. Hasty intel. Unexpected players. A mess of underpaid mercenaries with too much firepower and no clear objective.

Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the lack of backup.

He ducked behind a half-collapsed column, adjusting the comms in his ear. “Ghost, come in.”

Nothing.

“Belova, status?”

“Busy,” Yelena snapped back, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting concrete.

“Walker?”

Crackling. Then, “Still upright. Not loving it.”

Not a lot to love. Their extraction point had been pushed back two miles, and the enemies just kept coming. Sloppy formation, uncoordinated, like someone was using them to smoke them out. But why? Sure, they were the newly named “Avengers”, but they weren’t even a proper unit yet. Just a bandage stretched too tight across a bleeding world.

A second burst of gunfire lit up the smoke ahead of him. Bucky pressed forward, adjusting the rifle over his shoulder.

His ribs ached. Something had cracked when he hit the wall earlier, but he was used to working broken. There wasn’t time to slow down. Another figure emerged from the mist and he recognized the clumsy footwork, the huffing breath. Walker. He was limping, red blooming across his arm, jaw clenched tight enough to crack enamel.

“They’re circling back,” he growled. “Either we regroup or we go down swinging.”

“We’re not dying here,” Bucky said simply.

The comms hissed.

Just a stutter of static at first. Barely enough to make anyone flinch. Then a pulse. Faint. Rhythmic. Almost like—

“Oh god,” Bucky breathed, just as the bass dropped.

It was unmistakable. Blown-out, over-compressed pop blaring directly into his left ear. Not military comms. Not interference. Music. High-energy, aggressively hyper-feminine, shamelessly catchy.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…”

“Are you—what is that?” Walker barked, slapping at his ear like the sound had crawled inside it.

Yelena’s voice buzzed back into the channel. “Is someone playing Pussycat Dolls on our frequency?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His blood had turned to static. That song. That voice—not the lyrics, but the one threaded over the top of it, smooth and low and familiar. One he hadn’t heard in weeks and one he wasn’t supposed to be hearing for another few days.

“Miss me?”

Bucky turned and it was like watching the opening beat of a nightmare you hadn’t allowed yourself to dream in years.

The smoke curled around you first—black against the pale concrete, shivering in the aftermath of a concussion blast—and then you stepped through. Leather at your thighs, a familiar half-mask pulled just low enough to show your mouth, batons already swinging. One of the mercenaries clocked you too late. You dropped him with a strike to the temple, pivoted cleanly into another, ducked a swing and hit back twice as hard.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in this fight, not in this city, not in this life.

At least, not anymore.

You had promised. Not with words, never with words, but in the quiet, liminal moments between missions. The soft touches passed like contraband between bodies that only knew how to break things. The way you said enough without ever needing to say it. The way you’d disappeared, with him, years ago, when it became clear the world didn’t need you anymore.

But you’d always needed him.

That much, apparently, hadn’t changed.

“Who the hell—” John started, eyes wide as he tracked your path through the battlefield.

“Shut up,” Bucky snapped. Too loud. Too fast. Too revealing. He kept his eyes on you. Didn’t dare blink.

You moved like you’d never stopped. Like the years hadn’t dulled you. Like civilian life had been a dream someone else lived for you.

Another merc tried to grab you from behind. You shattered his kneecap without looking, then tased him mid-collapse with a baton charged enough to light his vision up for a week. You were grinning now. Not wide. Not cocky. But with the same edge he’d seen years ago when you’d told him you didn’t believe in peace, just long stretches of boredom between moments worth bleeding for.

The team closed in slowly, instinct dragging them toward you without understanding why. Ava reappeared from a wall, phasing in with her hand on her weapon. Alexei lumbered forward, red suit charred at the edges. No one said a word. They all watched as you handled the remaining mercs like it was nothing. Like it was fun.

Then came more boots.

Bucky heard them before anyone else did, just barely, just over the last distorted chorus still crackling through the comms. A dull percussion of heavy soles slamming rhythmically into the concrete, coming fast through the fog of gunpowder and ruin. More reinforcements. He didn’t need eyes on them to know they weren’t freelancers this time. These steps were uniform. Trained. Unrushed.

Whatever this operation had started as, it had just shifted into something colder. Measured. Intentional.

“Movement,” he said, sharp into the mic. “East side. Full formation.”

Ava phased halfway through a concrete wall, scanning. “Tactical gear. Gas masks. No insignia.”

“Of course,” Yelena muttered. “Because today wasn’t already a flaming dumpster.”

They were boxed in. Walker had maybe one clip left. Ava was half in and half out of phase, red bleeding under her ribs. Yelena’s shoulder was hit. Alexei’s arm was dislocated again and he kept wrenching it back into place like it was a door hinge.

And then there was you.

Standing calmly in the center of the chaos, blood on your knuckles, mask cracked at the jawline. Not tense. Not afraid. Just… assessing. Like you’d seen this play out already.

The first soldier in the oncoming wave raised a weapon.

And you moved.

Not back. Not for cover. Forward.

The stereo signal shifted with you, leaping from Bucky’s comms to the mercenaries’ headsets, hijacking every open frequency on-site. A different song—now louder, sharper, folding itself into the space like a knife into bone. The bass thudded through the pavement, disorienting, impossible to ignore.

“This place’s about to blow—”

The lyric hit just as you sprinted toward the advancing line, coat flaring behind you, batons tucked back into your belt. You didn’t need them now.

Two soldiers opened fire. You dropped low into a slide beneath their aim, boots skimming waterlogged concrete. You came up spinning, driving an elbow into one throat, then swinging around to knee the second across the jaw with enough force to crack his visor.

Bucky couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

You were in the center of it now, alone. Completely surrounded.

And utterly untouchable.

One mercenary tried to grab you in a bearhold from behind. Your head snapped back into his face before he could tighten the grip, cartilage crunching under the blow. You twisted free, used his moment of stunned pain to launch yourself off his chest, flipping backward into a double-leg kick that sent two more sprawling.

They were trying to flank you. Six at once now. You moved too fast to corner, slipped between them like smoke through fingers.

You caught a rifle midair—torn from one man’s grip—then swung it by the barrel, not to shoot but to break. Shattered it across another soldier’s helmet. Sparks flew. He screamed.

You tossed the ruined weapon aside like trash.

Another tried for a taser jab. You caught his wrist in one hand, yanked it forward, and let your forehead crack against his temple with a sickening thunk. He dropped. You rolled over his body, grabbed a sidearm from his hip, twisted the battery cell out of it mid-motion, and used the casing as a projectile. Hurled it into the next man’s throat with such force that he stumbled backward coughing blood.

You weren’t improvising. You were performing. A display in violence so surgical, it felt rehearsed.

There was nothing showy about it. No wasted breath. No excess.

But it was beautiful.

More than one of them hesitated now. The last cluster fell back into each other’s lines, rifles up—but jittering. Off-sync. Unsteady. You were outnumbered five-to-one and you looked like you were winning.

No comms. No backup. No partner on your six, despite Bucky standing right there.

And still, no one could touch you.

Alexei had frozen, one hand still holding his dislocated shoulder. He squinted through the haze. “Is that—are they doing this without a gun?”

“She’s using a speaker and spite,” Yelena said, breathless.

Bucky barely heard them. Every atom in him had locked onto you.

He hadn’t seen you like this in years. Not since the war-torn corners of places no one dared map. Not since missions that left no record. He’d watched you walk away from this life—bloody, ragged, swearing you were done with men who handed out orders and didn’t come home.

But here you were.

“This place's about to blow—oh oh oh—”

The beat peaked again. You moved with it.

Bucky didn’t realize until later, until the playback logs came through, that you’d used the signal bounce from the comm hijack to trigger a proximity ping in one of the mercenaries’ own mines. Subtle. Elegant. Just a single pressure charge set beneath the concrete underpass.

You’d timed it to the music.

The explosions hit not with a flash, but a boom—a deep, guttural bass that ripped through the center of the formation. It threw bodies. Concrete cracked. Rebar snapped like bones. The wave of force didn’t kill anyone outright—it was too clean for that. But it sent the force scattering, screaming, radios buzzing with confused shouts in languages the translation software couldn’t keep up with.

You walked through the smoke, now. No urgency.

One of the last men standing raised a trembling pistol.

You were on him in a breath—disarmed him with a spin, yanked the weapon apart in two brutal motions, and slammed the butt of the magazine into his vest until he collapsed, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.

Bucky took a step forward. And then another. He didn’t know he was moving until the smoke curled at his boots.

Silence followed like a held breath.

When the last one fell, your music still bumping faintly over the comms, you finally looked at Bucky.

“Hi, baby.”

It wasn’t breathless. It wasn’t mocking. Just a quiet, dangerous kind of intimacy.

His heart felt like it stopped.

You moved to him casually, eyes raking over the bruise at his temple, the smear of blood under his collar. You tilted your head, inspecting him like he was a car you’d loaned out and found parked crooked in the wrong neighborhood.

The mask muffled your voice slightly, but not enough to hide the dryness in your tone. “Now that was a proper encore.”

The comms crackled again, faint and dazed.

“…Okay,” Walker muttered. “What the fuck just happened.”

No answer. Not from anyone.

Bucky approached you like someone walking through a minefield he already knew was active. Your eyes met his, slow and deliberate, as you reached up and peeled the broken edge of your mask back enough to speak.

“You look like shit,” you said simply.

“You blew up a fucking parking garage.”

“I nudged the pressure plate,” you corrected. “The garage blew itself up. Poor structural planning.”

Yelena finally spoke, somewhere off to the right. “Who are you?”

You didn’t look at her. Just exhaled through your nose like the question barely warranted a pause. “Old friend,” you said simply. “Fewer ethics, better taste in music.”

It hung there, ambiguous enough to pass but barbed enough that it didn’t invite further questions. You knew exactly how to deflect. How to disappear even while standing in plain sight.

You turned back to Bucky. The tilt of your head, the shift of your voice—both softened, only fractionally, but enough that he would feel it in his ribs. That awful, aching familiarity.

“You weren’t going to tell me about this op,” you said flatly, voice low, just for him.

“You're not supposed to be tracking me.”

You hummed. “And yet.” You tapped a gloved finger to his chest. Right above the hidden seam of his tac vest. He knew there was a tracker there. Or, he would now.

Behind you, the others were beginning to recover, weapons slack in their hands, confusion settling in like dust.

“Again, who is that?” Ava asked, still half in phase, her eyes narrowed.

“Nobody,” Bucky said quickly.

You turned to him again, one brow lifted.

He didn’t flinch.

The silence pressed in again. You could hear Walker muttering something—something about vigilantes, unregistered allies, probably some offhand comment about being underpaid—but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

You leaned in close enough for only Bucky to hear. “I don’t care who you work for now,” you murmured. “But if you’re going to keep playing hero, I’m not going to sit at home hoping you come back with all your pieces. You trained me better than that.”

“I didn’t train you to break into comms systems mid-op and hijack the sound system with—what was that?”

“Don’t Cha.” You smiled faintly. “It slaps.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed deep. Then opened them again. “You can’t do this.”

“Sure I can. I’m not a part of your team. I don’t need clearance. I just need one good signal bounce and an encrypted network to patch into.”

“And a speaker,” he added, dry.

You shrugged. “I improvise.”

Another pause.

“I’m not here to start saving the world again,” you said. “But I will show up when you’re two seconds from bleeding out in a parking garage in Bratislava because your team has shit intel and someone decided not to bring extra clips.”

He didn’t argue.

You patted his cheek briefly. Nothing overt, just enough to make the breath catch in his throat.

Then you turned, vanishing into the smoke just as casually as you’d arrived, music still pulsing faintly behind you.

Yelena said what everyone was thinking.

“What the fuck just happened?”

No one had an answer.

Bucky didn’t offer one either.

He just stood there, aching in every limb, and wondered how many more of his missions were going to end with Pussycat Dolls blaring through government-issued earpieces—and how many more trackers he was going to have to tear out of his suit.

The debrief had ended thirty minutes ago.

No one had left.

Yelena sat cross-legged in one of the overstuffed chairs, a protein bar crumpled in her palm like she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a half-twisted bun that had begun to unravel midway through the meeting, and her expression had only grown more pointed with every breath Bucky refused to waste explaining you.

Across from her, Walker was pacing—slow, agitated, like a caged animal that hadn’t quite figured out what corner to piss in yet. He’d ditched the tac vest but kept the sleeves rolled, flexing a bruised bicep every time he turned. Alexei had already snagged half of the post-mission snacks from the shared kitchenette and was now loudly crunching on something suspiciously orange. Ava sat against the far wall next to Bob, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded, as silent and sharp as a scalpel.

Bucky sat alone near the far end of the table, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze fixed on the blacked-out screen of a wall monitor.

“So,” Yelena said, picking at the wrapper. “Are you going to tell us who they were, or do I have to keep guessing?”

Bucky didn’t move.

Alexei pointed a carrot stick in his direction. “They knew you. Very well. This is not up for debate. They called you ‘baby.’” A pause. “Is that normal? Do coworkers in America do that now?”

“She hijacked our comms with bubblegum pop and flipped a full tactical team without breaking a sweat,” Ava said quietly. “I’d like to know who’s training with that kind of precision and not wearing a uniform.”

“She’s not on any registry,” Yelena added. “I checked. No files. No background. No facial ID. She doesn’t exist.”

“She’s not a threat,” Bucky said. Flat. Final. The tone of someone who’d been interrogated before and wasn’t interested in playing along.

“No. You don’t get to do that,” Yelena said, sliding off the table with a thud. “You don’t get to stand there all quiet and broody after someone cartwheeled through an active war zone, made our entire unit look like unpaid interns, and then blew up a parking garage with what I’m pretty sure was a Bluetooth speaker.”

Walker let out a bark of laughter and didn’t bother hiding it. “Thank you. Finally. I thought I’d imagined that.”

“You did not,” Ava said flatly, still watching the skyline. “I checked the audio logs. She used a frequency bounce to route music through nine of their channels simultaneously. Bounced it again to mask her own comm signature. She was using earpieces as echo chambers.”

“That’s not even real,” Walker scoffed. “That’s comic book shit.”

“So are we,” Yelena shot back.

Bucky rubbed his jaw, said nothing.

Bob looked up from where he’d been twiddling with the strap of his watch in the corner of the room. “I liked the song.”

Four heads turned toward him.

He blinked slowly. “I listened to the audio logs too. It was catchy.”

Alexei made a noise like he was preparing to argue with the furniture itself. “She took out twenty-five men, minimum. With her hands. And rhythm. I am sorry, but this is not someone who just wandered in from the street. This is not some random playlist enthusiast. You know her.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

That answer hung there, not quite satisfying.

Yelena stepped closer, arms folded, chin tilted like she was examining a lie for cracks. “Okay. So who is she. What’s her name.”

“I don’t know if she’s using one right now,” Bucky lied easily. “We worked together a long time ago. That’s all.”

Walker barked out another laugh. “Bullshit.”

“We ran ops in a couple regions,” Bucky said. “Mostly when things got too quiet for comfort. Off-books. Years ago. She walked away before everything really came apart.”

“She tracked you across a continent,” Yelena said.

He met her eyes. “She likes to be thorough.”

“Was she CIA?” Ava asked. “Because I’ve seen their psychological profiles and that was not the average ex-operative response to stress.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. Not Langley.”

“HYDRA?” Walker said too quickly.

“Jesus,” Yelena muttered.

“She moved like someone from a program,” Ava said, voice quiet but deliberate. “Someone conditioned. That kind of precision doesn’t come from basic black-ops.”

“She trained under someone worse than HYDRA,” Bucky said.

And just like that, the room shifted. The quiet got heavier. Bob looked away. Alexei stopped fidgeting. Ava stilled completely.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Red Room?”

“I didn’t ask,” Bucky said. “Didn’t need to.”

“But she knew you.” Ava again, calm, focused. “That kind of familiarity doesn’t just show up after a few jobs.”

Bucky looked up at her. “I didn’t say it was just a few.”

“You said she walked away.”

He paused.

“She did.”

Silence again.

Walker shifted, elbow on the back of his chair. “Well, wherever she walked to, she kept your damn tracking frequency. I still can’t get the ringing out of my left ear.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome, by the way. For being alive.”

“Sure,” Walker said dryly. “Thanks to your mystery friend with a war crime mixtape.”

“And now she’s… what? A rogue asset?” Ava asked, tilting her head. “A merc? A vigilante with a playlist?”

“She’s not on anyone’s leash,” Bucky said simply.

“Except yours,” Walker muttered.

Bucky’s glare snapped to him. “She doesn’t answer to anyone. Not to me. Not to you.”

Alexei muttered something in Russian under his breath that sounded vaguely admiring and possibly inappropriate.

Bob finally spoke again, more alert this time. “She’s not joining us, is she?”

“No,” Bucky said.

He said it fast.

A beat.

“I’m sorry, why not,” Alexei said, throwing both hands into the air. “We have room! We have so much room! She could have the bunk above mine, I would even switch.”

“She doesn’t want to be on a team,” Bucky said. “She’s not the type.”

“You mean she’s not the type to follow orders,” Yelena said, eyes narrowing again.

“No,” he said slowly. “I mean she doesn’t give a shit about headlines, or missions, or doing this the right way. She shows up because she wants to. That’s it.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Ava asked. “Someone that volatile just showing up whenever she decides?”

“She’s not volatile,” Bucky said, the words a little sharper than intended.

Yelena caught it. Instantly.

She stepped forward, crossing into his space—not aggressive, but direct. Like someone circling a bruise. “You trust her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” she said, “but you didn’t have to.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“She’s not just an old op,” Yelena said, eyes still locked on his. “That wasn’t nostalgia out there. That was instinct. You moved like someone watching something yours walk into fire.”

Ava glanced between them. “She did save your life.”

“She saved all of us,” Bucky threw back.

“Okay, but why doesn’t she have a file,” Walker cut in. “Why doesn’t anyone know about her? If she’s that good, someone would’ve picked her up.”

“She’s good at disappearing,” Bucky said.

“And you just let her go?” Walker said. “After she pulls a fucking Mission: Impossible and struts off into the fog like a Bond girl?”

“I don’t let her do anything,” Bucky said. “She’s not mine to handle.”

Yelena leaned back in her chair. The protein bar wrapper crinkled in her palm.

“She’s not going to show up again, is she?”

Bucky shrugged. “Depends on whether I do something stupid again.”

He didn’t mention that you’d texted him two hours ago asking if he wanted to stop for groceries on his way back. He didn’t mention that the front porch light would be on tonight. That you’d probably be curled on the couch in socks and one of his old shirts, pretending you hadn’t crossed any borders this week.

They didn’t need to know that.

He rose from the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. The room watched him like he was walking out of an interrogation and back into something no one else could follow.

“Tell Val I’ll finish the debrief report tomorrow,” he said.

Yelena tilted her head. “And where are you going?”

Bucky paused in the doorway.

He didn’t look back.

“Home,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The porch light was on.

Not a floodlight, not a security cam. Just the soft golden bulb above the narrow step that flickered twice when the wind caught it wrong. One of the screws had loosened a few months back during a storm. Bucky had said he’d fix it. You’d said it didn’t bother you. It still hadn’t been fixed.

His boots were scuffed and his shoulder ached and there was probably still smoke in his hair, but he stood on the welcome mat for a second longer than necessary anyway, hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to feel something solid.

Then he unlocked it. Quiet. Familiar. Two clicks, one turn.

Inside smelled like clean laundry and old books and that lemongrass balm you always used for burns.

The record player was humming in the background, stylus long since run dry. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off again. He stepped into the living room and shrugged off his jacket, moving through the space like muscle memory. His eyes caught on the half-finished mug on the end table, a folded blanket on the couch, the sleeves of one of his shirts pushed up over your forearms where you were curled up sideways, knees tucked, reading a book with your bare feet propped against the armrest.

You didn’t look up. Just turned a page.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” you said softly.

“Got cornered by the team.”

Your voice was light, almost teasing. “They want answers?”

“They want blood.”

You snorted and finally glanced over the edge of the book. “Yelena first?”

“Obviously.”

“Did she throw anything?”

“Just looks.”

You hummed and set the book aside, leaning forward to make room as he collapsed onto the couch beside you. He sat like a man whose bones hadn’t stopped vibrating. You shifted, swung your legs over his lap, and rested one arm lazily across his chest like it had always belonged there.

He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes for a moment, the side of his head tilted toward yours.

You let the silence stretch. He needed that.

Then—

“Bob said he liked the song.”

You grinned against his shoulder. “He’s got taste.”

“He said it was catchy.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Again, you blew up a parking garage.”

“I was subtle.”

“You were wearing a speaker rig stitched into your coat.”

“I didn’t say I was quiet.”

He huffed, a small thing. Almost a laugh.

You leaned your head back against the cushion and studied the ceiling. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

He didn’t ask what.

You didn’t clarify.

“They’ll dig,” you continued, “because that’s what they do. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they can’t afford not to. You don’t keep ghosts around without asking where they sleep at night.”

“They’re not stupid.”

“No,” you said. “Just loyal.”

He rubbed a thumb along the inside of your wrist. You’d skinned it, just barely, probably during that slide beneath the gunfire.

“They think we’re ex-coworkers,” he said after a beat.

“Mm. That won’t last.”

“I know.”

You shifted to look at him, gaze steady. “You want me to stay gone next time?”

“No.”

It came out faster than he meant it to. And quieter.

You didn’t say anything.

His fingers ghosted across the edge of your thigh. “I just—this thing with the team. It’s still new. Messy. They’re watching me like I might snap. Or disappear.”

“You’ve earned that,” you said, not unkindly.

He nodded.

“They trust you more than they think,” you added after a moment. “Even Walker.”

“Walker thinks I’m one fight away from dragging a metal arm through a convenience store and snapping someone in half over a cereal shelf.”

You smiled. “You did that once.”

“I was sleep-deprived and the guy had it coming.”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured. “They’re not wrong to wonder.”

He let the silence settle again, the weight of your legs grounding him where he sat. Then he glanced over at you. “And you?”

You raised a brow. “Do I think you’re going to snap and kill the team in a cereal aisle?”

“Do you think you’re going to keep crashing my missions with bubblegum pop and a body count?”

You smiled, sharp and warm at once. “Only if you keep making it interesting.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then he reached out, brushed his fingers under your jaw—light, thoughtful, like he was confirming you were still here.

“I meant what I said,” you added, quiet now. “I wasn’t there to play hero. I’m not looking for redemption. Or recognition. That world chewed me up and spat me out long before I met you. I’m not going back.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll always come back. For you.”

His throat tightened.

You felt the shift before he said anything. The way his fingers stilled just under your jaw, how his gaze dropped for the barest second, like whatever he was about to admit weighed more than it should have.

“They’re going to find out,” he said finally. Voice low. Steady, but only just. “Not just who you are. What we are.”

You didn’t look away. “You sound like you’re bracing for it.”

“I am.” He leaned back slightly, enough to study your face. “I’ve kept a lot of things buried over the years. Some of it for good reason. Some of it because I didn’t know how to tell anyone without it sounding like a confession. But this—us—it’s not something I want in the crosshairs.”

You tilted your head. “You think they’ll aim at it?”

“I think people don’t like what they can’t label. And right now, you’re an anomaly with a body count, a comms breach, and no file. Add in a secret marriage to someone like me, and that’s a storm waiting to happen.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You really didn’t tell them anything?”

“No.”

“Not even that we live together?”

“No.”

You nodded. Not in judgment. Just understanding.

“You scared they’ll treat me like a threat?”

He hesitated. “No. I’m scared they’ll treat us like one. Like I’ve been compromised. Like I’m… hiding something dangerous.”

“You are,” you said, with a small, lopsided smile. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

He didn’t smile back. Just ran a hand down his face, thumb braced at his temple. “Yelena’s already circling. Ava’s not far behind. Walker’s an idiot, but even he knows something’s off. And Alexei—Christ, I think he’s trying to adopt you.”

“I could do worse,” you deadpanned.

“He asked if you wanted the bunk above his. Said he’d move.”

You laughed, soft and sharp. “God, he’s going to be crushed when he finds out I’m not single.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”

You reached for his hand, interlaced your fingers with his. His skin was calloused, palms scarred, familiar in ways your body had memorized years ago.

“James,” you said, and your voice gentled, “I don’t care if they like me. Or believe in this. Or approve. I don’t need them to. I didn’t marry them. I married you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something fierce and unspoken just behind them.

“You’re not a risk I regret,” you added. “And if they want to dig, let them dig. We’ve survived worse than a nosy debrief room.”

He leaned forward again, this time slower, and rested his forehead against yours. The press of skin, the shared breath, the quiet tension wound tight between your ribs—none of it felt like surrender. Just something harder to name.

He spoke quietly. “If this gets out, they’ll question my judgment.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll dig into your past.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll—” He cut himself off, exhaled. “They’ll try to separate us.”

You tilted your chin. “They can’t.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It was a fact. Solid. Unmoving.

Bucky didn’t answer, but you felt the way his breath dragged out through his nose, how his grip on your hand shifted—fingers tightening, not like fear, but habit. Like holding onto you was muscle memory. Like letting go wasn’t an option he entertained anymore.

You reached up with your free hand and pushed your fingers into his hair, slow and loose at the nape where it was just starting to curl from the heat. It was damp. He hadn’t showered yet. He hadn’t really come home yet. Just crossed the threshold.

“Go wash off the garage dust,” you said. “You smell like diesel and nerves.”

“Thought you liked how I smelled.”

“I do,” you murmured. “But I like it better when it’s under cedar soap and not post-combat sweat.”

He stayed where he was for another beat, forehead still resting against yours. Then he pulled back enough to look at you, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth. He didn’t kiss you. Just studied you the way he always did when you told him the truth—like he was adding it to some invisible tally, a list only he kept track of.

Then he rose without a word.

You watched him walk down the hallway, unzipping the tactical vest as he went, shoulder muscles moving beneath the black fabric like tension still hadn’t learned how to let go. The bathroom door clicked open. You heard the water pressure shift in the pipes before the sound of the shower started.

You waited thirty seconds. Then you stood, peeled his shirt off your frame, and followed.

It had been nearly five months since Bratislava.

Since the parking garage. Since the Pussycat Dolls. Since you’d lit up half a mercenary task force with a smirk and a frequency bounce. Since you’d vanished again into the smoke like a goddamn myth, only to be curled up on the couch that next night asking if he wanted to split a sandwich or order out after the two of you spent far too long in the shower.

In that time, the team had gotten better. Not good, no one in that unit would ever be clean enough to call themselves that, but sharper. More in sync. Intel got vetted. Missions ran smoother. Yelena had even stopped threatening to stab Walker more than once per week.

But the bruises still came. The blood still dried in the seams of their suits. And when shit did go sideways, which it inevitably did, it was always in ways that no one could predict.

The second time you showed up, Bucky had barely made it through the post-mission patch-up before Yelena cornered him outside medical with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

“Was that Britney Spears?”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t need him to. Ava had already ID’d the audio footprint as a hacked signal ping bounced from a cell tower two miles outside the safe zone. Alexei had hummed the song for three days afterward. Walker sulked about it until Bob offered him a playlist of his own.

Three weeks after that, you crashed an op in the Balkans with the entirety of Beyoncé’s Renaissance album queued up in reverse order. You landed halfway through “Pure/Honey,” took down thirteen hostiles, winked at the drone cam, and disappeared before the satellite feed could reorient.

By the time mission four hit, some remote hellhole near the Georgian border with shit reception and worse exits, the team was already halfway joking about which track you’d use next.

It was Kesha again. Naturally.

You’d popped out of a burning APC with "TiK ToK" already mid-chorus and a grin like you’d been waiting for someone to hit the big red button. That time, you didn't leave right away. You passed Bucky a protein bar before the team got on the extraction chopper, kissed his temple, and told Alexei he had a nice ass. He hadn't shut up since.

They were still digging, of course. Yelena and Ava, mostly. Alexei kept making increasingly unhinged guesses about your background—sometimes Russian ballet, sometimes MI6, sometimes something about Vatican ninjas that no one had the heart to correct. Bob just watched. Always quiet. Always listening. And Walker…

Walker had developed a twitch.

He’d started referring to you—loudly, bitterly—as “Bucky’s little bat-signal,” like if he said it enough times it’d turn into a punchline and not an ache. It never landed. Not really.

No one could prove anything. Not about your identity. Not about your methods. You moved too fast. You left nothing behind.

And Bucky never said much.

He never needed to.

But they were all watching. Closer. Louder. Testing the tension in every mission like they were waiting for it to snap.

Which is why, when everything finally went to hell, no one was surprised when Yelena snapped first.

The op was supposed to be simple. In and out. A weapons drop moving across eastern borders, underground tech funneled through an abandoned train yard. Bucky had checked the coordinates himself. The team had split into pairs. Ava and Walker on overwatch. Alexei by the perimeter with a surveillance drone. Yelena at Bucky’s six, teeth gritted, gun loaded.

It wasn’t an ambush.

It was an execution.

There had been too many of them, real mercenaries this time. Not freelancers. Not idiots. Not chaos agents looking for a payout. These ones moved together. Synchronized. Coordinated. Ava had gone down first, wounded. Not out, but down. Phasing between pain. Walker had followed, clipped hard in the leg, trying to cover her.

Alexei was pinned.

And Bucky was breathing too hard, right arm shattered at the elbow, the sound of blood slapping metal every time he moved.

Yelena was cursing. Loud and vicious. Ducking behind rusted train cars as bullets slammed through metal and concrete like the world had narrowed to pure impact.

“Fuck,” she spat, reloading. “We are going to die in a parking lot for stolen tech and Valentina’s shitty paycheck—”

Bucky’s teeth were red. His side was worse.

He grunted, low. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” she hissed. “This is bad. This is the bad kind. Unless your little friend plans to show up again with backup dancers and a boom box, we’re dead.”

Bucky would have replied—maybe something bitter, something deflective—but his jaw locked before he could open his mouth. His vision was graying at the edges, muscles refusing to follow orders. His right arm was entirely dead weight now, slung awkwardly against his chest, blood still slick at the wrist. He couldn’t tell if the warmth in his boots was from a burst vein or just the heat of the rail yard’s scorched concrete.

And you weren’t here.

That was the thought that hit him hardest. Not the pain, not the bodies, not the brutal math of angles and ammunition. You weren’t here.

You’d always been here before.

Not early. Not announced. But you showed up. On the edge of disaster, somewhere between the breaking point and the fallout, wrapped in leather and snatched frequencies and songs that shouldn’t have made sense on a battlefield but always did when it was you. And he never called you, never asked. You just came.

Because you always found him.

Because you tracked him.

Because you always knew.

He’d grown used to it without realizing. The hum of music bleeding in when the comms got too quiet. The shape of you moving through smoke like it wasn’t a threat but a threshold. He’d never said it aloud, but it had comforted him. Knowing you were out there, watching, waiting. Knowing he couldn’t disappear without you noticing.

But this time?

This was the worst it had been in months.

And still… nothing.

A part of him, the part that hadn’t already fractured under the pressure, felt it like abandonment. A dull edge of fear pressed hard to his sternum. Not because he doubted you, but because it meant something was wrong. Maybe the tracker hadn’t worked. Maybe the jet wasn’t prepped. Maybe you were late. Maybe you were hurt.

Before Bucky could fully spiral into his own thoughts, a sound split the air.

A low, dull rumble that climbed too fast, too smooth, to be more gunfire.

His head snapped toward the east quadrant of the yard, vision still smeared at the edges from blood loss. The others heard it next—Yelena ducked lower, muttering another string of obscenities. Walker flinched, dragging Ava back behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, weapon raised. Alexei braced one arm against a splintered wall of aluminum and groaned something about incoming air support.

“Jet,” Ava gritted out, barely upright. “No clearance on the feed. That’s not ours.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard.

The shape sliced low across the clouds. A short-range VTOL, clearly military-grade, but gutted and rebuilt. Fast. Loud.

Yours.

And then the music hit.

“Let’s go, girls.”

“Is that—” Walker squinted, staggering.

“I swear to God,” Yelena muttered, slapping another magazine into place. “If that hatch opens and she’s wearing denim, I’m going to cry.”

The jet didn’t touch down gently. It landed loud and hot, braking hard against concrete and kicking up a storm of soot that coated every blown-out car and corpse in a hundred-foot radius. The engines hadn’t even cooled before the rear hatch cracked open with a hiss and the speakers ratcheted louder.

“Man, I feel like a woman…”

And there you stood.

Framed by smoke and floodlights, one hand braced on the hydraulic frame, the other already holding a med bag like you’d jumped in from a dream with combat boots and a temper.

No weapons. No fanfare. Just get in the fucking jet energy radiating off your entire body.

“Everyone in,” you barked. “Now.”

Walker didn’t wait. He hauled Ava toward the ramp with one arm slung around her waist. She was still phasing in and out, blood coating her knuckles, the blur of her shoulder wound sparking faint with tech static.

Alexei limped next, muttering something about Canadian pop singers and spinal trauma. Bucky barely registered it. He couldn’t feel his arm. Could barely hear the pounding in his ears over the scream of the engines and the bassline.

You moved before he could, stepping off the ramp and into the smoke, boots crunching across grit and glass as you crossed the yard at a dead sprint.

“Jesus,” you snapped as you reached him, one hand already going to the blood-soaked hem of his jacket. “What the fuck, James.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You pressed one palm to his side, felt the heat radiating off his ribs, and looped your other arm under him to carry him to the jet.

“I couldn’t get the signal,” you said, voice tight. “The tracker was acting up.”

He hissed through his teeth as you shifted his weight, setting him down on one of the jet seats. “Where was it this time?”

You didn’t blink. “The right boot. Back corner. You never put your shoes back in the closet, so I figured I’d stick one there.”

Yelena turned her head so sharply it was audible. “What?”

You ignored her.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, breath still ragged. “I hadn’t even worn those boots in a week.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice edged and sharp, as you tugged off his jacket, “and you left them by the dryer again, James, so guess what? That’s where I put it. Along with three aspirin packets, a ten-dollar bill, and the spare keys you keep forgetting to bring with you.”

Yelena’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait, what?”

“Not now,” you snapped. “Stitches first, questions later.”

Yelena froze.

She had just stepped into the bay behind Alexei, one arm looped around a support pole, blood streaked down her left cheek. Her head turned slowly—very slowly—back toward the now closing loading ramp, where you were currently pressing gauze to Bucky’s side and muttering something about his inability to buy new med kits even though you were the one who’d asked for them on the last Target run.

“Hold on. Spare keys,” Yelena repeated, voice pitching up like a red flag had just gone up in her brain and she was sprinting to catch it.

You didn’t look up.

Neither did Bucky.

There was a beat—just one—but Bucky felt it ripple through the cabin like a hairline fracture under pressure. Yelena didn’t blink. Ava, still bleeding and silent, lifted her head just an inch off the headrest. Walker muttered something low under his breath, too quiet to catch. Alexei stilled completely.

You were still working.

You’d stripped back the ruined plate of his tac vest, fingers moving fast over the gauze tape. Your hands weren’t shaking, but they weren’t calm either—tight at the knuckles, decisive in that way they always were when someone you cared about had bled more than they should have.

Bucky sucked in a breath. It rattled at the end.

He could feel it happening. The shift. The attention tilting, zeroing in. It was like watching a tripwire get brushed in real time.

“Did you just say Target run?” Yelena’s voice cracked straight through the tension. “Like the store?”

You didn’t respond.

Walker made a strangled sound. “Hold on. You’re telling me this—this frequency-hacking psycho just casually shops for med kits in her downtime for you?”

“I didn’t say I shopped,” you muttered. “I said I asked. He’s the one who keeps forgetting the list.”

“I got the shampoo,” Bucky said through his teeth.

“You got the wrong shampoo.”

“It had the same label!”

“It was 3-in-1.”

“That’s efficient—”

“It’s disgusting, James.”

And just like that, the whole jet tilted again—only this time it wasn’t from blood loss or the pitch of the wind. It was the silence. The stunned, dawning silence that came from realizing something was very, very off.

Ava blinked. “James?”

Yelena’s mouth opened.

Then: “No, no. You don’t get to just drop a spare key confession mid-evac and not explain. What the fuck are you two on about?”

“Explain what?” Bucky barked, more out of pain than defensiveness, but it landed anyway.

Alexei staggered up from his seat, bleeding from the shoulder and grinning like he’d just watched his favorite soap opera hit a mid-season twist. “You two live together, yes?”

“No,” you said, at the same time Bucky said, “Yes.”

Yelena stopped cold. “What.”

“Fine. She has a drawer,” Bucky muttered, wincing as you pressed harder with the gauze.

“You have a drawer?” Yelena repeated, voice rising. “Do you have a shared grocery list too? Matching towels?”

“Technically,” you said, “we share an Amazon account, but only because I hate ads—”

“You share an address?”

You didn’t answer.

Walker limped past, dragging himself into the seat across the aisle. “I swear to God, if this turns into some Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit, I’m out.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like,” Yelena snapped. “Because the last I checked, secret girlfriends don’t get comm access and personal extraction aircraft with customized playlists!”

“She’s not—” Bucky started, then stopped.

You paused, fingers frozen just inside his tac vest as you reached for the dressing pack in his inner lining. “James.”

His jaw flexed. “She’s not some secret girlfriend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yelena said, eyes wide now, practically vibrating with the sudden thrill of someone else’s exposed personal business. “Are you saying she’s not a girlfriend because she’s a roommate with benefits, or because she’s a literal government ghost you, what? Accidentally fell into bed with during an overseas op and neglected to tell us for five fucking months—”

“She’s my wife.”

The words snapped out like a misfired round—loud, brutal, final.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

You straightened slowly, the antiseptic wipe still in your hand, now hovering somewhere between the edge of Bucky’s ribs and the cratered hole in his bloodstained shirt.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Then Walker, voice hoarse and stunned: “I’m sorry. Wife?”

Ava, barely conscious, cracked one eye open. “What?”

Alexei groaned from the corner. “I knew it. I said they were either married or psychic. Maybe both.”

“Wait. Wait, no,” Walker held up a hand, bleeding. “You’re married? Like—married married? To her?”

You finally looked up. “Do you have another her in mind?”

Bucky winced. “Now’s not the time—”

“No, no, I think it is exactly the time,” Yelena said, stepping forward, pointing between the two of you. “Because we’ve all been getting tossed around like ragdolls for months while you two have been playing he’s mine, she’s chaos behind the scenes.”

You rose slowly, blood on your palms, face shadowed by the hatch lighting.

“We weren’t hiding it,” you said simply.

Yelena threw both arms in the air. “You were absolutely hiding it!”

“We were keeping it quiet,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Walker sat down hard on the floor. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Ava, leaning against the wall, finally let out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “That explains so much.”

“I—what the fuck?” Walker’s mouth opened and closed twice. “Like with rings and vows and tax brackets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “It was a courthouse in Budapest. No photographer. No playlist. Not even a Pinterest board.”

Alexei, who had been silently mouthing tax brackets, perked up. “How long?”

“None of your business,” Bucky said immediately.

“Four years,” you said, at the exact same time.

Yelena made a noise like a cat being punched.

“Four years?” she barked. “You’ve been married for four years and not one of us knew? Not even a hint? Not even a bad fake name on your emergency contact form?”

“Technically, it’s under her alias,” Bucky said, wincing as you pressed gauze to his side with more force than strictly necessary.

“Her alias,” Ava echoed from the back, eyebrows barely raised but eyes locked on you. “That’s comforting.”

Yelena dragged her hands down her face. “I need to sit down.”

“You’re already sitting down,” Walker said numbly. “We’re all sitting down. In hell.”

Alexei was shaking his head slowly, staring at you like you’d sprouted horns. “I can’t believe we have been flying into death zones with Captain Popsicle and his mystery combat Barbie and the two of you have been married this whole time?”

“Don’t call her that,” Bucky snapped.

“I meant it with admiration!”

“She’s a human being,” Ava said flatly.

“And his wife,” Yelena added, throwing her hands up again. “Which apparently gives her license to break every rule of engagement we’ve ever signed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out, finally stepping away from Bucky just long enough to snap a fresh syringe out of the case and toss it to Ava. “Would you have preferred I not show up with an extraction vehicle and leave you all dying in a pile of your own egos?”

“You’re not even cleared!” Walker said, still stuck somewhere between disbelief and cardiac arrest. “You don’t have files. You don’t have a record. You married a former Hydra asset with no fucking paper trail—”

“John,” Bucky said, and his voice didn’t rise, didn’t shout. But the threat in it stopped everything.

Dead.

Walker’s mouth clamped shut.

You turned your back and crouched again, cracking open a package of suture strips with steady, sharp fingers. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t move away either.

“You married him,” Yelena said slowly, like she was putting the last piece into a conspiracy board. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Correct,” you said, without looking up.

“Why?”

You paused. For the first time since stepping onto the jet, you were still.

Then, quieter: “Because it was ours.”

Yelena blinked.

Walker slumped sideways, muttering something that sounded like Jesus Christ, I’m too concussed for this.

Ava didn’t say anything. She just studied you like she was adding this new truth to a map no one else could read yet.

Alexei, voice quieter now: “You could’ve told us.”

You straightened again, turned, met his eyes.

“We didn’t owe you that.”

And no one, not one of them, could argue with that.

No one said anything for a long time.

The jet rumbled beneath them, steady now. Altitude rising. Stabilizers evening out. The air had gone colder, thinner. Bucky could feel it in his lungs. How the heat of the rail yard had been replaced by that sterile chill of recycled pressurized air and drying blood.

He sat slumped against the inner wall of the aircraft, the pain at his side dulled but ever-present, a pulse of heat beneath the bandages. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. Across from him, Walker had gone quiet. Not passed out, just silent. That silence that came when you didn’t know how to re-enter a world that had just rearranged itself without warning.

Yelena didn’t have that problem.

“Where are the rings?”

You didn’t even blink. Just kept pressing the edge of a suture strip flat against Bucky’s ribs, calm as ever. “We don’t wear them on missions.”

“No, I mean—where are they. What are they. Are they like, hidden daggers? Laser-tracking nanotech? Poison darts? Do they explode?”

“We got tungsten bands off a street vendor in Pest,” you said, flicking the end of the strip down with surgical precision. “Ten bucks each. Mine’s probably under the couch.”

Yelena stared. “You’re telling me you got married with street metal and hid it like it was a war crime?”

You finally looked up. “We didn’t hide it. We protected it. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah,” Yelena muttered, flopping back against the padded bulkhead, “try that line at our next psych eval.”

Alexei perked up slightly. “Did you write vows?”

“Alexei—”

“No, I’m curious! Was it romantic? Did she threaten him? Did he cry?”

You turned to Bucky then, not grinning, not smirking—just steady. “Did you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He remembered the cold marble floor of the consulate. The cheap pen. The tension in your hand when you signed. The way you didn’t smile, not once, but your shoulders had dropped like something finally let go. He remembered how you’d kissed him afterward, not like a new beginning but like something that had already been burned into your bones and you were just honoring the facts of it now.

He hadn't cried.

But he remembered feeling something break open inside his chest that hadn’t fully closed since.

“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”

That earned a scoff from Walker, who still looked half-sick. “You people are insane.”

“And you’re alive, you’re welcome,” you shot back, not even looking at him.

That shut him up.

Ava tilted her head slightly from where she sat, chin resting against her shoulder. “Are there any other secrets we should be aware of? Kids? A bunker in the Alps? Shared Spotify?”

“We don’t talk about the Spotify,” you said immediately, too flat to be joking.

“I knew you had a playlist,” Yelena muttered.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? I have several,” you corrected.

Bucky let the rhythm of your voice wash over him, the way it always had. It calmed something in him he didn’t have the words for. He wasn't sure he'd ever have the words for it. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You’d never asked for the language of it. You just stayed. When everything else fractured. When he did.

He let his head tip back against the wall, the throb of the flight engines a dull hum against his skull.

You kept talking.

Yelena asked about Budapest—what song was playing in the cab, what flavor the celebratory gelato was, whether you’d told anyone or if you’d just ghosted the next assignment like it never happened. You didn’t flinch under any of it. You answered what you wanted to. Dodged the rest with a precision that made it clear you'd spent years doing exactly that.

And Bucky watched you.

Listened to the cadences you used with the team—how they shifted only slightly when you got tired, how your sarcasm always dulled at the edges when you were checking someone's wound without being obvious about it. How you deferred to Ava without making it feel like yielding. How you redirected Yelena’s prying with just enough detail to satisfy, just enough space to stay unreadable.

They’d come around.

Eventually.

They always did.

But it wasn’t for them that you showed up in a jet at the eleventh hour. It wasn’t for glory. Or redemption. Or to earn your seat.

It was for him.

And that, Bucky thought, pressing a blood-soaked gauze pad tighter against his ribs, was something no intel report could ever quantify.

He let his eyes slip shut, your voice still in his ears, arguing now with Yelena about the legality of impersonating air traffic control in four different countries. He didn’t smile. Not really.

But he breathed easier.

For the first time in hours.

Maybe days.

Maybe longer.

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot #fanfiction

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nicksolemnlyswears · 24 days ago

Text

back in my bucky barnes era ✨

Hanging by a Thread

Summary : Bucky accidentally faces his greatest fear for you. So you had to make it even.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Cursing, heights, reader is mentioned to be scared of spiders. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 3.8k

Note : Just a cute little thing I whipped up in a day! Disclaimer: I do not know anything about rock climbing lol. Enjoy!

How the fuck did I end up clinging to a vertical rock face? Bucky thought to himself, looking down twenty feet below him.

Actually, he knew exactly why.

He was stupidly in love with you.

See, when the new Avengers relocated to the Watchtower after the whole New-York-Void incident, Bucky Barnes thought it would be... fine.

Not good or bad. He’d survived war zones, World War Two jail cells, and brainwashing facilities. He could handle modern roommates.

What he didn’t expect was you.

To be fair, Bucky thought you were pretty when he handcuffed you, along with the others, in the Utah desert, but the moment he walked into the tower gym to you cracking a joke while twirling a bo staff like you'd been born with it, Bucky was done for.

It wasn’t just physical—though that alone had nearly made him walk into a doorframe more than once— you were good to him.

Bucky had worked with a lot of people over the decades. Most of them kept their distance… but you didn’t.

You teased him and challenged him in sparring. You brought him coffee when you knew he’d had a rough mission. You laughed at his dry sarcasm and offered to fix the squeak in his bedroom door and scolded Ava after she scared the hell out of him by appearing at the shooting range.

You were, in short, driving him absolutely insane.

And the others noticed.

Yelena, bless her blunt Russian heart, never let up.

“You look like a puppy every time she smiles at you,” she said one morning while Bucky was filling his coffee mug, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring across the room at you doing chin-ups in a tank top. “Just ask her out.”

“He won’t.” Ava joined in, walking past with a mischievous smile. “He likes the tension. It’s his new favourite form of self-torture.”

“Maybe he wants her to ask him out,” Yelena theorised.

“I’m right here,” Bucky mumbled, ears pink.

But you, though, were completely oblivious.

Whenever he stayed a little longer after missions, or when your shoulder brushed his in the kitchen, or when you offered to patch him up—you didn’t seem to notice his internal screaming.

“Thanks for watching my six, Buck,” you’d say during trips back from recon, grinning like his entire nervous system didn’t light up brighter than New York during New Years eve when you smiled at him like that. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He was screwed. Fully and thoroughly screwed.

Still, you genuinely seemed to enjoy being around him. After all, you were the only person who could pull him out of his quiet funks. The only one who didn’t treat him like glass after a night riddled with nightmares.

You'd sit next to him during movie nights without asking and spar with him like you meant it.

He kept waiting for someone to tell you how he felt. But Yelena and Ava just kept chuckling at him, teasing and watching his awkward pining spiral in slow-motion into a catastrophe.

So when you came bouncing into the common room one morning, announcing “I booked it!” he knew he was screwed

Everyone turned to you.

You looked so happy Bucky forgot how to hold his mug properly.

“Booked what?” Yelena asked suspiciously, already sensing danger.

“The climb!” you said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Outdoor, real cliffside, no fake plastic holds, I mentioned it last week, remember? It's two hours north, trail access only. I got us a permit and gear. I figured since we’re between missions, we could use a little team bonding!”

John raised an eyebrow. “You mean like… harnesses and crap?”

“Yes, John,” you said sweetly. “You know, nature.”

Yelena and Ava nodded, while Bob and Alexei gave you a look of approval.

Bucky was staring at you like you were a sunrise he wasn’t prepared for.

He thought to himself don’t say yes, don’t say yes, you idiot, but then you turned to him with that smile and his brain short-circuited.

“You in, Buck?” you asked, nudging him on the shoulder.

He should’ve said no. He could’ve said he had a mission, because really, heights, especially cliff heights, weren’t his thing. He should’ve said he’d meet you all after.

But you were brimming with excitement, and he hated the thought of you climbing some damn rocks without him there to make sure you were okay.

So he said, “I’m in.”

Yelena, from behind her coffee, raised her eyebrows.

Ava coughed a very fake, “Simp.”

He ignored them. He didn’t even care.

Because you had just looked at him like he’d made your day.

And all he had to do was ignore the panic curling at the edges of his mind.

Easy, right?

—

That day, Bucky was hoping it would rain and everything had to be cancelled. But no— of course the sun was high over the trees, as the team stood at the base of a massive rock face with harnesses on, ropes secured, and chalked hands ready. You bounced on your feet like a kid in a candy store.

“This place,” you said, gesturing to the rocky expanse above, “God. My friends and I used to come here every summer before—y’know, before everything turned to shit. This place has a lot of good memories.”

Great, Bucky’s stomach flipped.

“We used to camp here, eat junk food, climb until our arms gave out, then race down to the lake and jump in,” you laughed, “Honestly, some of the best days of my life were on that cliff.”

Bucky looked down at his hands.

You’d brought him here.

You wanted to share this with him. Well, him and the team.

He really couldn’t back out, right? This place meant something to you, and he wasn’t about to ruin that.

Yelena tugged on her gloves next to him. “You better keep up, Barnes,” she said.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered.

“You sure?” Ava called from ahead, already ten feet up and mocking John’s technique. “Because John here is about to cry.”

“I’m not—” John started, red-faced as his foot slipped slightly.

Alexei, climbing up already, shouted down, “This is nothing compared to scaling the Kremlin in winter while being shot at! And I didn’t even have fancy suit back then!”

“Alexei,” you called up calmly, “your carabiner’s backwards.”

“I live dangerously!”

Bob had, predictably, avoided climbing altogether by clipping his carabiner to Yelena’s and letting her drag him up like a puppy in a harness.

“You can fly,” she huffed, hauling him along.

“I’m choosing not to,” Bob said.

Happy thoughts, Bucky thought to himself, think happy thoughts.

—

You were already climbing, muscles working like you were part of the earth. Bucky tried to follow—but every handhold felt like ice— every inch up brought the memories crashing down.

The wind.

The train.

Steve calling out his name.

The fall.

He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. One foot in front of the other, he thought to himself. I can do this. I was the Winter Soldier. I’ve survived worse. This is just a rock.

Then he looked down— just a quick glance.

Big mistake.

Fuckfuckfuck, His stomach turned. It’s so high up.

And then—

He puked into a bush about twenty feet below.

No one seemed to notice. Thank god.

Until you did.

—

You were the first to reach the top, smiling from ear to ear as you pulled yourself over and unhooked from the safety line. It felt good to be here again. It felt even better to share it with new friends.

You turned around, looking back down the face to see where the others were.

Yelena and Bob (still clipped together, still ridiculous) were making slow, but steady progress. Alexei was shouting something patriotic to a confused hawk overhead.

John and Ava were locked in a petty race, bickering as usual.

But Bucky—he wasn’t moving.

At first, you thought he was just taking it easy. But something about his posture set off alarm bells— his metal hand flexed like it was trying not to snap the cliff clean in half. You squinted.

Was he—?

Wait. Did he just puke into a bush growing from one of the cracks of the rocks?

Without thinking, you reached for your harness and snapped into the line you set. You rappelled down, feet bouncing lightly off the cliff, eyes locked on Bucky.

He didn’t even notice you until you came level with him until you were right there.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out to the rock beside him. “What’s going on?”

Bucky jerked slightly, startled. “I’m fine.”

You gave him a look. “You do not look fine.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“Mhm,” you said, squinting at the edges of his mouth, still stained with stomach acid. “Is ‘pacing’ what we call mid-climb barfing now?”

He closed his eyes for a second and sighed. “Can we pretend you didn’t see that?”

“Bucky,” You leaned on the rock next to him, “You really okay?”

He hesitated.

“I’m not good with cliffs,” he said finally, voice rough. “I… fell off one once.”

Your face fell like a switch had flipped.

Right. The infamous alps incident.

“Oh shit,” you whispered. “Bucky. Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky took a deep breath.

“It’s not,” you said quickly, voice soft, steady. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged, eyes fixed ahead. “You were excited. I didn’t want to ruin it. And I wanted to spend today with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Even though this is, like, your worst nightmare?”

He looked over, finally meeting your eyes. “Something like that.”

You inhaled slowly. Then reached out and gently touched his shoulder—right where flesh met metal.

“Okay. Hey. I got you, alright?”

“I’m—”

“Don’t argue, Barnes. Just listen to me for once.”

That got a small huff from him.

He wasn’t just afraid. He was trying so damn hard not to be.

And he’d done it for you.

“I’m so dumb,” you said softly. “I’m really sorry.”

He finally looked at you— and even scared out of his mind, he smiled.

“You’re not dumb,” he said. “Just… kind of… kind of….” he trailed off, not knowing what to say next as the wind howled in his ears, “Fuck, I don’t know. I can't think.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“Fine,” you said firmly. “But I’m climbing with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not leaving you alone on this rock.” He huffed a laugh that almost turned into a gasp, and you saw how hard he was still trying to hold it together.

So you stayed close.

“Okay, good. Right foot on that ledge,” you encouraged, “There you go. Don’t look down.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“I saw your eyes dip.”

“They didn’t dip.”

“They definitely did.”

You smiled at him, and he caught it—just for a second—and almost forgot to breathe.

“Hey,” you said quietly, “I’ve got you.”

He looked at you like you’d just anchored the whole world.

And when you finally got to the top, and he flopped back to the ground, panting, sun on his face, and—

He thought maybe cliffs weren’t so bad, not if you were at the top waiting for him.

“I feel like a dick,” you said as you laid beside him, ignoring Alexei munching loudly on his sandwich.

“You’re not,” he said, after a beat of silence. “You didn’t know.”

You gave him a crooked smile. “Still. I’m making it up to you.”

He turned his head slightly. “How?”

You chuckled. “You’ll see.”

—

Two days after the cliff climb, you led—no, dragged— Bucky by the wrist to the zoo.

He had no idea what to expect, until you turned the corner, and looked up at the sign like it was a gallows.

Arachnid Exhibit.

He blinked. “Wait.”

You said nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he looked at you, stunned.

You still stayed silent.

“You’re scared of spiders,” he pointed out.

Your teeth clenched. “Correct.”

“You hate them.”

“Obviously.”

“And we’re walking into the spider house?”

“...Yes.”

“Why,” His voice lowered in concern. “Are you doing this?”

You glanced at him, trying to smile, but your voice was shaky at the edges. “Because you faced your fear for me,” you took a deep breath. “So now I’m facing mine.”

He stared right into your eyes.

The same eyes that had glinted with joy at the cliffside— the ones that green worried when he was frozen mid-panic halfway up that wall of rock— were now doing their best not to show how you were descending into pure, sweaty, eight-legged hell.

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but then you reached for his hand.

And even though you were clearly terrified, your fingers curled into his with no hesitation.

Bucky's brain short-circuited.

You were holding his hand voluntarily. Clinging to it, actually.

“Let me do this,” you insisted, and fuck, he could never say no to you.

So he nodded, and you both passed through the double doors and into the dimly lit exhibit, and the temperature dropped just enough to make your skin prickle. The air smelled like moss and mulch, like humid jungle air trapped under glass.

You were already pressed close to him, eyes darting around like you expected an ambush.

The place was quiet—only a few other visitors—and lined with glass enclosures filled with webs, branches, and heat lamps. Small signs read things like Chilean Rose Hair and Golden Orb Weaver and Brazilian Wandering Spider: Highly Venomous.

You stiffened. “Why is it wandering? What does that mean? Where’s it wandering to?”

“Probably not out of the glass,” Bucky said with a chuckle.

You scowled at him. “You don’t know that.”

He smiled again, gently. “I promise.”

Your grip on Bucky’s hand became vise-like.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“No I’m not,” you insisted. Your voice cracked. “Shut up.”

“We can leave,” He squeezed your hand a little. “Right now. Just say the word.”

“No.” You inhaled a sharp breath of oxygen. “You climbed a goddamn cliff for me. I can look at some spiders.”

Bucky looked down at you. Your face was pale, your lips set in a stubborn line, but your eyes were wide with unmistakable terror.

You were trying so hard to be brave, it was breaking his heart.

And yet—god help him—it was also the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen.

He hadn’t been this flustered since the first time you smiled at him during training and punched him in the ribs so hard he saw stars.

You were pressed into his side, your shoulder snug against his arm, your breaths quick and shaky, and you were trusting him to keep you safe from spiders the size of a tennis ball.

Then you froze.

Right in front of the biggest enclosure yet.

Warm light pulsed softly across a faux jungle floor. Inside, crouched on a mossy rock, was the largest, fuzziest tarantula Bucky had ever seen.

It was the size of a dinner plate, stalking as its legs twitched slowly.

It blinked—at you.

Your breath hitched, eyes going wide.

“Bucky!” You launched forward and buried your face into his chest with a whimper, arms locking around his ribs like a koala gripping a tree for dear life.

“It’s staring at me,” you whispered, your voice muffled by his hoodie.

Bucky didn’t even try to laugh.

He smiled, though, as his vibranium hand came up to rest between your shoulder blades, soothing. The other cradled your head instinctively, fingers brushing your hair.

He ducked his chin, his lips grazing your temple.

“Hey,” he reassured, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

And he meant it with every fiber of his being.

Because maybe it was just a tarantula in a glass box to the rest of the world—but to him— it was the moment you trusted him enough to hide in his arms.

—

You staggered out of the Arachnid exhibit like a soldier limping off the battlefield, half-shaky, half-wired from adrenaline, with sweat sticking to your back and palms feeling like glue.

Bucky was right beside you, hovering close, his hand brushing your lower back now and then like he wasn’t sure if you needed space or to be held up by the elbow. Honestly, both were correct.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, quiet—like you were a bomb he didn’t want to jostle too hard.

“I think I aged ten years in there.”

“You were great."

You groaned and shook your head. “I was cowering in your shirt.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, smiling a little. “It was cute.”

You looked up with a shy smile.

But he was already steering you away from the doors—past a group of giggling kids, past a sign for a butterfly exhibit (which would honestly have been a better time), and straight into the shaded little gift shop next to the spider building.

“I don’t need spider merch,” you groaned, “I need ice cream. Or a lobotomy.”

But Bucky had already wandered in.

So you reluctantly followed.

Inside, the store was air-conditioned and quiet, full of shelves lined with plushies, little resin spider paperweights, books with titles like The Eight-Legged Architects, and extremely cursed socks. The walls were painted dark forest green with cartoon spiders cheerily grinning from their corners.

Then you turned and saw Bucky standing near a rotating rack of stuffed animals, holding something in his hands.

A spider.

Not a real one, of course— a plushie.

It was round, soft, and adorable— black with tiny purple feet and button eyes. Its little smile was stitched into its face like it was permanently thrilled to be alive. It looked like something a toddler might bring to bed to keep them safe.

He turned it over in his hands, like he was inspecting it for quality control, then looked up at you.

“I’m buying this for you,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Something to hold next time you’re scared.”

You blinked again.

The plush was ridiculous. It didn’t even have a name, or a tag with facts. It was just a dumb, smiling, harmless thing— unlike the mortal enemies that lived behind the glass in the exhibit.

“Besides,” Bucky added, voice a little gentler now, “It’d be nice to replace a scary memory with a good one. Y’know, like you did with the cliff.”

Oh.

Did you really do that?

You reached for the plushie carefully. When he passed it to you, your fingers brushed his.

“It’s… kinda cute,” you admitted, squeezing it gently.

Bucky noticed the tremble still in your shoulders.

“You’re okay, right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You’re still kinda pale.”

You nodded, tight-lipped.

“I’m proud of you, though.”

That made you look up. He said it like it mattered.

You stared at him for a second. His eyes—so earnest, so gentle—did something to your stomach. You felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Before you could second-guess it, you reached out, grabbed his left wrist—his human hand—and gently brought it to rest against your chest, right over your heart.

Bucky’s breath hitched. “Oh—oh, wow. That’s—”

You made his palm press flat against you as your heartbeat pounded through your ribs.

“Shit,” he murmured, eyes wide. “You’re still freaking out. It’s… it’s still going.”

You didn’t break eye contact.

“That’s not because of the spiders,” you took a deep breath.

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “…It’s not?”

You shook your head. “It’s you.”

Bucky froze for a second.

And then, he blinked. “Wait, what?”

You smiled, just a little. “I have a crush on you, you idiot.”

Bucky short-circuited, as if you had just punched the thoughts right out of his brain. “…What?

Your fingers were still gently curled around his wrist— his hand was still on your chest.

“You okay?” you asked, amused.

“Am I—are you joking?” he blurted. “You’re not—this isn’t some weird fever-dream side effect from spider fear, is it?” he asked, dead serious.

You reached up with your other hand and tapped the fuzzy tarantula plushie against his chest, snorting. “I faced my worst nightmare and the only thing I could think about was you. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shuffling his feet. “You’re not—”

“Bucky,” you cut off.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not joking.”

His breath left him in a whoosh, like he had let the air out of a balloon. His eyes were so wide, his face so lost and amazed and unguarded, it almost made you break down.

“I thought—I’ve had a crush on you since… forever,” he said, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you looked down sheepishly. “Yelena and Ava tried to tell me. I’m just dumb.”

His hand slid up from your chest to your jawline. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, your temple.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he whispered.

“You were always brooding or bleeding.”

His chuckles, tilting his head.

“Can I…?”

You nodded before he could finish the sentence.

And then he kissed you.

It was gentle. Not a fireworks kind of kiss—but the kind that made your entire body sigh with relief.

His lips were soft and warm and fuck— You were still shaking—but now, it was for an entirely different reason.

When he finally pulled back, it was gentle— like he didn’t want to go too far, didn’t want to break the perfect moment that had just happened. His forehead came to rest against yours, and you both just breathed for a moment—like the world outside this tiny shop didn’t exist.

Bucky looked dazed—like he’d just stepped out of a dream and wasn’t entirely convinced he was awake yet.

You didn’t trust your voice. So instead, you simply reached down, lifted the plushie from where it had been squashed between you, and turned it to face him. “I think I’m gonna call it Francis.”

“…Francis?” he echoed, blinking like the name alone had startled him back to reality.

You nodded with exaggerated solemnity, lips twitching at the corners. “Yeah. He looks like a Francis.”

A small, startled laugh escaped Bucky. He rubbed the back of his neck, fiddling with Francis' little fluffy legs as he glanced toward the front of the store where the counter still sat empty with a sign saying Cashier will return shortly.

“…I still need to pay for Francis,” he said.

You held up Francis like an offering. “Or you could just run,” you joked, “Make a break for it. No one would ever suspect the guy with the metal arm.”

Bucky gave you an amused look. “No girlfriend of mine is walking out of a store with stolen goods.”

Your heart did something that might’ve been illegal in several states. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“What?” For a second, Bucky froze. “Too soon?”

“I dunno.” You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, even as your cheeks burned. “I think I need to discuss it with Francis.”

Lifting the plushie to your face, you looked deep into his stitched eyes. “Francis,” you whispered. “Is it too soon?”

You answered in a high, suspiciously small voice: “He should take you out to dinner first.”

You turned back to Bucky, completely straight-faced. “Francis says you need to take me out to dinner first.”

Bucky exhaled a laugh, relieved and completely enchanted by your antics. “Dinner tonight it is.”

You nodded, lowering Francis to your chest like a seal of approval. “Francis has spoken.”

And Bucky—excited to make new memories to replace old ones with you—could only smile.

-end.

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x female reader #fanfiction

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nicksolemnlyswears · 24 days ago

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seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

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nicksolemnlyswears · 24 days ago

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my fave writing reminder

honestly, this phrase has been on my mind more times than i can count. i've kidnapped it, taken it as a hostage with no ransom money because i need it to live permanently in my head.

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nicksolemnlyswears · 24 days ago

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my type of angst

Still Yours

pairing | thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.4k words

summary | bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, soft!bucky, miscommunication, established relationship, mentions of mental health/trauma

a/n | I enjoyed writing this so much omg. an apology for my last angst fest fic, based on this request. just two emotionally constipated dumbasses in love.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

The first thing you felt was the drag of his mouth along your collarbone—hot, wet, unhurried.

Then his body—solid, heavy, familiar—settled deeper between your thighs, pinning you to the sheets like he belonged there.

Like he knew he belonged there.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.

“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”

A breath.

“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”

Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.

Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.

But Bucky didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t talking to them.

He was talking to you.

“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”

He swallowed, but didn’t falter.

And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.

He took a breath.

Then finished, simply:

“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”

A pause.

Then the room erupted in applause.

But Bucky didn’t hear it.

He was still looking at you.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.

────────────────────────

The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.

Something had shifted.

He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”

But he didn’t care.

He barely registered any of it.

His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.

But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—

Then he felt it.

A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.

He turned, heart already beating faster.

You didn’t say anything.

Just gave him a look.

And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.

Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.

And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—

But he didn’t get a word out.

Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t cautious.

It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.

He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.

Didn’t step away.

You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your fingers lingered against his jaw.

The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.

Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.

You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”

Your lips parted, but he kept going.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“I would.”

Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”

He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”

You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.

“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.

And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”

You snorted. “James.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”

“What about when we get home?”

You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”

His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

Longer. Slower. Sweeter.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #fanfiction

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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leave it to nikki to obsess over a blonde vampire with an accent who has deep emotional issues but is a complete emotionally abusive asshole but also maybe he actually does love them?

season 2 is calling me

#yes i am also referring to klaus mikaelson #interview with the vampire #sam reid #lestat de lioncourt #iwtv #amc iwtv

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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a bloody masterpiece 😵‍💫 this is pure excellence. has me hooked from beginning to end!

The Backwoods Saint

remmick x reader one shot.

Summary: You are a southern belle—adored, envied, and pursued. After a failed attempt to enter your family’s grand estate, an Irishman begins to pay you frequent visits, night after night. It's only a matter of time until you cave into his taunts.

wc: 6.1k

Smut warning: (18+) MDNI dom!remmick x female!reader. southern gothic, somewhat loss of virginity, fingering, slow-burn, he is a huge bully, second person pov, humiliation, manipulation, corruption, dirty talk, blood, biting, coercion, mentions of violence, mentions of death, some brief religious connotations, mentions of knives

a/n: just for clarification purposes, i love the idea of a big bad remmick corrupting someone expected to become a respectable girl in high society. she however does not live on a plantation though, forgot to mention that in the fic itself. her dad’s in the banking business and her family is wealthy, is all. happy reading!!

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

August, 1932. Mississippi Delta

You hadn’t slept.

Not for days.

Was it the sweltering heat or the incessant thrum of cicadas that had been keeping you up?

You couldn't quite place your finger on which was worse. How your lush sheets of what was meant to be the finest quality of cotton stuck to your tepid skin, or how it was never completely quiet. Be it the buzzing ensemble coming from outside, or the creak of the varnished porch of your family's manor.

No. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was him.

The quilts spilled from your body as you sat up, sluggishly wiping the beads of sweat that dribbled on your hairline, your thoughts racing.

There, in the midst of your moon-stricken bed chamber, you disdained yourself for letting him live within you so freely.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, he clung to your thoughts like the whirring cicadas in the shrubs outside — constant, grating, always there. Yet, instead of the relentless hum, it was a low, honeyed drawl that kissed your ears, the wicked smile of sin.

He was the warmth in your belly this late at night, and the buckle of your thighs.

Remmick. Remmick.

It was humiliating how intense the thought of him felt to you. How real your fingers could make it be, brushing over your body, pretending they weren’t your own.

And how disgusting it felt.

To fantasize over a man you know almost nothing about.

To fantasize over a dead man.

Remmick had been the subject of your nightmares since he first visited three weeks ago.

The parlourmaids weren't allowed to just let anyone in your family's estate without the approval of your father, or in his absence, your elder brother.

When they'd had gone to your aunt Carol's birthday party, you had remained bed-ridden with the grippe.

Joanne the maid had looked after you. When a strange man came knocking in the early hours of the evening, she hurried to you, rambling fiercely.

"Said he's a doctor and that your father called for him to come treat your fever." Jo had told you, shaking her head, "I ain't hear anythin' 'bout no doctor comin' to visit this late at night. Said to him: get off my porch before I sic the bulls on ya'. You shoulda' seen him. Handsome he was, and gosh did he give me the spooks."

You remember the intrigue, how it pulled you out of bed and to the cushioned seat under your bedroom window, your sickened face searching for him on the dimly lit pathway leading up to the manor.

You had watched him — lean in stature, clad in the rough clothes of the labouring-class, tresses of dark hair. Though it was the slow stride of his walk that unnerved you, as if he owned the soils beneath him, from the surface clear down to Hell itself.

You knew at once he'd been lying about who he was — no doctor carried himself like that. Like a man used to taking what wasn't freely given.

And before he was lost in the fields, he had turned back, as if he knew you had been watching. You remember the way your heart tumbled when he caught you.

And oh, how he revelled in it.

His triumph came in the form of a slow, devilish grin; the glint of what appeared to be a set of fangs in the moonlight, and the flash of red in his eye, so bright you saw it from the second floor.

He stared at you from the glade, drank in your face as it twisted into a look of sheer horror. The grin, as if to say, look what you damn almost got inta’.

Since then, you saw him every so often.

In the late hours, you'd cast a look through your bedroom window and there he was - sometimes, leaning against an oak tree, a banjo cradled in his hands, strumming a tune. Waiting. For what, you couldn't have known.

You knew he had gotten under your skin when you would deliberately peer out of your window on other nights, and he wasn't there.

He was toying with you.

So, on the nights he was there, you had begun to oblige.

It was always safe. You met him at the back door of the manor, the one the parlourmaids used, but you never stepped out, oh no. You were smart. You stayed inside, careful not to cross the threshold, not even by an inch, and Remmick stood on the other side, posted on the creaking porch that surrounded the manor.

Your meetings were always brief. He was never forceful or aggressive, but he was mean. He'd taunt you, throwing out words meant to rattle you, believing they'd somehow compel you to let him in — things suggestive enough to get your stomach all tight. He'd never met a girl so stubborn that each time you refused, he'd simply retreat, and leave with the same knowing smirk that said he'd be back to try again.

Recently, you avoided the window. You didn't know how much longer you could deny him.

But you were so lonely.

Tonight, you relinquished all that discipline you had built over the past few nights. A defeated groan escaped you as you rolled out of the canopy bed, your bare feet kissing the cool, polished floorboards. It sent a chill up your legs.

With two fingers, you pulled aside the lace curtains draping over the window and swallowed the hump in your throat.

You silently hoped he wouldn't be there - you wanted, oh so badly, to turn around and get back into bed where the night would continue to torment your sleep.

Yet there, cast under the deep shadow of one of the many oak trees lining the manor, stood the Devil, wearing the silhouette of man.

And you found yourself at the backdoor again.

When Remmick heard the door unlatch and creak open, he didn't shift from his place against the tree trunk. The upper half of his body remained in the shadows, unscathed by the moonlight. Deft fingers continued working the strings of that banjo, so tenderly. A melody unknown to your ears drifted all the way to the porch like a lover's call, and the night felt whole.

He paid no mind to you at all, standing in the doorway, a bare body adorn in a cotton dress that draped to your knees. As if it were you that was the uninvited, and not the other way around.

When Remmick plucked the last note, and the night fell silent again, you saw something flicker in the shadows. Twin red orbs shone in the darkness, unblinking, like some primal beast was out there, not a human being — something otherworldly.

And that's how you knew his eyes had finally settled on you.

A chill wriggled down your spine. The pressure to speak pressed hard against your chest. "That was beautiful," you managed, your voice thin, laced with a tremor of unease you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed, alright.

Remmick stared at you for a good moment, as if thinking of something savvy to say. All that came from the darkness was a low, unsettling chuckle.

Smoothly, he pushed himself off the tree trunk, letting the banjo fall from his hands, dangling in front of his body on a makeshift strap. Even from the doorway, you heard the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he emerged from the shadow of the oak tree.

The moonlight bent down to greet him. You never thought the Devil would reveal himself to you in a blue dress-shirt and a pair of suspenders hitched over shoulders, yet there he was, in the flesh.

You noticed sleeves rolled up lazily to his elbows, forearms shining in sweat and dust.

Stopping before the small set of stairs, one arm gripping the wooden handrail, Remmick looked up at you, a smile playing his lip.

"Why you always doin’ this to y’self, darlin’?" was all he said in his thick, candied drawl. As southern as it could get.

Naturally, your jaw tensed. "Doin' what?"

He ascended the porch steps slowly, eyes unmoving. Even in the soft glow of the moon, his eyes shone at you in red hues.

"Comin' out here." The wood squeaked under his feet. Stopping before you, his eyes fell down to your body, "Wearin' that."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made your breath deepen. Maybe it was the hunger in his eyes, or the slow, deliberate steps he made towards you, reminiscent of the way a hunter stalks its kill — gentle, slow, like he had all the time in the world.

And he did.

"I don't—“ you tried to answer, but Remmick didn’t let you finish.

"That…lace?" he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your nightdress. His fingers drifted absentmindedly across his chest while his gaze traced the delicate embroidery at the hem of your bust. Heat rose to your cheeks beneath the sudden weight of his attention.

Then, with a soft, almost pitying click of his tongue, he frowned. "Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed.

As if he felt sorry for you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and turned away from Remmick. Beauty had never been a question — you wore it like a birthright.

The parlour had long echoed with the voices of suitors, drawn in by your well-maintained looks, your practiced laughter, the way you upheld a demure gaze. You were a Southern belle through and through, bred for admiration and a life of glamour.

Your parents, ever practical beneath their genteel airs, had already secured your future with a steel tycoon who owned an empire of mines trailing northward to Michigan. You had everything.

So why did you feel insecure now?

The shift in your demeanour made the lines around Remmick's lips twist a little. He was good at breaking people down as much as he was at building them back up again.

He leaned back a little, hands resting lazily on the banjo in front of him as he watched your reaction.

"What do you want from me?" you breathed. Suddenly, the thought of shutting the door in his face and heading back to bed wasn't such a terrible idea.

Remmick stirred and let out an exaggerated scoff, "What do I want from ya'? I was jus' enjoyin' the fresh air, playin' a lil' somethin'..."

"Every night?"

"Now," his smile faded, feigning concern, as if what you said was deeply wrong. "I wouldn't go n' say every night... maybe every second night. Don't get ahead of yourself, darlin'. "

You felt a cool breeze rustle through the coils of your hair. The humidity of Mississippi was long gone, and dare you say you felt... cold?

When you didn't answer, Remmick took the banjo back in his hands and pulled it back over his head, then let it rest against the white-pillared balustrade. He turned back to you, his arms now hanging freely at his sides. He waited for you to say something.

But he only looked at you with that usual smug expression — the one where his eyebrows arched just so, creasing his forehead in that familiar way.

Remmick shook his head in mock disbelief, "You been lonely, lambkin? Is that it?" He teased, "Mommy and daddy don't wanna let y' out the playpen? That why you come out here like some lass in rut, blushin' and poutin', when you're nothin' but chicken?"

"I ain't chicken," You shot back.

"That a fact?”

"I know what your weaknesses are, so I'm playin' my cards right.” Your arms folded against your chest, “I'm the one in control here. Me. I'm bein’ smart."

“Well, standin' at the door like that makes me think you ain't so smart after all."

"And why's that?"

The corners of his lips quirked into a sly grin. He shifted his gaze down to your feet, and then swept slowly around the doorframe.

"Why's that, sweetheart? Well, for starters, you been bouncin' on your feet so much you ain't even realise you outside with me."

Your gaze snapped around.

He was right.

Somehow, without realising, you had edged past the threshold. It was more than enough for Remmick to just... grab your wrist and pull you out completely.

In a heartbeat, you stepped back into the doorway, stumbling so far back you hit the kitchen counter. The floor beneath you swayed, a sudden churning sensation in your stomach.

You watched Remmick peer inside the kitchen, head momentarily dipping back as he cackled at your skittishness. Even in the blue-ish overcast of the night, you could see his lip twitching up as he laughed, the tips of his fangs winking at you.

The look on your face did bits for him.

He wagged his forefinger at you. "Oh, I coulda' had you. Coulda' had you real good."

You let go of the counter in an attempt to compose yourself, your breathing irregular. You scolded yourself for being so thoughtless.

"You wanna know somethin', sugar?" He continued, "I was feelin' honourable today. Ain't nice to be layin' hold of girls like that, 'specially classy ladies, like you. An' believe me when I say — it took a whole damn lot not to.'"

Hands balling into fists, you slowly made your way back to the doorway once you had regained yourself.

Remmick seemed to beam at your reappearance, as if he found your defiance amusing.

"But, one of these nights, you gon' make the same mistake... gon' teeter a bit too forwards... and I won't be as honourable."

The threat rolled off his tongue so casually.

Yet, you couldn't shake the thought: he didn't do anything to you.

You shook your head in frustration, "There's plenty of girls in the city. And yet, you always come by here."

He sucked his teeth.

"Loose legs and loose blood," he said disdainfully, "You're right. It's a goldmine up there. But I ain't forcin' you to come down here and keep me company, little lamb. Aincha' tired of playin' at sainthood?"

"I ain't playin' at nothin'..."

"Then let me inside."

Your lips parted — only one word, and it'd be done.

But your silence hung loud. You were still afraid.

And in the lift of his brow, you could tell he knew it too.

Slow as a funeral march, Remmick dragged himself forward, until he was as close as he could muster. He leaned in, and raised one hand to rest against the door frame, his fingers curling around the wood.

You caught a whiff of his scent — mahogany, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place.

Death.

Something shifted in his face. The usual smugness he wore like a second skin peeled away, leaving him looking almost… needy. There was a hunger in his eyes, deep and devouring.

His gaze fell to your chest.

Waves of heat swept over you as he undressed you in his mind, but not in the way you'd think.

It was not your breasts that appeased him, nor your hips or behind, like they had with other men.

Instead, he watched the dainty collarbones that writhed under your skin, bones fit for lips as sullied as his, and the way your lovely neck contorted with your breathing. That long, slender neck, gleaming with sheets of summer warmth, thrumming with life all over.

The little valley in your chest, carved for confession, trailing down in soft descent until it vanished beneath the hush of your night dress.

And the lace? Well, there was a reason it was one of the first things he noticed about you tonight. There was something so delightful about the the white meshwork against your skin, like a secret begging to be revealed.

His fingers itched with the thought of tearing it apart.

Because you were everything he wasn't — soft, untouched, and alive.

And God help him. He craved to feel the pulse of something alive again.

"You're...drooling." you gawked.

His eyes settled back onto yours. A thread of saliva clung to the corner of his lip, slipping down his chin.

He smiled.

Remmick leaned in a little more, just a little, the wood of the doorframe groaning under his weight, until his voice was low enough for your ear to catch.

“I know you ain’t been sleepin’ right.” He admitted.

You stilled. How could he know something like that? Momma had told you the other day you were growin’ bags under your eyes and that your soon-to-be-fiancé wouldn’t like his woman sleepin’ ‘till noon.

But it didn’t matter. Remmick’s voice sung into your ear like he were your lover:

“And… I know, deep in my heart… oh, that cunt stays wet thinkin’ about me.”

The slight buckle of your knees did not go unnoticed. Lips, parting with the ghost of an exhale as your heart sank to the stomach.

Another twitch in the corner of his lip, "Don't it, baby?"

He pulled back slightly, just so you could catch a glimpse of his teeth bared beneath a sharp grin. Watching your face carefully, following your eyes as they shifted away uneasily.

Remmick continued, his voice merely a rasp, "Them rich fellas'... they don't know what t' do with you..." he murmured lowly.

You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple. The cicadas were screaming, and your stomach was betraying you.

"...don't know how t' touch you."

Your heart slammed against your ribcage.

Those lines in his forehead were creasing as he looked at you, at all of you.

"But I do, darlin'."

You knew you had lost when his words settled into your core like poison. Tantalising and greedy and evil.

You looked up into the face of the Devil as a breathless 'oh' escaped him, as if the surrendering look on your face pleased him more than fucking you ever would.

Then, Remmick tilted his head, momentarily peering past you, as if he were looking inside the kitchen.

"Your folks asleep?" He asked softly.

You had forgotten all about your family. Upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the fact that their only daughter was downstairs caving into a stranger's sweet seduction.

Even through your flustered state, you managed a nod.

The lines around Remmick's lips seemed to deepen.

"Then best you come out then."

Thoughts came to you in muddy clusters and any form of reasoning went out the window. You were a mess. There, without him even laying a finger on you, he had managed to crack you just a little. It was only a matter of time until his hands would wedge in and split you apart completely.

Your sigh was a shaky one, filled with defeat. You looked into the red-tinged eyes of the man who had been haunting you these past few weeks and, willingly, you handed your life over to him.

Remmick pulled away from the doorway and allowed you enough room to step outside, your bare feet making contact with the wooden floorboards of the porch.

A breeze rattled your dress, your hair, and any ounce of self-restraint you had left. Through it all, you came to terms with one thing:

Loneliness doesn't keep you safe.

It hands you the blade.

"C'mere," Remmick beckoned you, "Come closer."

Anchored by his voice, you shifted further to him, until you were more than an arm's length from the door which was left ajar. He hummed in approval.

His hand reached out to stroke your face with the back of his fingers - his touch was cold as winter's breath, even in the Mississippi heat.

But he was oddly tender. Loving. Brushing your clean, porcelain cheek with dirtied fingers.

Then, in a heartbeat, Remmick grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you around with otherworldly force, pulling your back flush into his chest. His hands clamped down onto your hips — unyielding, possessive — as if he meant to brand that moment into your flesh.

You let out a small cry as he held you with an iron-grip.

You felt his breath on the side of your face, his other hand crawling up to your neck. He spoke into your ear.

"That little sound?" He crooned, "Ain't even close to what I want outta' you."

The hand that crept up your neck cupped you by the jaw and turned your face to the side, just enough to face him.

He peered down at you through lowered lashes, lips almost brushing against yours. You tried to move your face but his grip on your jaw tightened.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Rough.

Greedy.

Starved.

Remmick kissed like blasphemy. Meant to burn, meant to ruin. Teeth gnashing against each other, you felt his fang graze against your lip, drawing blood, and once he got a taste of that, he was feral. Growling and clawing at your hair as he held you, like you were water about to seep through his fingers.

You let out a moan, muffled by his mouth.

He sucked on your lip, drew it back between his teeth and let it go.

Pulling away, he looked at his handiwork with half-lidded eyes, seeing nothing but a panting, flustered mess before him. Your lip was red and bloody, and the pain began to slowly settle.

Sweat-slicked locks of dark hair stuck to Remmick's forehead, his lips wet with your blood.

He, too, was out of breath. Admiring you, at how you've fallen from grace, scruff and bruised, and wanting more.

You tried to lean in, tried to catch his lips again, but that coarse hand was still clamped on your jaw. He yanked you back, restraining you, holding you like a dog on a short leash.

He made an 'o' shape with his mouth, his brows knitting in mock sympathy.

"What was that you said? Somethin' about bein' in control?" He reminded you, those fingers pressing into your skin, as if to keep you anchored and compliant. "Playin' your cards right, wasn't it? Ahh..."

You gaped at him, the familiar rush of humiliation at your cheeks.

“I...I didn't...”

The words were lost, and you looked a fool. He waited for you, amused you couldn't even string together a sentence.

“All that bark, sugar, but you come undone mighty easy..."

Then, he scooped you up in his arms, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist, your chin buried in his shoulder, the scent of sweat and smoke ever so strong as he headed towards the white pillared railing surrounding the porch.

As he did so, Remmick felt your heartbeat against his chest, humming in anticipation. God, your life was singing for him.

Lowering you down on the top of the wooden railing, the hem of your nightdress hiked up your legs as Remmick positioned himself beneath them. His fingers fumbled with the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms further.

A hand dropped down between your legs, trailing up your inner thigh, ever so slowly.

You felt yourself lean back a little, shaking in need.

He watched you intently as he reached for the the soft fabric of your panties, upper body leaning in to steal the breath straight from your lips. And once he felt you....

"Ah, sweet Jesus..." a low rumble came from his throat, "Soaked to the bone, are ya'?"

He massaged you a little, that delightful cotton hiding what was his.

A thick digit curled over the edge of your panties and peeled it to the side. He ran it firmly across your folds, feeling the sweet nectar brimming your slit, his thoughts spinning with all the ways he wanted to fuck you stupid.

Naturally, your legs nestled deeper into him, a cry hidden in your throat as you forced yourself to be good for him. Remmick's lips parted as he groaned, his warm breath crashing against your face.

Then, without any warning, that same finger pushed itself inside of you, firmly, eliciting a jolt from your body.

You nearly toppled over, your balance slipping on the railing—until Remmick’s free hand shot out, catching you before you could fall, pulling you rough towards him with his middle finger still thrusting inside of your cunt.

"I gotcha', angel." He murmured softly in your ear.

As he worked you, he watched you struggle, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders as you steadied yourself.

In the soft overcast of the night, you watched the gold chain around Remmick's broad neck, glossy with summer sweat. It shifted slightly with each thrust of his arm, and even amidst the carnal surrender, you couldn't help but wonder how something so delicate was tethered to someone so wicked.

Keeping a steady rhythm, Remmick gave a pleased hum as you mewled, his thick finger breaking you in nicely.

Your head lolled back, teeth sinking into your lip still throbbing with the bruising kiss Remmick had left there to fester. His face was inches away from yours, watching you steadily.

He added a second digit, his ring finger, stretching you out even more, and you felt the presence of a cold object plugging in and out of you alongside his digit, something resembling metal.

There was an actual ring on his ring finger.

And it was inside of you.

God, you wanted to scream.

You buried your face in his shoulder, the rough fabric of his dress-shirt against your cheek.

Naturally, it thrilled him. Watching you unravel, after weeks of hanging around your porch, haunting your sleep - a catch o' the season, he'd triumphantly think.

"Ever wonder somethin'?" Remmick began with a mischievous lilt, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

That hand kept working your pussy. You couldn't focus on his words. You couldn't focus on anything, really.

"Ever wonder how I came 'bout this big ol' house that night? You, up in that window… well, you were a vision, weren’t ya’?”

He spoke in your ear, the faint scrape of his stubble grazing your face like a warning. Your thighs began to tremble, the squelching sound of your cunt growing louder by the minute. You'd never heard yourself like that.

“And I ain’t sentimental. I don’t show up without a reason, sweetheart,” He added his forefinger, “Y’see… your daddy likes to run his mouth, talkin’ all ‘bout his beautiful darlin’ daughter, ‘specially at your auntie Carol’s party. What was it he said? Mm, a nice dowry. Yeah. The sumbitches loved that.”

You dug your teeth into your lower lip, stifling a cry. You couldn’t wake your family—not like this, not with you straddling the porch railing, the devil's hands lost between your thighs.

“Know what else? Well, your aunt Carol told me the darndest thing. Said her sweet niece was stuck in her fancy house on Cypress Creek, in bed, sick as a dog. Oh, quit tryna’ hold it in baby, go on and make those pretty sounds—“

He picked up on your heavy breaths, and how you held yourself back from moaning. But that hand just kept going.

“—yeah. Mm, so I had to, uh… had to pay you a visit. See what this southern belle is all about.” Remmick continued, momentarily peering down to catch a glimpse of his fingers coated in your residue. “Jus’ a shame your maid wasn’t so nice.”

Your thighs were wet and shaking. A certain knot coiling inside of you. You felt... you felt it simmering in your belly, and Remmick was slowly undoing it.

“But maybe you was jus’ lucky. Thank… thank God for her, right? Y’see, angel… I was gon' kill you.”

Even amidst the newfound bliss, you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Wha...?"

"Now don't go givin' me that face," He added, catching your expression, "Y'know damn well—"

Remmick felt your insides clench around his fingers, your hips twitching. He slowed his pace down, careful not to tip you over the edge just yet. It had been weeks since he had first caught sight of you, and now your cunt was just there, served on silver. He was taking his fucking time.

He continued, "Y'know damn well what I am, darlin’. I ain’t one o’ your silk-wearin’ gentlemen. That night... I was fixin’ to have my way with you. Willin’? Sure. But if you weren’t… well, that’d just make it a dull way for you to go. ��Cause, I was gonna tear you apart like meat off the bone jus’ the same."

Your heart sunk down to your belly. There you were, body twitchin' and shakin', but the fear swept over you once again.

You knew what he was — night devil, neck nibbler, vampire. You grew up with those stories, you grew up with your nana telling you all about haints and marsh crawlers and the like.

And there you were, with your trembling legs wrapped around one.

"I was real hungry that night, and you were somethin’ nice to look at. Not a lotta' girls these days... so clean...”

But he wasn't talking about your scent, or how well-bathed and kept you were.

He glanced at your chest. At your heart.

You saw him frothing at the mouth, strings of glistening drool trickling down the corner of his lip, still red with your blood, and the most feral eyes you had seen in something most would mistaken as man.

Somehow, reality found its way back to you. You gave him a sudden shove and hopped off the porch railing, the night dress falling over your legs once again.

Beads of sweat dribbled on your hairline, your chest still bobbing for air.

You needed to get back inside.

But Remmick didn't fight you. He let you pull away from him, sure enough, his hand falling back to his side. He didn't step away, nor did those red-hued eyes falter.

He simply angled his head slightly to the left, just enough to study you anew.

“That pretty head of yours finally catchin’ up?”

The ghost of his fingers playing you like his banjo was still between your legs, a shiver still dancing on your spine, all macabre.

"You want me afraid," Your voice came out in a whisper, "Is that it?"

He gave a little tsk, head still tilted, like you’d disappointed him somehow.

"No. No, that ain’t what this is, darlin'." He muttered, "I know you're afraid, can hear your heart doin' laps."

But something in his face softened a little. Like he was trying to be sympathetic, trying to understand whatever human-driven-emotional-logic you had.

And honestly, you actually would have believed that he was capable of feeling, had you not known he was a vampire. There was something unnerving about the way the creases in his forehead deepened, and how sharp those fangs appeared under his frowning mouth.

What kinda' games are you playin'?

And then he stepped aside, hands in view.

“Go on then,” he drawled, voice low and thick as molasses, “Ain’t stoppin’ you. Door’s right there if that’s what you want.”

And it was. Lower back pressed against the porch railing where you once sat atop of, your eyes shifted to the door left half ajar.

Remmick, who held his hands defensively, coaxed you with a look of innocence so human-like you briefly forgot what he was.

"Go on." he repeated, the soft hue of the moonlight was painting him like some backwoods saint.

It was quiet for a while.

Because you didn't move.

The moonlight flickered over his face and suddenly, all traces of sainthood fled him. A slow smile spread over his lips, like he knew—

"Oh... you ain't goin’ nowhere, are ya'." he mused under his breath.

Your hands curled into fists. He was shaming you.

You scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I could break you in half ‘fore you even take your next breath." Remmick once again closed the gap between you two, "Could snap your neck like a twig, drain you dry, leave your body rockin’ in that porch swing ‘til sunrise. Easy.”

"I know."

Licking his bloody lips, "You know?"

"Yes."

A pang of silence.

Remmick looked at you differently. No longer in hunger, or greed, but with something quieter. Something dangerously close to reverence.

His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it — the way your jaw tightened despite the fear, how your chin lifted just so. Proud. Defiant. Still trembling, but standing.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Ain’t that somethin’.”

The porch creaked beneath his shoes as he leaned in to you, a finger slowly tracing the side of your neck in a way that was almost loving. His other hand came around to settle on the railing behind you, trapping you in.

You didn’t know the dead could breathe. Not until his face lowered to meet yours, and your eyes swam in the pools of oil and ember that coaxed you deeper.

The warm air you breathed in. His breath.

It wasn’t life, you thought, his breath was empty and cruel and you were intoxicated.

You gave your life to him. You gave yourself to the banjo-playing devil at your door. Spread your legs for him when other men had adorned you with gems and jewels, fed you, loved you forever in your waiting grace. And he had only whispered in your ear what others could not do to you.

You had been so lonely. How good does the blade feel when wielded by a man who knows precisely where your skin is the thickest? You needed him.

You needed him.

As if reading your thoughts, Remmick tutted. His lips momentarily hovered over your face before he pressed a kiss onto your temple.

He saw it. Everything. Remmick drooled from his mouth, but oh you drooled from your eyes. Wet and wide like a doe’s, he saw everything from the sadness in them to the desperation and the innocence — he wanted to take it all away.

He straightened up, his face now burying itself in your hair. You smelled like forsakenness and macadamia nuts.

Gently, he murmured, lips moving against the coils of your hair.

"You need me, baby... oh, yes you do..."

You gave a soft hum of acceptance. Of truth.

You felt the same hand on your neck slide up past your chin and to your swollen lip. His thumb gently caressed the padding of it.

"... need me to give it to you. Fuck you real nice, like you was made for it.”

The tip of his thumb pushed through your lips.

“Say the word, lambkin...” You heard him say as that thumb felt up your tongue, “...and I'll break you in jus' right.”

There was a croon to his voice, lulling you as your mouth parted further by the second, making space for his digit wedging further inside, a soft choke etched at the end of your throat.

With his fangs tucked behind open lips, he leaned in and let his mouth graze your skin. He watched you struggle to take his thumb, your lips around him like you were sucking honey off a spoon.

His other hand found itself on the thick of your hair. He pulled it aside like a curtain, brought it back behind your shoulder.

Seeing you like this: trembling, and undone.

Lord help you.

Remmick pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, wiping the excess spit on your lower lip.

"Please." the word came from you like surrender and confession.

With charcoal eyes ablaze, you felt Remmick shift. He, who carried himself with a lethal suave, and a careful restraint — it was never about inviting him in your family's estate, the ever so glorious Cypress Creek manor.

You’d already let him in.

You’d invited him into your soul.

A deep, guttural sound came from Remmick's throat as he kissed you whole, wet and wanton. Across your jaw he went, down your neck to its nape, licking the hollow of your collarbone.

He grabbed your hips, that cotton dress tearing gracefully in his hands as he tasted your skin, warm and bustling with life. He clawed at you, your flesh caught in his nails.

Your head tipped back in bliss.

You felt him press up against your side, his cock hard under his slacks — a vampire he may have been, but the appetite of man always remained.

A low, bone-rattling chuckle. A grin against your nape, "Oh, we gon' have some real fun, darlin'."

You exhaled. There was something else in the air. Something you had never tasted before.

And then you felt it — the clean, searing puncture of his fangs splitting your skin like silk.

#sinners 2025 #remmick #sinners fanfiction #nicknackrecs

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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When y/n does something so cringe that i have to look at the invisible camera for a sec.

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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Having a bad day, read x reader! Having a good one, read x reader! Bored, read x reader!

All in all, live, laugh, love x reader!

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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peepaw i've missed you

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nicksolemnlyswears · 1 month ago

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nicksolemnlyswears · 2 months ago

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just what i needed after the nightmare of s2 ep2

Chapter 1: Convalescence

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725

A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.

Healed Masterlist Masterlist

—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.

You are doing this on instinct. You must be.

"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”

You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood.

The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected.

"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."

You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.

You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.

You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.

Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.

"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."

—-

He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.

Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.

“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.

One, two, three, four…

A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.

One, two, three, four…

He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.

He’s alive, but barely.

He needs surgery. Now.

"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"

Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.

—-

There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.

You're out of practice and out of your league.

There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life.

A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.

"I’ll try," you respond.

The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.

Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.

The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.

But he lasts.

Joel Miller survives.

You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.

You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.

"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.

He hugs you.

"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I'm not sure—"

"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

—-

And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours.

It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.

The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.

The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.

He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall.

There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.

But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.

Bruises, cuts, scabs.

Contusions, lacerations.

Stiff and swollen.

You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.

He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.

It’s lonely.

Sometimes there’s company, but not enough.

Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”

Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables.

“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”

You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.

—-

A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.

She asks if he’s okay.

You nod.

She asks if he can hear her.

You nod.

She asks you to leave the room.

You leave.

—-

His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.

His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."

His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.

It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.

His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.

He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"

Nothing.

It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.

—-

You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.

“Joel.”

You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.

He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.

He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.

You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to.

If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.

You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?”

You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed,

“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”

You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.

When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.

You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time.

Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.

You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.

You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.

—-

The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.

He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.

He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.

He hates the dark.

Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.

He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.

A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms.

He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.

He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.

You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.

Always there.

"You need to wake up," you tell him.

And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.

Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.

Another day passes.

Another.

And another.

He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.

But you don't leave him.

His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.

And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.

"Ellie?" It's the most important question.

"She's safe," you tell him.

“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.

“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.

“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”

"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.

"A while… but you survived.”

“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.

“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."

“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”

“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.

—-

Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.

It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning.

Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.

“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.

“Repeat it,” he requests.

You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.

—-

The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.

He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows.

This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.

He really sees it.

You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.

He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been.

He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.

You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.

“Joel…”

He croaks an affirmative.

You drop your knitting needles and gasp.

"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.

You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.

“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you.

—-

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

Tagging those who showed interest and asked! Please let me know if you'd like to be removed or added.

@secretelephanttattoo, @sawymredfox, @yopossum, @beefrobeefcal, @tinytinymenace

@ace-turned-confused, @lotusbxtch, @tuquoquebrute, @007maiz, @keseqna

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@desuidesu, @ccmoonshine, @cuntstiel, @karaslqve, @blog-luvdance

@i-wanna-be-your-muse, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @kyloispunk, @idungoofed, @sunnytuliptime

@thatgirlmendo, @visenya-targarye, @mystickittytaco, @noisynightmarepoetry, @mirandablue1

@yxtkiwiyxt, @glitterspark, @missladym1981, @deviscave, @littledebbieinabigworld

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@ashleyfilm, @katwriteshardy, @picketniffler, @casa-boiardi, @cumberstarkispunk

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader

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nicksolemnlyswears · 2 months ago

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reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

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nicksolemnlyswears · 2 months ago

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don’t speak to me, i’m mourning my husband.

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nicksolemnlyswears · 2 months ago

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Kiwi, you were right this had all the angst I love!!! I swear I’m a little toxic cause when he apologized and things were getting spicy I just though of reader being all petty and denying his advances 😂.

I will say I loved the change of pace and the fact she fell asleep. I think it’s so normal in fanfics that once the smut starts it has to come to completion? So huge fan of how the smut went!!!

You know what I’ll say already. I absolutely adored it. I do have to watch the first episode of TLOU S2 and this has been enough motivation for that so thanks!!!

Peck on the Cheek (jackson!joel x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

jackson!joel x f!reader Word Count: 3.2K Rating: E

Summary: Joel hasn't touched you in weeks.

Warning: established relationship, insecurity, emotionally constipated joel, pet names, emotional vulnerability, smut 18+ dirty talk, praise, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, mention of oral sex (f receiving), more allusions to joel miller dicking you down (as he should), happy ending (no golfing events ever happen)

A/N: I genuinely think I’ve had this in my drafts for like 6 months, and naturally seeing jackson!joel on TV last week made me reflect on this piece and edit it. I feel as though if Joel were in a relationship during his estrangement with Ellie, he would pull away from his partner as well. And, as we prepare for tomorrow (screaming, crying, throwing up), I’ve decided this is how things end up in my delulu brain.

thank you @iamasaddie for all these stills you've shared on your profile.

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging thots.

Logically, you knew why he was acting this way, but you would be lying if you said it didn’t hurt. After years together, you and Joel had developed a silent language—you could read his tells just like he knew yours.

You’d noticed the little things at first—the way he avoided your gaze, how he seemed to retreat into himself whenever you were near. His kisses had become mere pecks on the cheek, almost mechanical, and devoid of the warmth they once held. You found yourself waking up to an empty side of the bed more often than not. He had started to rise before dawn, slipping out quietly, as if the act of leaving before you stirred was somehow less painful.

On the days when he was home—the house felt heavy. You’d sit together at the table, and he would eat his meal, lost in thought, while you’d silently wonder if he even noticed that you were there. It always felt like he was a million miles away.

Whenever he returned from overseeing construction, he looked worn and tired—physically, he was there, but emotionally, he was somewhere else entirely.

You could see through his distractions. You understood why he was burying himself in work. He was really upset about the fight he had with Ellie. You didn’t want to press him about it, not when it was clear he was already carrying so much inside. Every time you gently brought up Ellie, he’d shut down and he’d retreat further into silence. So, instead of pushing, you chose to give him the space he seemed to need.

But…you missed him.

You missed your Joel.

You missed the Joel who would chuckle softly at your jokes with that deep warm laugh you loved so much. You missed the way he would lean back in his chair, a small smirk playing on his lips as he listened intently, his brow furrowing in concentration. His little quirks—the way he would scratch the back of his neck when he was deep in thought, or how he’d roll his eyes with a teasing grin when you’d poke fun at him. You missed the Joel that would hold your hand or gently caress your back when you were talking. You missed cuddling with him on the couch, where he would often rest his chin on your head, occasionally pressing light kisses into your hair. You missed the Joel who would hold you close at night, wrapping his arms around you.

Now, he barely touched you. And, whenever you tried to initiate sex, he would pull away and come up with an excuse.

The last time you and Joel had sex felt like a lifetime ago.

It was 4 weeks ago, to be exact. Not that you were counting or anything…

Tonight, you were wearing a sexy little number. The soft fabric clinging to your curves, a hint of hope fluttering in your chest. But as he walked through the door, his eyes barely lifted from the floor as he dropped his bag by the door.

"Hey, handsome," you called softly, trying to inject warmth into your voice. You stepped forward, hoping to draw his attention. But he didn’t look up. Instead, he muttered something about needing to go over to Tommy and Maria’s to discuss construction and expansion. His words came out clipped, as if the conversation itself was a chore he wanted to rush through.

You forced a nod, your heart sinking. With a resigned sigh, you turned away and reached for the familiar comfort of your lounging robe. As you slipped it on, it felt like wrapping yourself in a blanket of defeat.

"Okay," you managed to say, your voice quieter now. "Say hi to them for me, and give Benji a big hug from me, would you?" You felt the warmth seep from your cheeks, and you swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

He nodded, his lips twitching into an almost smile. "I will." But it wasn’t the smile you were hungry for, the one that crinkled his eyes and lit up his face.

And then, just like that, he leaned in, pressing yet another quick peck on your cheek before he turned to leave, the door clicking softly behind him.

You sat on the front porch, as you hugged your knees to your chest, a thin blanket draped over your shoulders. The minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Just as you were beginning to feel the weight of sleep tugging at your eyelids, a familiar sound reached your ears—the crunch of gravel underfoot, the unmistakable rhythm of Joel’s steps.

He paused at the bottom of the steps, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you. "What’cha still doin’ up?"

You hesitated, the truth teetering on the edge of your tongue. You wanted to tell him that you’d been waiting for him, that the night felt too big and too empty without him beside you. But instead, you shrugged, trying to keep your voice light. "Just couldn’t sleep, I guess. Thought I’d enjoy the quiet for a bit."

"You should go to bed. It’s late." Joel stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he took in your figure huddled beneath the blanket. "It’s cold out here, darlin’. You really should head inside." You could see the worry etched in his features, the way his eyes darted to the dark sky, as if the chill in the air was something he could fix by sheer will.

You felt a spark of irritation at his suggestion. "I’ll go inside when I’m ready."

He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "You know she’s going to forgive you, right? Ellie’s just being stubborn," your voice softened slightly. "just like her old man."

Joel's expression tightened at the mention of Ellie. "It ain’t that simple,"

"You care about her, and she cares about you. You two are family. You’ll figure it out."

"Family don’t always get it right," he muttered.

You swallowed hard. "You have to be patient. Just give her time."

"D’you really think she’ll forgive me?" he asked, settling down beside you on the porch.

You leaned against him, resting your head on his shoulder. "Yes. I promise."

But as you spoke, warmth pooled in your eyes, and you felt the threat of tears. "Joel," you began, your voice trembling. "I miss you."

He looked confused. "I’m right here,"

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and unyielding as they trailed down your cheeks.

"No," you whispered, your voice breaking. "You’re here, but you’re not really here. It’s like I’m living with a ghost," You choked on the words. "Joel, I care about you so much. I love you. I want to be here for you, I really do. But you’ve got to let me in about Ellie. Please talk to me. You’re breaking my heart. You can’t keep pushing me away… or else I don’t know if I can be with someone who’s going to keep me at arm’s length."

His eyes widened. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words faltered. "I’m not tryin’ to push you away," He shook his head slightly. "I fucking swear. It’s just. I just—"

You could see the way his hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twitching as he tried to process. "You’re all I got, darlin’. I can’t lose you. I can’t—" He cut himself off, frustration etching lines on his forehead. He reached out, his hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks.

"Baby, you’re everythin’ to me," he murmured. "I love you so damn much. I mean you know that, right? I can’t imagine my life without you."

But even as he spoke those words, you felt doubtful. "It’s hard to believe that right now, Joel," you responded sadly. "You’ve been so far away."

He stood up, extending his hand toward you. "Come on," He led you into your shared home, the door closing behind you with a soft click. Once inside, Joel's hands found your waist, pulling you close as he locked his eyes onto yours.

With a deliberate slowness, he reached for the belt of your robe, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric as he tugged it gently open. The robe fell away, revealing the delicate lace of your lingerie beneath—soft, inviting, and just a hint daring.

"Goddamn," he breathed. "I’m the luckiest man on this earth."

You felt your shyness flare up, your cheeks burning brighter, but the way he looked at you—so hungry, so tender—made the arousal inside you grow.

His hands moved to your hips, fingers splayed possessively as he took in the sight of you. "I’m a fuckin’ monster. Not worshippin’ my pretty girl every day like she deserves."

"Joel—" You were cut off by your own moan when he shoved himself against you and started to feel something hard pressing against you through the fabric of his jeans. You felt your nipples harden against his chest and couldn’t help the whine that escaped your lips as he squeezed your ass, and you rocked your hips against his.

He grabbed your face for a hungry kiss, all teeth and tongue, with your hands working expertly over his chest. He shoved his tongue deep into you, wanting all of your taste in his mouth. You couldn’t stop kissing him, and you swallowed the dirty moan he made at the back of his throat. You started running your fingers through his thick dark hair, and his mouth started traveling down your throat as one of his hands went underneath the fabric of your lingerie, brushing his thumb over your panties.

"Christ," he said in a voice that didn’t sound like anything like the way he usually did. "So wet for me already," he muttered. "You want me to make you feel good, baby?"

"Please," you gasped as you felt him slide his fingers between your legs, soaking up the wetness that had formed there.

“I’ll take good care of you,” he whispered huskily into your ear. Your head fell back against the kitchen wall, and you struggled to keep a moan from escaping. You closed your eyes and turned your face into his shoulder as you let his fingers slide into your panties, and he shoved two of his large fingers inside of your leaking cunt. You started clawing at his shirt when he curled them inside of you, bunching the back of his shirt with your fingers as he sucked on your neck. He worked you slowly, more than happy to drag out your pleasure. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, with his fingers pumping in and out of you, while his thumb brushed your clit simultaneously.

"Look at you. So goddamn pretty for me," he started littering kisses along your shoulders, the strap of your lingerie falling down. Heat pooled in your lower abdomen, as the edges of your vision blurred into a haze.

"Oh fuck, oh—don’t stop," you begged as you felt the pads of his fingers grazing at a spot inside of you that was making you see stars.

You dragged your nails along his back causing him to shudder. "That’s it, baby. Give it to me. I’ve got you."

You felt your orgasm overtake you with his words, and you stiffened, softly crying out his name as you squeezed around his fingers and flooded them with your wet release.

"You did so well, so fuckin’ good," he praised as he saw you coming slowly back to life, his fingers slowing before he gently pulled them out. You tipped your head back against the wall, catching your breath. You melted in his strong arms and realized he could probably feel your heart pounding through your chest. With a swift motion, he scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he made his way toward the bedroom. He kicked the door open with his foot. As he set you down gently, his hands gripped your waist, his fingers tracing along the curve of your hips before he leaned in to kiss you deeply. His hands worked at the fabric of your lingerie, pulling it away from your body to get you completely naked.

"I’m sorry, darlin’. I’ve been a damn fool," he apologized against your lips, his eyes glistening. "I promise things will be different. Please don’t fuckin’ leave me."

You knew Joel Miller well enough to know that once he committed to something, he never wavered. His promises always meant something.

You blinked back your tears and nodded. As if you could ever leave him. Impossible.

He shed his own clothes, revealing the contours of his body that made your heart flutter. You could barely breathe as you took in sight of him because he was so beautiful.

"Joel," you whispered, a hint of nerves in your voice. "Can you hold me for a bit?"

He paused, searching your eyes for something, and when he found it, he nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a soft smile. "Always, baby."

He climbed onto the bed beside you, pulling you close against him. You nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. As the exhaustion of the past weeks washed over you, you felt yourself drifting off, the tension in your body finally easing away. You didn’t mean to fall asleep, but it was the best sleep you had experienced in a long time, wrapped up in the safety of his arms.

The next morning, you stirred awake to the sensation of his breath against your neck and the weight of his arm draped protectively over you.

"Stop squirmin’ over there," he murmured sleepily.

As you blinked the sleep from your eyes, the reality of the day began to settle in. It was Sunday. You turned your head slightly to meet his sleepy gaze.

"Good morning. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to crash out last night," you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep.

His eyes fluttered open. "Good mornin’, sweetheart." he replied, his voice gravelly from sleep. "It’s fine," you felt Joel’s fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "I’ve missed wakin’ up with you."

You yawned as you popped your head up. "I missed it too."

"You know what else I’ve missed?"

You shook your head.

Joel shifted gently, rolling onto his back. His broad shoulders relaxed as he loosened his grip on you, and then he reached out, pulling you carefully onto his chest. You felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he settled into the bed. He guided you to straddle him, your body aligning comfortably over his.

"Being inside your perfect pussy," his fingers teased your slick folds, and he groaned and got incredibly hard when he felt how wet you were getting from his touch.

You threw your head back, eyes screwed shut, shoving yourself against him. Suddenly, he sat upright, grabbing your ass, his other hand gripping your waist as he pressed just the tip of his cock inside of you.

You moaned, clutching his shoulders softly.

"Show me those gorgeous eyes," he growled.

You opened up your eyes, locking them with his perfect brown ones, and nodded furiously, feeling yourself grow wetter and wetter.

Teasing you, he slowly lowered you onto him, his eyes glossy with lust. You wanted to sob at how slowly he was going.

Slow—his lips grazing your jaw.

Slow—his lips trailing down the column of your throat.

Slow—his lips hot against your skin.

Your jaw hung wide open when you finally felt him buried deep inside of you, your walls clenching around him.

"Fuck—Joel—", you panted, stammering over your words.

"Pussy’s so damn good," he choked out, burying his face in your neck as he started fucking up into your cunt. "Never goin’ this long without fuckin’ you again."

You clung to him, your breath hitching as he stretched you open.

He spent that morning fucking you.

Lewd wet sounds filling your bedroom with each shift of his hips.

He spent the afternoon fucking you.

Licking at your pussy on the living room floor like it was the last thing he would do with his life.

And, he spent that evening fucking you.

Your voice was high and ruined by the end of the night. He fucked you into the mattress with his whole body—the headboard thumping against the wall of your bedroom. His thrusts were rough and deep, every stroke of his cock dragging moans from your throat as he perfectly targeted that sweet spot that only he could ever reach.

"Be the good girl I know you are and come for me. Need to feel this pussy come on my cock,"

Your orgasm was violent. You couldn’t remember how many times he had taken you apart today.

He had worshipped you all day.

He fucked you through it, his mouth crushing to yours while your pussy pulsed and throbbed around him.

"I love you," you mumbled against his lips. You felt him twitch inside of you, and watched him slam into you again. His thrusts became faster and sloppier as he got lost in chasing his own release. You watched in a daze when a strangled groan ripped through his chest, and he pulled out, spilling himself all over your stomach.

He pushed himself off the bed with a tired groan and grabbed a wet washcloth from the bathroom to come back and gently clean you up. Once he was finished, his thumb stroked your jaw. "I love you too," he murmured, and then he leaned in to give you a messy, lazy kiss.

It was a good Sunday.

As time passed, Joel kept his promise to you, and he became your Joel again. His smile came more easily, lighting up his face in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time—especially when he played with Benji. He no longer buried himself in endless work or shut himself off from you. He started cooking dinner with you again, going on evening walks, or planning spontaneous outings. Some of those outings ended with mind-altering orgasms. Even mundane tasks like folding laundry or sipping coffee were infused with his touch again—his arm draped casually around your shoulders, or his hand resting on your thigh as you sat side by side. During town events, he’d trace slow circles on your arm or hold your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in soothing rhythms.

And just like you had promised Joel, a few months later—Ellie forgave him.

And the smiles that both Joel and Ellie wore that day was something you would never forget.

graphics by @saradika-graphics

You can consider this one-shot as apart of this universe.

A/N: In my brain, they took long breaks between fucks cause I am trying to go for semi-realism here for a dude in his 50’s. Hehe

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #yxtkiwiyxt

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