ssoliswitchh - Tumblr blog

ssoliswitchh · 8 days ago

Text

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

#marvel #the library

3K notes · View notes

ssoliswitchh · 9 days ago

Text

Let Ruin End Here // Chapter II

Word count: 3.8k // AO3 Link

Chapter I

Taglist: @loneyghosts-stuff

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

New York, 2012

It’s been three weeks since you saw the Winter Soldier in Prague.

There’s been no sign of the super assassin since that first meeting. Normally, that would calm you down, but his absence is starting to make you feel anxious, especially if HYDRA is chasing down any loose ends they want to clean up. Hornwood found nothing else in the database; nothing that would indicate a looming presence over Project Janus.

There was no point in obsessing over it, either, so you threw yourself into your work. You spent the last two weeks in Vietnam, tracking down a defense contractor who tried to sell PG blueprints on the black market. The man had taken the money, disappeared into the jungle, and took his newborn out through Laos. You found him in a stilt house on the Mekong, cradling the infant in one arm and a shotgun in the other.

When it was over, you didn’t ask what happened to the child. You never do.

Now, back in New York, it’s colder than you remembered. The subway doors slide open with a shuddering hiss. You quickly step off the train and into the station, your nose wrinkling with the smell of pretzels, damp coats, and too many bodies squished together.

You slip through the crowd, avoiding eye contact as you move towards the stairs. Somewhere in the station, a street performer is half-singing, half-hoping their rendition of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” will buy them lunch. Their voice is raw and too loud, cutting through the usual hum of train announcements and rolling wheels.

You’ve never liked New York as much as other cities. It’s not the architecture or the skyline– those are fine.

It’s the people. They way they shuffle instead of walk, clogging the sidewalks like a backed-up drainage pipe. Tourists with their oversized bags and empty stares, walking three abreast and stopping in the middle of the street to take a selfie. Even now, climbing up the subway stairs, you’re dodging a gaggle of teenage girls laughing to themselves.

You miss the relative calm of Vietnam. The mission there was quick and ruthless, but most importantly, clean. No media. No bystanders. No goddam Christmas Carolers echoing off subway tiles.

Hornwood called the moment you landed on American soil, telling you to get to the PG headquarters in Manhattan. Something about a debrief on HYDRA, which doesn’t surprise you. It’s been a long time coming.

Still, you’re not thrilled to be back.

The city’s regular rhythm carries you forward. You pass an ad plastered to the side of a building– PG Biotech: Pioneering Human Futures– and your lip curls instinctively. The couple on the poster are all smiles and bright eyes, making it viable for public consumption. Nobody ever questions what it stands for. Nobody knows what it’s actually used for.

Signing, you adjust your wool scarf around your neck, shoving your hands into your pockets. You’ve been in this life for so long that anything else seems impossible. Normalcy, whatever that may be, has become an abstract concept. There’s not a night in the past decade where you don’t dream about all the shit you’ve done. All the evil you’ve had a hand in, willingly or not.

It’s where the name Bellona comes in. The goddess of war, worshipped by the Romans for her violence and her hand in the horrors of battle.

PG is the only constant in your life. The shadow behind every decision you’ve made since you were ten. It’s the reason why you know how to disappear in under five minutes and how to kill a man in one. The reason your fingerprints were burned off before your first kiss, why your name was changed at birth from whatever your real mother named you.

And yet, it’s the only tether. You hate it, sometimes– most of the time, actually. The way the Peregrines have controlled the narrative to the point where there’s no other option. Why Mateo and his twin will never return to Colombia, or why Hornwood won’t ever speak about the work he did for twenty years. The way they say family like it means something.

They took you in. Molded you. Loved you the way a wolf loves the prey it sinks its teeth into.

And you loved them back, didn’t you?

You still do, in some strange way. You don’t know who you are without the Peregrine Group.

But you dream about running. Sometimes it’s a train station. Other times, it’s a Motel 6 in the middle of nowhere. Or it’s a nameless road you’re walking on and no one is following you. No missions. No files encrypted under your name.

You exhale slowly, shaking off the feeling that you’ll never escape. You’re here for the debrief, not some existential crisis.

Before you know it, the PG headquarters are in front of you. No one on the street pays attention as you slip inside the glass doors, locking them behind you.

The building was bought in 1980, just a few years after the Peregrines split from HYDRA, the building hasn’t been remodeled in twenty years. Your heeled boots click on the pink marble floor as you walk over to the dingy elevator, pressing the button to the tenth floor.

With a groan, the elevator lurches to life. The doors rattle shut behind you, sealing in the stench of burnt wires and old food. You hold your breath as it drags upwards, grinding through each floor until it finally jerks to a halt. The doors creak open with a metallic wheeze, allowing you to finally step out.

Unlike the ground floor, PG’s headquarters are sleek and modern, all sharp edges and cold design. Steel beams arch overhead like rib bones, glass walls partition spaces where agents work away at their desk, hunched over their keyboards with glassy eyes. The air is sterile, humming with electricity. No one looks at you as you pass.

You take the stairs up towards the mezzanine, your boots clicking on the glass steps. At the top, you punch in the code to Project Janus’s private quarters– muscle memory more than anything– and the door swings open with a soft beep.

Inside, the space is utilitarian, but lived in: a compact kitchen tucked beside a long, scarred dining room table. Down the hall, the conference room is hidden from prying eyes by obscured glass, tucked between the rest of the compound and numerous training facilities.

You hang your coat and scarf on the hook by the door, kicking off your boots as you walk in, and can’t help but grin when you walk into the kitchen.

Mateo and his twin are sitting at the kitchen counter, pouring over the latest copy of The New York Times. It startles you sometimes, how much they look alike– dark hair, deep brown eyes, a strong jawline softened by lingering baby fat. Apolonia’s tortoiseshell glasses slide down her crooked nose as she reads, her arm inked with scripture and flowers. Mateo’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a barely-healed cut on his right forearm.

They were raised in rural Colombia, you remember. Their parents were school teachers. Ordinary, loving. They both disappeared when the twins turned eight and PG swooped in to take them. Officially, it was dubbed “recruitment,” but in reality, PG had marked the twins– their parents were perfect candidates for the prenatal modification program. They were taken from their home and brought here, trained separately from the others. From the start, PG molded them for intel and surveillance, with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. One mind in two bodies.

Nia spots you before Mateo does. She smiles when she sees you, climbing off her stool to hug you, her long paisley skirt flowing around her legs. Nia’s always been the warmer of the two. Mateo’s much more reserved than she is, though you can’t blame him.

“You’re back!” She exclaims, her thin arms wrapping around your back. “We thought you’d be in Asia for longer.”

“Didn’t miss me too much, I hope.” You squeeze her once before pulling back.

Mateo hid his grin behind his mug. “Only when she needed a sparring partner.”

“You were getting soft without me,” you tease, leaning back against the marble counter.

You trained them both from the time they were eleven, in hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, endurance, survival. Kids with steady hands and bright eyes, molded into precision instruments.

Just like you.

“Please,” Nia scoffs. “Teo hasn’t even been keeping up with his drills.” She places her hands on her hips and stares at her brother expectantly, looking over the room of her glasses.

Mateo just rolls his eyes. “I could still drop you in three second flats.”

“Four,” you correct him. “If she still lets you.”

That earns a twitch of a smile from him. It’s a familiar rhythm. The three of you, training together, giving them shit from time to time. If anyone on the team knows what you’re capable of, it’s them.

“Still,” Nia resolves, looking back at you. “Are you ok?”

You nod once. “Fine.”

It’s the only answer they’ll get right now.

At that moment, Hornwood walks into the kitchen in his normal unhurried gait, like nothing ever rattles him. A thick file packet is tucked beneath his arm. He hasn’t shaved in weeks, you can tell, because his beard obscures the worst of the burn scars on the left side of his face.

“Conference room,” he says, his voice low. It’s not a question.

You exchange a quick glance with the twins. Mateo just rolls his eyes, and Nia’s smile dims. The three of you follow Hornwood out of the kitchen and into the conference room, taking your seats at the long white table, glowing under the clinical white lights. The holoscreen in the center of the table lights up, ready to be used.

“Tamar?” You ask, crossing one leg over the other.

Hornwood doesn’t look up as he fiddles with something on his tablet. “Ms. Merabishvili is inbound. We’ll wait for her to start.”

You say nothing more as you watch the holoscreen hum to life, and Hornwood displays a file on the screen.

Your heart sinks into your stomach when you recognize the face before you. Dominik Blažek. The man you were sent to kill three weeks ago.

You can see Mateo stiffen across the table, but no one says anything. There’s no reason to– this is the first mission you’ve ever failed, the first one to be unsuccessful.

The silence is broken by the sharp click of heels across the wood floor, and without warning, Tamar swans through the door like a storm. She’s wearing her signature fur coat, the fabric falling luxuriously over her willowy frame. Heavy gold hoops hang from her ears, matching her rings and the chain around her neck. Tamar has never been one for subtlety– stylistically speaking– and yet, she’s the most reserved out of you all. Even more so than Mateo.

Unlike you and the faux-family you grew up with, Tamar was raised within a compound

her entire life. Her parents, a poor couple from Sagarejo, had participated in a bogus PG trial that resulted in a healthy baby girl – and a ten-thousand dollar severance package to leave her behind forever.

You admire Tamar– respect her, even– for her strength. No one else on the team has the cunning and wit she does, not to mention her extensive knowledge of poisons and chemical compounds. It was clear from the beginning that Tamar wasn’t just a weapon like you. She was a strategist, born and bred, operating under the name Medea. The witch of Colchis.

But despite her outward coldness towards most, you’re probably the closest person to her– not that she’d ever admit it.

When she sees you, Tamar smiles, her red lips splitting into a grin. “(Name),” she says, the syllables rolling over her tongue. “Still brooding, I see.”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “And you’re still dressing like a Bond villain.”

Tamar just shrugs, unbothered as she tosses her coat over the back of a chair. “If the shoe fits.”

Nia snorts from across the room. “It’s not a shoe, it’s a fur-lined ego.”

Tamar just winks at her before making her way to the table, pulling out the chair next to yours. You catch a whiff of her perfume as she sits down– sharp jasmine and bergamot. Like most things about Tamar, it’s designed to linger.

“So,” she begins, folding one hand delicately over the other. “What’s the crisis today?”

You jut your chin towards the holoscreen. “HYDRA’s back on the radar.”

Tamar’s smile falters for just a second. “I thought they went underground?”

Hornwood shakes his head. His fingers dance across the screen of his tablet, pulling up a copy of Blažek’s file on the holoscreen. Your breath catches in your throat when you see his official PG headshot, taken on his first day. He looks almost hopeful in this, as though he expected PG to do better than HYDRA.

You avert your eyes from the holoscreen, forcing yourself to look away. “Blažek was one of the original members of the Peregrine Group after they split from HYDRA,” you tell the rest of the team. “When he left, there were several missing documents regarding genetic modification and the chemistry around the supersoldier serum– notes on failed prototypes that the public never saw.”

“It’s possible Blažek took those,” Hornwood cuts in. “We think he changed his name after he left, to protect him and his family. That’s why HYDRA didn’t find him until recently.”

Nia shifts in her seat, frowning slightly. “That doesn’t make sense,” she says, jutting her chin towards the screen. “How did HYDRA know Blažek was alive after all these years, if he changed his entire life?”

Mateo hums in agreement, looking at Hornwood for the answer. Instead of saying anything, he just twirls his pencil around, pretending to be deep in thought. You know him better than that.

“We don’t know,” he says at last. “It’s possible that Blažek got careless as he got older. The timing’s too perfect to be a coincidence.”

You study Hornwood’s face as he speaks. He’s giving you the right answer—but not the full one. You’ve worked with him long enough to know when he’s holding back.

It’s not good enough for Tamar. She scoffs slightly, standing up and walking around the table to get a better look at Blažek’s headshot on the holoscreen.

“If the Soldier was after him… then that means HYDRA knows about us,” she pushes back. “Not just PG. Us.”

“HYDRA’s always known about us,” you reply coolly, steepling your fingers. “That’s nothing new.”

Hornwood finally puts the pencil down. “There’s a difference between knowing and caring, Tamar. HYDRA lost interest when the Peregrines refused to take sides– they weren’t deemed important enough for anyone to care.”

“The files Blažek accessed weren’t just old notes,” you add, leaning in closer. “They contained experimental models—tech PG shelved years ago because it was too unstable. If HYDRA has them now, they might not care about side effects. They’ll just want results.”

Hornwood walks around the table now, making direct eye contact with you and the twins. “But if Blažek defected from PG– if he started leaking data from us– then someone in HYDRA might be getting curious again. Especially if they suspected he took their files.”

Nia crosses her arms over her chest, her jaw clenched. “Someone curious enough to start looking for ghosts,” she mutters quietly.

Mateo nods in agreement. He’s usually quiet during these meetings, choosing to absorb the information in silence. It’s one of the traits you respect most about him.

“So there’s someone in PG who’s leaking information to HYDRA,” you cut in. “How else would they have known that he’s still alive? He wasn’t working for them under the same name.”

“No,” Hornwood sighs, folding his arms over his chest. “He wasn’t.”

Tamar folds her arms, her voice cooler now. “Then it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. The leak—if there was one—is closed.”

You glance at her, surprised by the sudden turn. She’s not usually the one to play damage control, despite her resolved nature. In the years you’ve known her, Tamar has never stepped up into a leadership role, instead choosing to stay in the shadows.

Hornwood doesn’t take the bait. Just lifts his right brow as he stares down at Tamar, his one good eye boring into her.

“It’s not our job to decide what matters,” he says. “We follow the trail. We follow orders. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You narrow your eyes. Hornwood’s vagueness isn’t new, but this time, it feels different. More like deflection than ignorance.

But you say nothing. It’s not your job to question him in front of the team. Any qualm you have, it’s dealt with in private.

“So what’s the plan?” Mateo leans forward in his seat, resting his palms flat against the table.

“We do what we always do,” you say, standing up so you can face the team. “Follow orders. Don’t ask questions. If something comes up, we deal with it.”

Tamar and the twins are silent for a moment. You can feel the tension in the room, thick like smog.

Hornwood finally speaks again, shutting off the holoscreen with a quick swipe of his fingers. “There’s one more thing,” he begins. “We have to assume HYDRA won’t stop at Blažek. If they’re chasing ghosts, they might come looking for Project Janus next.”

“And if they do?” It’s the first time Mateo’s spoken, his voice reedy with anxiety. You can’t blame him for being nervous– only nineteen years old, and already dealing with more shit than most people decades older than him.

“They’ll send the Soldier,” Hornwood says firmly.

Silence again. No one speaks. You force yourself to hold your breath, as though letting it go would shatter the world around you.

“You think they’ll turn him on us?” Nia says, her voice low.

“We’re the only soldiers that were modified prenatally,” Tamar reminds her. “If Janus is still the goal, then we’re the only evidence that it worked.”

“And the only loose ends to tie up,” Mateo says grimly.

Hornwood doesn’t argue. Doesn’t soften it. “If HYDRA sends the Soldier, they’ll send him to erase Janus. Clean. Precise. Untraceable.”

“But Blažek’s already dead,” Nia says, looking between the rest of you. “If the leak’s gone, then why still come after us?”

You look at Hornwood then, searching his face for the answer he won’t give. But he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

“He might have said something,” you offer instead. “Passed something along before he died. If HYDRA thinks the experiment's out there, they won’t stop until they find it. Until they find us.”

Hornwood finally meets your gaze. “Which is why we act first. We find out who’s talking, what’s been shared, and we bury it. Quietly.”

You nod slowly. It’s the kind of nod that means I hear you—not necessarily that you agree.

Because deep down, part of you wonders if this is what Hornwood wanted all along. Not damage control. Not containment. Just an excuse to sweep the past back under the rug.

And if that’s true, then Blažek’s death isn’t a threat. It’s a warning.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The New York nightlife roars below as you lean against the rails, watching the smoke curl past your lips.

Everyone left rather quickly after the debrief; Tamar muttered something about prior plans, while the twins split to go find a slice of pizza somewhere. Hornwood disappeared into his office, leaving you to mull over your thoughts on the rooftop with a cigarette.

You have an apartment in the city. It’s on the opposite end of the island, but you’re in no rush to get back there. There’s not a lot you keep there these days, just some spare clothes and a bed to crash on.

Once the cigarette burns down, you flick it off the rooftop, watching as it falls into oblivion below. You think of Tamar’s sidewards glances, the twins restless twitch when Hornwood enters the room. You think of Hornwood’s quiet fury when questioned– his insistence on protocol, his deflection. The way he talks about the Peregrine Group like it’s fragile, like it actually means something good is going on in the world.

What the hell are we doing?

You can’t blame Hornwood for his odd reverence to PG. He’s been in this longer than you’ve been alive, spending decades working with failures. Bodies that rejected the science, minds broken before they could be born. Then came you. PG’s first success. The poster child. Proof it could be done.

And Hornwood– well, he’s always looked at you like a man stares at a blueprint he doesn’t understand but desperately wants to. There’s affection in there, somewhere beneath burnt-out exhaustion and obsession with metrics.

It’s just not the kind of love you can hold on to. Not after you were taken away from the people who pretended to be your parents, and Hornwood stepped in as your handler.

You sigh and push off the railing. You check your watch. It’s too late to call anyone, and too early to drink it all down. The rooftop offers no answers.

So you leave.

The city swallows you whole as you stride through the crowds of tourists, slipping between them like smoke. The hum of traffic and stench of stale perfume lingers in the air as you make your way to the subway station.

It’s eerily empty when you arrive. You feel the hair on your arms raise almost immediately; there’s no one at the turnstiles, no one lingering at the stop. Just the flickering fluorescent lights above you and the occasional rumble of passing trains.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air, the prickling on your skin.

You’re not alone.

Reaching into your coat, you pull the knife from your belt, feeling the leather handle against your palm. It won’t kill immediately, but it’s enough to protect you from whatever shitshow you’re about to walk into.

You walk further into the station, making sure that your footfalls are silent. The air is still, and every instinct screams get out, but your feet keep moving.

Then, you hear it.

The sharp snap of bone. A heavy grunt. The thud of a body hitting the ground.

You stop cold.

At the far end of the platform, under a flickering light, a man crumples on the tiles. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle. Standing over him is another figure, half-shadowed, steel glinting where his arm should be.

The Winter Soldier.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just stands there, breathing heavy, blood on his knuckles.

Then, like smoke catching scent, his head turns, and he sees you standing there, jaw slacked with shock.

Your eyes meet.

It lasts less than a second. Long enough to burn.

Then he vanishes into the dark tunnel behind him, swallowed whole like he was never there.

#marvel x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky barnes #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #mcu #marvel #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #winter soldier fanfiction #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #fic: let ruin end here

39 notes · View notes