#COMPOUND WALL DESIGN | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marvelstoriesepic · 13 days ago

Text

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

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

Word Count: 16.5k

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

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

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

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

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets. You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

4K notes · View notes

soapysoapysoapysoapy · 3 months ago

Text

The op was simple.

Clear the compound. Extract the asset. Minimal resistance. Standard recon-to-assault format. Everyone was locked in—tight comms, clean sweep, until the moment something shifted.

You entered the northeast wing alone. Ghost to your west. Soap on perimeter. Gaz was with you, clearing rooms. He was talking—just chatter, light stuff to cut the tension.

Then he said it. "This place feels like a blacksite. Creepy as fuck. Probably where they trained ghosts like you."

It was a joke.

But something about that phrase—"ghosts like you"—landed wrong.

You stopped mid-step. Breath caught. Your eyes flicked to the wall. White tiles. Metal table. Drain in the center of the floor. Same as the facility from before. The first one. The one where they kept you awake for 96 hours and told you, “You’ll be more useful once we strip the human parts out.”

You blinked—but the room didn’t change. Your hands clenched. Muscles locked. Your heart didn’t race—it slowed. Like your body was shutting down everything unnecessary to enter something older. Deeper. Violent. You weren’t in the present anymore.

Gaz turned, noticed the silence. “Hey, you good?”

You looked at him, but your eyes were wrong. Flat. Distant. Mechanical. Then you moved. Fast. Clean. No warning.

You pinned Gaz to the wall with a hand around his throat before he could breathe.

“Designation?” you snapped, voice colder than the air around you. “Tell me your clearance or I cut the signal and black you out.”

Gaz choked, arms half-up, shocked. “It’s me—it’s Kyle—it’s Gaz, fuck—!”

You almost didn’t stop. Almost drove your knife into his ribs on pure instinct.

Footsteps. Soap’s voice. “Hey—HEY!”

You blinked. Just once. Then it was gone. The hallway was just a hallway. Gaz’s face was his face. The blood wasn’t yours this time. You stepped back. Dropped your hand. Didn’t speak.

Gaz coughed, eyes wide, stunned but not angry. Just… staring at you like he didn’t know what he was looking at anymore.

Soap reached you first, hand on your shoulder. You shrugged it off.

“You alright?” he asked carefully.

You didn’t answer. Just walked past him. Out the door. Into the rain.

Later, Ghost found you sitting on a shipping crate, smoking in silence.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood beside you until you finally said: “They told me I’d never be normal again.”

Ghost exhaled through his mask. “They were right.”

You nodded. Then whispered, “But they never said how easy it’d be to forget.”

#cod #cod imagine #soap cod #ghost cod #johnny soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #cod modern warfare #gaz cod

689 notes · View notes

crowsofdarkness · 3 months ago

Text

Todays Lesson with Bucky: Fingering.

part two to this blurb. I might make this into a little miniseries.

18 + CW's below the cut(fingering, Bucky licking your arousal off of his vibranium fingers, Bucky being a yapper.

teach me masterlist

“About time!” Steve called once he caught sight of me underneath the hood of my sweater. “Where the hell did you run off to?”

I’d been gone all day with errands and finally got back to the Avengers Compound a few minutes ago. Truth be told, I’d been trying to avoid Y/N since last night where she palmed my dick on the couch. I wanted nothing more than to bend her over the couch and fuck her but needed to reel it back. If my plan was to work, I needed to take it slow.

Grumbling at him while flipping the bird, my gaze immediately locked on Y/N who sat at the table in the kitchen. She was watching Sam and Steve act like idiots with a tiny smile. I fell into the seat next to her, those doe eyes looking up at me.

“Hi,” I smiled at her.

My heart lurched in my throat when she returned the smile, slowly licking her lips. “Hi yourself. I missed you today.”

“Oh, really? Did you?” I reached a hand underneath the table towards her knee, giving it a squeeze.

Oh so quietly, I heard her take a deep intake of breath when my fingers grazed over the inside of her thigh.

“Bucky,” she rushed out.

Fuck, the way she said my name made my cock swell in my sweats.

“What is it?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

I dragged my vibranium hand up farther towards the hem of her dress where I knew her soaked panties awaited me. Her gaze lifted from the table that hid my actions over to the group of guys that suddenly dissipated. They all wandered back to their designated areas of the compound, leaving her and I alone.

Again.

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked when she remained silent, stopping my fingers right at the indeed of her thigh, near her pussy.

I could see her weigh the battle in her mind yet again. Wondering if she should do this. It was evident yesterday that she was innocent in a lot of aspects of her life, especially sexually. It might have been selfish of me, but I wanted to be the only one who gave her these experiences.

With my free hand, I cupped her chin so I could force her to look me in the eyes. As sick as I was in the head for getting a thrill from the prospect of corrupting her, I wanted to make sure she was completely okay with all of this. I didn’t want to push her into doing something she didn’t want.

Instead of answering, she spread her legs wider when I squeezed her thigh and I chuckled while breathing in her scent.

Tangerines.

“Your body knows what you want, Doll,” I brushed a finger over the center of her pussy, still clothed by those wet panties.

God, she was soaked.

“But I need to hear you say it.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Will it hurt?”

“No,” I shook her head. “I’ll go slow at first. I don’t want to push you too far.”

Not yet.

Still in my grasp around her face, she finally nodded with a quiet please falling from her lips. My cock swelled again in my sweats as my heart lurched in my throat knowing that she was closer to accepting my request without even realizing it.

“Spread your legs wider for me. Atta girl, just like that,” I praised when she did what she was told.

Forcing her panties to the side, I gathered all of her wetness and brought it to her clit to draw circles. Her moan was loud so I forced a knuckle between her lips to keep her quiet.

“Gotta be quiet. I can’t have anyone hear how pretty you sound,” my voice rumbled in my chest as I slipped my finger down her folds again and pressed a finger inside of her.

I stifled a groan when her walls tighten around my finger almost immediately.

“So fucking tight.”

I slowly fucked her with my finger, dragging it in and out, until her teeth dug deep into my knuckle.

“Do you like that, baby?” I questioned while leaning my forehead against hers.

All she did was nod, too far gone in her growing orgasm that I could feel because of the way she clenched around my finger. I fought the urge to add another but knew that would be too much for her so I kept telling myself all in due time.

“Your body comes alive with my touch. Why don’t you let me show you it all?”

She nodded again and I gripped her chin.

“You want that?” I couldn’t help the way I felt alive while teasing her.

She arched her back off the bench seat when my finger curled up inside of her to press against that spot. Internally I smirked to myself because I knew her body more than she did.

“Please,” she begged.

I exposed more of her neck to me so I could brush my lips against her pulse point while my finger picked up pace.

“Will you let me teach you these things?” I spoke my idea into her skin, reveling in the way her skin tasted.

“Yes,” she yelled out as her orgasm tore through her.

Her entire body convulsed on the chair next to me and the urge to drag her into my room to fuck her with my cock was strong. Instead I pulled my finger from her cunt to hold them up to the light over head, her arousal glistening.

Her eyes widened as she came down from her high when she noticed how slick my finger was. I brought it to my lips, lapping up the taste of her like a man starved.

One hit of her and I was hooked.

“Bucky, that was-,” she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Brushing my lips over her forehead, I heard her let out a content sigh before I pulled away.

“Tomorrow night. My room. That’s when our next lesson will be,” I said before rising from the chair to leave the room.

I made it all of three steps before her voice called after me. “What’s the lesson going to be?”

Throwing a smirk over my shoulder, I winked. “Hand jobs.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #sebastian stan #bucky barnes and reader #marvel #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #james barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes blurbs #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #james barnes smut #james buchanan barnes smut

796 notes · View notes

i-am-minty-fresh · 6 months ago

Text

Oh my sweet lord…what a man

I took my break but I wanted to finish it now, hope you like it @i-am-minty-fresh (I made some adjustments, got carried away 😅)

My OP Fanart Masterlist here

#HE’S GROWN #gotta have good arms for that slingshot🫣#the little crew references?!?????????#me+blowing up #me+exploding into the atmosphere never to be seen from again #if this was the shadow in Plato’s cave I would simply never leave #damn these are good patterns of light that expertally travelled from your imagination through your hand and into my eyes #you saw the vision #the man the myth the sniper king #now I need him designing all the crew little tattoos #I need him drawing on Luffy’s arm #I need him carrying Chopper around on his shoulder #I need him covered in soot working on his chemical compounds #I need him #this man would make me feel comfortable in an auto shop #this man would struggle to put up posters and end up just nailing them into the wall #this man can not make cake but he can make bread #this man knows every major chemical composition by heart but will also forget and accidentally touch his eye while working with them #his plants are well taken care of but they are also half of his work station

63 notes · View notes

bread-crum206 · 6 months ago

Text

A Game of Hearts

Chapter six: In the Quiet of the Storm

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

previous | 6 | next

Series Masterlist

The night air felt heavy, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The rain was coming down in thick sheets, but instead of offering any comfort, the sound of it pounding against the windows only seemed to highlight the emptiness of the sitting room. You stood there, staring out at the sprawling ocean, your thoughts just as clouded as the sky outside.

It had been a day since the games began. One. One day. The moment that loud, obnoxious and robotic voice blared across the compound, it felt like everything else in the world just… stopped. The strange, suffocating tension between you and him had taken a backseat to the madness that had already started. And yet, you couldn’t help but find your thoughts drifting back to him, over and over. It seemed that he was the only thing you could think about sometimes.

The whole day had been consumed by the task of redesigning the VIP room. You’d tried to throw yourself into it, tried to use it as a distraction, but the room’s original design—gold and black jungle motifs with naked models in every corner—felt like a grotesque reminder of everything wrong with this place. You had to change it. You had to. But how could you make it feel… right? And more than that, how could you do it without drawing attention to yourself?

———————

It was late now. Hours had passed since you’d last seen him, and yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling of him lingering in the air. Everything felt like it was on the edge of shifting. But what? You didn’t know.

The sound of the door creaking open behind you snapped you out of your thoughts. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel him.

“You’re still up,” his voice was low, rougher than usual, like he’d been carrying the weight of the world all day. But you didn’t answer him right away. The air between you both was thick with something unspoken, and the last thing you wanted was to break the silence.

When you did finally speak, your words came out without thinking. “I couldn’t sleep.”

It wasn’t just the rain, or the work. It wasn’t even the games. You just felt… restless. Like everything in this place was slowly swallowing you up, and you couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard you tried.

His boots clicked against the floor, a soft, deliberate sound as he approached. When you finally turned to face him, you met his gaze—those cold, unreadable eyes. They hadn’t changed since you first met him, but you could swear there was something different about the way he looked at you now. It wasn’t softness, but maybe something like… exhaustion? A weariness that didn’t belong to the mask he wore so carefully.

“You’ve been quieter than usual,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with something you couldn’t place. You weren’t sure if it was concern or frustration. It felt like both.

“I have my reasons,” he replied, the words curt, but there was an undercurrent of something else in them. Something that made you want to press further, but you didn’t. Not yet.

You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks as you hesitated. “Is it because of that night?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and immediately, you regretted it. It had only been a few days since that awkward exchange by the window, and you still weren’t sure what to make of it.

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, just enough for you to catch it before the walls slammed back into place. The mask fell over his face like a curtain. “That night was… unnecessary,” he said, his voice low, tight.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say that everything about this was unnecessary, this marriage, this life, this twisted game you both were stuck in. But instead, you swallowed the words. Silence filled the space between you.

“I don’t know how to do this, you barely speak to me, I don't even know your name!” You didn’t know what else to say, your voice was barely above a whisper. It wasn’t just the two of you, it was everything. The games. The VIP room you were redesigning, trying to make something decent out of the mess you’d been handed. The loneliness that was starting to settle in, creeping up on you every time you thought about what was happening outside.

He took a step closer, and this time, you didn’t look away. You noticed the exhaustion in his posture, how the usual rigidness in his stance had softened just a little. His eyes, usually so guarded, seemed… worn. Tired. “Neither do I,” he admitted quietly, his voice rough, like admitting it hurt. “But I don’t have a choice.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You had always known, in some way, that neither of you had a choice in this. But hearing him say it so plainly, so quietly, made it feel real. Too real.

“You don’t have to keep doing this alone,” you said, your voice barely audible, but there was an honesty in it that surprised even you.

He stared at you for what felt like an eternity, his gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to figure you out, trying to understand what you meant. Finally, he spoke, his voice gruff. “I’m not doing this alone.”

Before you could process what he meant, his fingers brushed lightly against your arm. It was so quick, you almost wondered if you imagined it. But the shock of it was real—his touch sent a jolt of warmth through your body, like a bridge snapping into place between you.

For a split second, the distance between you seemed to vanish. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there. And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. He pulled his hand back, his usual indifference sliding back into place. “I should go,” he said, his voice cold once more.

You nodded, but before he could leave, your voice broke the silence. “Wait.”

He paused but didn’t turn around.

“You… you don’t have to be alone, either,” you said, your voice shaking now, unsure whether you meant it for him or for yourself. “I don’t want you to be.”

There was a long, agonizing silence. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. You could feel his presence like a weight in the room, but there was something about it—something vulnerable in the way he stood there, even with his back to you.

When he finally spoke, his words were barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

And with that, he was gone. The door clicked softly behind him, leaving you standing alone, the rain still pounding against the windows.

———————

This is chapter six! Let me know how you like it! I have more ready!! :)

Tag list:

@sunny21200

@lucinda-reads

@shakysif

@whoisbriannaa

@allmylovegoestomusic

@swthrtbyeol

@strawberrychita

@hoddystark

@livelaughcelica

@foulbreadpaenut

@write-from-the-heart

@angelofthorr

@sylviavf

@missroro

@siloveyourmoms

@luv1ze

@audrey223

@khaylin27

@gay4hotmilfs

@mimis-u3u

@captainlunaxmen

@cdej6

#squid games x reader #squid game x y/n #squid game x reader #squid game #x reader #in ho x reader #the front man #frontman x reader #marriage au #arranged marriage #a game of hearts

441 notes · View notes

floral-and-fine · 6 months ago

Text

Green and Silver

Prince Nuada Silverlance x fem reader

Fem reader x Adopted siblings Hellboy and Abe

A/n: Sooooo… this has been in my drafts for a little under 2 years 😅 and this week I was determined to just go ahead and finish it. It’s kinda long about 12,800 words and it’s kind of a slow burn. Also I gave the reader plant related powers. Enjoy!

Warnings: lemon and probably a lot of things that don’t go with canon

Summary: The reader is determined to help mediate the conflict between man and magical beings, through her efforts Nuada ends up falling for her.

Entering your old room, a smile graced your lips as you saw that all your plants were alive and well. Someone must have been caring for them in your absence, you thought as you stepped over the healthy vines and roots that had spread over the tile floors. At first you assumed it had been Abe, but seeing how overgrown some of the plants had become, it seemed more likely that Red had been the one watering them.

You worried your lip wondering if maybe he didn’t hate you after all?

Things have always been rocky between the two of you. Constantly butting heads since you were children, always seemingly on opposing sides on certain topics, fighting for father’s attention.

You had always suspected that there was a little jealousy as well. Unlike Red, you could blend in with everyone else, you weren’t forbidden from leaving the compound, or forced to live a life in hiding.

It all came to a boiling point when you made the decision to leave. He wouldn’t look at you when you said goodbye. When he had found out the night before while you were packing up what you could, he was furious and both of you said a lot of things in anger. You immediately regretted it right after.

You left fearing that Red would never speak to you again, but your abilities were better suited out there, not on missions hunting down paranormal enemies.

You wanted to help, really help. You wanted to bring forests back to life and assist in places that had been ravaged by wildfires and deforestation. Staying here felt like you were doing more harm than good.

To make matters worse, shortly after your departure, Liz admitted herself into the hospital and then father died. When you returned to mourn his death with your family, Red tore into you. He blamed you for all of it, claiming if you had been around none of it would have happened.

You hadn’t been back since then.

Looking around your room, you couldn’t help but notice how homesick you had become. So much of your life was spent in this compound. You never intended to be gone for so long.

Your room was designed similar to a greenhouse with a glass ceiling to let in plenty of sunlight. Various sized pots filled with plants and vibrant flower beds lined the walls. Right in the center of the room was a hammock where you used to take midday naps. Your old record player was still sitting on your desk collecting dust along with all your books and art supplies.

Your father had made sure that you, Abe, and Red had some space to yourselves that suited your needs. He always so thoughtful of your individual needs.

You picked up an old frame, wiping the dust away with your sleeve to reveal the photograph under the glass. Your fingers traced over the familiar faces smiling back at you.

You had truly missed them all.

“So,” a voice suddenly spoke up from the entrance of your room. “You really did come back.”

You spun around to see Red leaning against the door frame. You laid the picture back on your desk. “I saw the news… Hellboy is everywhere right now. Thought maybe I could help.”

You swallowed thickly as the two of you stared at each. God, you didn’t think it would be this weird and tense, but simply being in the same room didn’t feel right. You wished you knew what else to say to fix it, but you got the feeling he didn’t want to talk.

“Well guess that’s it, I just wanted to see it for myself,” he shrugged and turned away, heading back down the hall.

All you could do was watch, wondering if it would ever be like it used to.

…

“He spoke to me at least,” you sighed, shoulders slumping while you sat on the edge of Abe’s tank with your feet dangling in the water. “I honestly expected worse, another screaming match or something like that.”

Abe’s head bobbed in the water as he swam closer to you and noticed how your frown deepened, “And that makes you… more upset?”

You groaned, throwing your head back, “I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but if he had yelled and maybe even slammed a few doors too, it would’ve felt more normal, more like it used to be.”

Abe chuckled a little, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. The yelling would be far more familiar.”

It was true that you and Red growing up always seemed to be fighting or arguing. It was just the nature of your relationship while Abe and Professor Broom were the mediators. Which was why it was so unnerving to be treated like a stranger, so coldly, by the person you had come to think of as your brother.

“I’m glad Liz is back,” you added. “She’s always been good at keeping him more level headed.”

“Me too,” Abe nodded, carefully climbing out of his tank. “And I’m glad you're back as well.”

“Got somewhere to be?” You asked.

“Director Manning is bringing in someone new,” he explained. “I believe he wanted the entire team to be present for introductions.”

“Ah, I see.”

“You could join us, if you’d like,” Abe offered, putting on his goggles and breathing collar.

“I probably shouldn’t, I’m not officially back,” you sighed, rising to your feet. “Pretty sure the government still wants these types of things confidential.”

You walked with Abe down the stairs, your wet feet leaving behind dark footprints on the red carpet. You smiled at him as he left the room.

Without much else to do, you made yourself comfortable in the library. About an hour or so later, you were curled up in one of the arm chairs invested in a first edition copy of ‘The Time Machine.’

Immediately you perked up when you heard everyone bustling about and on the move.

“What’s going on?” You asked, setting your book aside and standing.

“We’re loading up,” Red stated without his usual enthusiasm. “To go on a goddamn wild goose chase,” he added with a scowl.

You furrowed your brow giving Abe and Liz a confused look.

“We’re going to the east end of the Brooklyn Bridge,” Liz explained while going in for a quick hug. “It’s good to see you,” she added.

You hugged her back. “The Troll Market…?” You questioned, putting it together. “Thought we gave up on that myth.”

You heard Red snort loudly, “Yeah, but this time will be different.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head as someone new approached you.

“Ah! You must be Ms. Y/n,” the strange figure said with a thick German accent. He was dressed in a suit that resembled vintage deep sea diving gear. “I am Dr. Kraus,” he introduced himself.

Your eyes widened for a second, realizing that there was no head or face beneath the helmet, just a strange mist. “Uh, yes, nice to meet you,” you half smiled.

“Will you be joining us?” He asked eagerly. “On the mission?”

Your eyes flickered to Red who seemed irritated but not completely against it.

“I suppose I could.”

“Fantastic,” Dr. Kraus clapped his hands. “I look forward to seeing your abilities for myself. I have read extensive dossiers on all of the team, including you,” the doctor explained. “Your powers seem quite… intriguing.”

“Why would you read my file?” You inquired. “No one knew I was coming back, and technically I might be here but I’m not with BPRD anymore.”

“Ah, yes, but you see I’ve heard stories about your missions from a good friend,” he explained. “So I asked for information that pertained to all of you.”

You looked at the doctor uneasy, before following the back of the group as they made their way to the hangar.

Arriving at the destination, agents filed out of vehicles and began prepping the area with practiced efficiency. Liz directed them where to install the cameras while Red and Abe discussed plans with Dr. Kraus. You tried your best to stay out of the way, simply resigning yourself to observe everyone else at work.

“Aren’t you going to go with them?” Liz asked as she grabbed the bird cage that held a little canary.

You shook your head, “I think it’s best if I stayed here. I don’t want to press my luck or step on any toes.”

Liz pursed her lips and nodded, “It’ll get better y’know, Red just needs time.”

“Yeah, I hope you’re right.” As much as you wanted to be part of the action, just like in the good old days, you knew Red already had enough on his plate as he unwillingly adjusted to Dr. Kraus’s lead.

“Help Manning keep an eye on things,” she instructed with a slight eye roll. “I’ll be back shortly.”

You looked back at Director Manning who was still completely astonished that the little old lady was actually a troll.

“What a hideous creature,” he muttered to himself, staring at the monitors. Eventually he peeled his eyes away and turned to look at you, seemingly forgetting what he was going to say as he saw you through the lenses of the Schufftein glasses.

You lifted your brow, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“You’re… very glowy,” he answered, somewhat entranced.

You chuckled, “Thanks.”

His eyes followed the swirls of green that traveled along your figure like vines.

“Better keep watching the fragglewump,” you suggested with a small smirk.

“Yes, of course, you’re absolutely right,” he said, turning his chair back around.

You, Liz and Manning stayed behind, keeping an eye on surveillance. Over the radio, Red shared how amazing the troll market was. A part of you wished you had gone with them, but it was too late now. Maybe one day you’d be fortunate enough to return and see it for yourself.

With a heavy sigh Liz stood up and left the back of the truck.

“Everything alright?” You asked her, immediately joining her outside.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, fidgeting with her hair then her jacket.

“Liz,” you said gently, knowing her well enough to see that something was bothering her.

She rubbed her forehead and took a deep breath releasing it slowly. “I’m pregnant,” she admitted.

“Oh,” you blinked in surprise. “Oh wow, that’s huge!”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I still can’t believe it myself.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just you and Abe right now,” she answered, kicking some gravel away with her boot. “I can’t seem to find the right time to tell Red.”

The two of you stood side by side watching cars and pedestrians passing just taking in the moment. You couldn’t be happier for Liz and Red. Your small family was getting a little bigger which was also a comforting thought especially after so much loss.

“Ah!” You suddenly shouted, unintentionally scaring Liz in the process as you started jumping beside her. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

She laughed, “Yeah, I guess you will be. I hadn’t really thought about things like that.”

“I’m so excited! We’re all going to love this kid!” You promised.

After making sure she was good, you returned to the truck giving Liz some space, not to mention you knew leaving Manning alone wasn’t the best idea. He wasn’t what anyone would call helpful in an actual crisis.

…

The BPRD truck rocked and swayed as the ground below started to rumble.

Curious if it was just a tremor, Liz opened the doors to the truck, Director Manning stepped back as you and Liz walked out onto the street to see what was going on.

For a brief second everything stilled, everyone’s eyes searched the surrounding area collectively wondering if it was over. Then suddenly the road abruptly cracked like an egg with large thick vines breaking free.

Automatically you recognized that the creature was plant like, leaves covered its body and its head reminded you of a closed flower bud. For a moment you simply took it in, amazed that such a creature existed.

People began screaming and fleeing from their vehicles as the green monster further sprouted from the ground almost resembling a beanstalk.

You remained entranced as strangers ran past you, until Red retrieved a large gun affectionately nicknamed ‘Big Baby’ from the truck's armory.

“Wait! Please!” You pleaded, placing a hand on Red’s arm. “Let me try to reason with it.”

“Are you out of your mind? Look at that thing!” Director Manning argued from the back of the truck.

You ignored him, instead looking at Hellboy for permission.

“You got 2 minutes, Green,” Red instructed as he continued to load his gun. “After that, I’m going in for the kill.”

You stared up at the massive creature, its tentacle-like limbs thrashing around it. The green glow from its center and head was similar to your own, you wondered if it was like you? Would you be able to control it like other plants even though it was sentient?

It was funny to think that you might have more in common with this forest god than you did with anyone else on the planet.

You shrugged off your sweater, dropping it to the ground. Your eyes began to glow as you slowly approached the creature with your hand outstretched. Swirls of glimmering green light traveled down your arms to your palms.

Its flesh felt smooth, waxy, and cold but there was also a subtle pulse beating beneath your hand. Looking up at what you believed was its face, you met its glowing eyes which were warm and very much alive.

The beast howled, using one of its long tendrils to swat a helicopter away.

“Please stop,” you begged. “I don’t want them to hurt you.”

Another tendril came slamming down too close for comfort, successfully smashing a car flat.

“Listen!” You yelled at it. “They’ll kill you.”

You could sense its rage and its fear as it screeched and wailed, thrashing about. It didn’t recognize this world. Where were the tall trees, the giants, the other gods?

“The world has changed,” you said softly. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your world anymore.”

Its body slumped as it whined at you, head tilting to the side.

“It’ll be alright.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s time for you to rest,” you urged.

The creature’s glowing eyes dimmed as it started to fold in upon itself slowly, almost as if it was falling asleep. It started to shrink back down almost in the same fashion when it sprang from the earth, until finally it was a small seed again,

You crumpled to your knees, your own soft green glow fading as the danger seemed to pass. Examining the still crowded street, you noted the damage it caused, it was severe but it could’ve been much worse. A large breach remained in the ground, the cars that were the closest were crumpled like cans.

You cupped the seed in your palm. It was frightening to think that all you had to do was add some water to grow a huge plant monster from this little bean.

“You didn’t destroy the forest god,” the princess said in complete awe, kneeling beside you.

“I couldn’t let it be killed,” you explained, still admiring the seed. “I’ve never seen anything so terrifying yet so beautiful before.”

“That’s quite accurate,” she smiled. “The gods were the Givers of Life and the Destroyers.”

You looked over your shoulder, all the rest of the team and the other FBI agents were busy dealing with crowd control.

You turned towards Princess Nuala offering her the seed.“Here, you probably know more about it than any of us do,” you said, but in all honesty, you just didn’t want it to end up in Director Manning’s hands or the FBI’s. The BPRD already had enough trophies.

The princess looked at you full of curiosity, carefully accepting it and tucking it away in her dress. “Thank you.”

You stood up and joined the rest of the group.

Dr. Kraus informed you that the casualties were minimal considering all the destruction caused in such a short period of time.

Your eyes met Red’s who gave you a nod of approval before you all departed to return home.

…

“Hello, my lovelies,” you greeted your plants as you shuffled into your room after a long hot shower. Dressed in a long silk robe, you strolled past all your ferns and flowers, reaching around to turn on the irrigation system near the wall. “There we go,” you hummed as water slowly started to trickle out.

Stretching your arms over your head, you approached your hammock and climbed in, reclining on your back with one of your legs hanging off. Using your foot, you pushed it against the floor, gently rocking yourself.

Laying there, you admired the night sky, watching thin wispy clouds floating across the full moon. Your mind drifted back to the forest god, Nuala had mentioned that it was the last of its kind. You started imagining a world full of magical beings like that, it seemed wondrous. Perhaps you made the right choice coming back. You were happy that you saved it.

You squinted once you realized you were absentmindedly humming along to a Barry Manilow song. Swinging your leg over the edge of the hammock, you sat up. The music seemed to be coming from below.

Your feet softly padded through your room towards the door, wondering who in the world was blaring ‘Can’t Smile Without You’ this late at night.

Focused on the music you allowed it to lead you through the halls. You and Red almost ran into each other, stopping outside the golden doors. You both stared awkwardly at each other.

He had an open can of Tecate in one hand and the rest of the six-pack in the other. He sniffed, eyes darting to the door, “Wanna see what the hell is going on in there?”

You nodded, but as soon as he pushed the large doors open the music changed, going from Barry Manilow to a classical piece.

“Ah,” Abe said, jumping a little, clearly not expecting the sudden intrusion. “Hello Red and y/n, you’re both up late.”

“What are you listening to?” Red grumbled.

“Oh, uh, Vivaldi,” Abe answered quickly. “Il cimento dell’armonia.”

You narrowed your eyes and shook your head, “Don’t play dumb. I distinctly recall hearing Manilow just a few seconds ago.”

“Not here, I’m afraid,” Abe said sheepishly.

“Hey,” Red said accusingly, pointing at Abe while stumbling forward. “What’s that?”

“It’s just a remote.”

Red’s eyes moved to Abe’s other hand.

“Oh, this, yes…” Abe mumbled revealing the CD case.

You peeked over Red’s shoulder, reading the title out loud, “Popular Love Songs?”

You and Red had completely different reactions as it dawned on you both.

“You fell for the Princess?” You and him asked at the same time. Red appeared to be in total disbelief while you looked utterly delighted.

Abe sat on the steps in front of the fireplace as he delved into the details of his growing crush. Both you and Red joined him, sitting by his sides.

“You’re in love,” Red announced. “Have a beer.”

Abe tried to politely decline but Red wasn’t having it, practically thrusting the can into Abe’s hand.

Red sighed, freeing another beer from the plastic rings and looked at you, “And well, you’re back, so you get one too.”

You graciously accepted Red’s version of an olive branch, cracking open the can and taking a sip.

“So what track?” he asked, returning to the reason that brought the three of you together tonight.

“Eight,” Abe answered, then explained his love and connection to this particular song. Lifting the remote, he clicked a button and ‘Can’t Smile Without You’ began to play again.

“I wish father were here,” Red confessed, taking another drink of his beer. “He’d know what to tell you… us.”

The sentiment was one you all shared. Each of you were facing new problems, dealing with complicated feelings of loss and love. Professor Broom always looked out for the three of you, offering advice and guiding with a gentle hand.

Abe began to sway with the music, singing along with the lyrics. You weren’t sure if it was the beer or the music, but soon you and Red both joined in belting with him.

You couldn’t quite recall the last time the three of you hung out like this. Red, Blue, and Green back together again, it felt right.

Eventually you parted ways, the boys leaving to get more beer and talk about their girl troubles while you retreated back to your room. Your heart and mind felt lighter now, your relationship with Red seemed to be on the mend, relieving you of a weight that had been crushing your spirit for too long.

…

“How did they stop it?” Nuada asked as he flipped through another book before tossing it aside. “How were they able to return the forest god to a seed?”

Nuala's eyes briefly darted to the red emergency button on the wall before answering her brother.

“One of them was able to… speak to it.” She wasn’t sure if that’s exactly how it worked, it seemed more as though you had willed it back into its dormant form. It was a curious thing, you like so many of the others she had encountered here were so strange and unique, to be able to have control of such a powerful and ancient being was truly impressive.

Nuada snapped another book shut, “They spoke to it?”

“I’m not sure how else to describe it,” she said, shrugging her shoulders slightly.

“Where is it now?” Nuada pressed.

“I have it.”

“They returned it to you?” He asked skeptically, furrowing his brow.

Nuala nodded, reaching into a pocket of her dress and revealing the green seed. “They trust me,” she responded. “They have been… better than I expected, kind and honest.”

Nuada scoffed, casting aside another book. “Do not do this, it won’t work,” he turned his head away, sneering. “I will never trust their kind or the ones that help them.” He carelessly grabbed another book before dropping it on the floor with the others.

“I’m simply telling you what happened,” she argued. “The one who saved the forest god didn’t want to see it destroyed, she said it was beautiful.”

Nuada paused, fingers resting on the spine of another book, deep down he was glad that the elemental wasn’t killed. It was, unfortunately, the last of its kind, perhaps using it was selfish of him. If they would have killed it instead, its death would have weighed heavily upon him. An entire race would have been completely eradicated and he would’ve been the culprit who ordered the last one to die.

That was the last thing he wanted, there was already so little of his world left to save. When he closed his eyes he could still picture the world as it was, how it should be.

“Perhaps you can give these people a chance,” Nuala reasoned.

“No,” Nuada said sharply. “The Golden Army is the only way.” He had already sacrificed too much to give up now, killed his own father, lost his good friend, Mr. Wink.

Upon hearing the conviction in her brother’s voice, she knew that her words could not sway him without any other options, Nuala quickly pressed the emergency button.

…

You were laying on your bed, warm and relaxed, your eyelids heavy and your body drained. You hazily dreamt about giant magnificent creatures and exploring the wonders within the troll market. Red had mentioned how incredible it was, how every creature, no matter how strange, walked freely without stares or causing a commotion.

Ever since you were little, you found yourself longing for a place that encapsulated the best of both worlds, a place that balanced the ordinary and the fantastical. It was an intangible dream that slipped through your fingers like dust or smoke.

Suddenly alarms began to blare and red lights above flashed. You sprang up and scrambled out of bed, almost tripping on your silk robe as you ran towards the door.

But you stopped midstep, taking a second to think things through. Swiftly turning back around you opted to use the exit that led straight to the library.

You ran down the narrow spiral staircase, taking two steps at a time, hoping you wouldn’t be too late.

Everything seemed to stop when you stumbled down the steps past Abe’s tank and saw the scene unfold before you, a white haired man with a silver spear was preparing to strike while Red was distracted.

You acted without thinking, grabbing the man from behind, wrapping your arms around his waist tightly as you tried with all your might to hold him back. All you knew was that you had to stop this man from killing your brother.

Your fingers curled over his chest and you planted your feet firmly on the floor, you acted as an anchor using all your weight against him.

Vines sprouted from your hands, they twisted around his arms curling around his fingers right before the spear could plunge into Red’s chest.

Nuada’s eyes went wide, he couldn’t budge. He felt the warmth of your person pressed against him. Looking down at your hands on his chest and waist, his eyes followed the vines. He could barely wiggle his pinky finger within the fabricated restraints.

As he recovered from his stupor, he found himself amused by such a brazen tactic. He could feel your heart pounding in your chest and your breath tickling his neck.

It was a desperate move but effective.The prince suspected that you could keep him bound like this with ease if you chose.

Abe quickly tended to the Princess. While Red rose to his feet and dusted himself off. Confidently he approached Nuada, his glare was full of fury while his stone hand curled into a tight fist by his side.

The men didn’t exchange a single word as they stared at each other. Eventually, Red turned his attention to you. “You did good, Green.”

…

With his arms now bound behind his back, Nuada sat silently in an interrogation room. His face was expressionless like a stone statue. Even with his current status as a prisoner, there was an air of superiority.

He stared at you coolly from across the table. His yellow eyes had already analyzed his surroundings and now were focused on you.

You were different from the Red one, far less aggressive with calm eyes and a peaceful presence. He doubted the demon would have sat in silence as patiently as you had.

“I get it, you know,” you started quietly. “That’s what makes this whole situation so complicated, because your motivations make sense, they’re relatable wanting to protect your people, your way of life.”

Nuada curled his lips in disdain, he didn’t want your sympathies, pity, or your ‘understanding.’

“We aren’t blind to the blight you and your people face,” you pointed out. “All fae folk deserve better. If only we-“

“How would you know?” He seethed, interrupting you. “Your world isn’t the one that’s vanishing!”

You shook your head, “Like my brother, I’m caught between worlds, while I’ve come to love humanity for what it is, my true home is in nature… and with that I’ve had to bear witness to mankind’s abuse to the natural world-”

You closed your eyes, anger from years past resurfacing. You had dealt with your own internal struggle, hoping to find a balance between the man made world and the natural world.

“If I could I would change the hearts of man, make them all see what’s truly important, what’s really at stake here.”

Nuada narrowed his eyes. “So…” he drawled, putting the pieces together. “You’re the one that spared the forest god.”

“And you’re the one that sent it to die for your cause,” you retorted, more heatedly than you intended.

He looked guilty for an instant, eyes downcasted, “My people, our way of life, this is the only way I can save them… the truce between mankind and elves has only brought us loss.”

“If I’ve learned anything,” you sighed. “It’s that you can’t blame humans for their nature, not when you have lived for thousands of years, while a human life is so quick and fleeting,” you explained. “With such little time, it makes sense that they’d act with the greed and selfishness of a child. Even in old age they are practically children.”

“You speak as though you are not human,” Nuada noted.

You glanced at your hands, anyone who simply looked at you would assume that you were human just like them, but you weren’t and unfortunately you didn’t have any answers as to what you were or how you came to be.

“I don’t know what I am,” you said without divulging any additional information.

You leaned forward on the table. “Give us a chance to help, to find another way, no more lives lost… no more races or species extinguished.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping, not in defeat but in exhaustion. All he wanted was to save his people, and somehow that goal became twisted and sour.

“What do you propose?” He asked, sounding broken. “My people have given up, the Golden Army was the single source of hope that I had clung to… I see no other way.”

“We change the truce,” you suggested. “We create a way for both species- for all species to thrive.”

Nuada’s eyes flickered to yours, still not convinced, “You make it sound so simple.”

…

“Prince Nuada has made it clear,” Manning shared exasperatedly. “He won’t work with anyone else but you.”

You could feel the blame and judgment radiating from Manning, he didn’t like this deal and neither did his superiors, but the prince’s threat of the Golden Army was still very real. Rocking the boat, especially after your ‘negotiations’ would surely lead to war.

Manning leaned back in his chair, “We could use this to our advantage,” he considered. “You can gain his trust… and simply take the crown pieces when he least expects it.”

You immediately rose to your feet. “Ugh, I can’t believe you people sometimes, always looking for an easy way out, instead of doing what is actually right,” you spat. “Maybe the prince has a point…”

“Oh come on now agent-”

“I’m not an agent,” you reminded him, eyes narrowed. “I don’t follow your orders or your commands. I’m going to do what’s right.”

You stared daggers at the man, not hiding your hostility towards him, “They had the opportunity to eliminate humanity a millennia ago, instead of proving them right, maybe we should focus on proving them wrong… the truce needs to change.”

“I agree with Ms. Y/n,” Dr. Kraus said. “I’ll contact my superiors at Interpol. We should all work together on this.”

You excused yourself from the meeting, feeling frustrated and angry despite Dr. Kraus’s support. No wonder Nuada had no hope, that the only solution he could see was eradicating all of humanity.

Even you had to remind yourself that not every single person was like Manning. Somehow, someway, you wanted to bring all magical beings out of the shadows, give them a place where they could exist, where they could strive.

You threw open the doors to the library, ready to share all your grievances with Abe but unfortunately he wasn’t inside. Instead you found Red.

“Hey,” he started slightly startled by your abrupt entrance.

“Hey,” you muttered back, your fists still tightly clenched by your side.

“So, it looks like the meeting went well,” he joked, noting your tense body language. He knew it took a lot to make you this mad, but once you were, it was like setting off a bomb.

You rolled your eyes and began pacing the room. “I can’t believe those idiots are in charge!”

He nodded, all too familiar with it. He missed the days when father was around to handle all the administrative crap.

“They’re all absolute imbeciles, literally the worst!” You continued to rant. “I hate all the red tape and bureaucratic bullshit… Can you believe that Manning suggested I try to steal the crown pieces? After all this? I manage to find a peaceful solution and he’d rather I betray the elves because it’s easier… the selfish bastard! I’m so glad I left!”

You stopped in your tracks and sighed, recalling how Red and Abe were practically stuck here, trapped into being part of the BPRD. “I’m sorry Red, I’m so sorry for leaving you and Abe here to deal with this alone.”

He shrugged, “y’know I’ve given it some thought and I figured if given the chance, if I could blend in like you, I’d probably would’ve left a long time ago.”

“Still,” you added, taking a seat next to him. “I wish things were different.”

For a while you and Red sat, sharing stories and memories of the good old days before drifting into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you retired to your room. Unsure what to expect over the next few weeks or months or however long this ‘mission’ took.

First things first, you’ll be accompanying Nuada back to his clan’s palace. Maybe you should start packing a bag, you wondered. It was strange, you had just arrived and now you were leaving again, at least Red wasn’t pissed at you this time. In fact, he had already agreed to keep watering your plants.

You stood there admiring your plant babies, thinking back to how you acquired most of them. Professor Broom would come home from some mission with a pleased look on his face as he gifted you a single seed from wherever he had been. Every time you were so eager to see what would grow, you loved them all as much as you loved your father.

A knock at your door snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Princess Nuala?” You asked, surprised to see her at your door. You stepped aside, allowing her into your room.

Her eyes lit up as she saw all the green. “Incredible,” she whispered, her fingers brushing over the delicate petals of a gardenia.

“Thank you,” you murmured, watching as she took in your little version of paradise.

“I heard that my brother has agreed to work with you,” she shared, redirecting her attention from all your plants to you.

“For now, at least,” you sighed, still feeling overwhelmed. “I’m pushing for the terms of the truce to be upheld as well as updated,” you added. “Magical beings need more, deserve more…”

Nuala smiled, “An ambitious plan, but I’m sure you’ll find support from our people.”

“I hope so. We’ll need all fae folk to be willing to give this a try.” Although in truth, what concerned you the most was making sure the officials of the BPRD held up their end of the deal.

“I believe you’re quite capable of accomplishing this. Abraham speaks highly of you,” she said.

“He’s a good brother that’s why,” you chuckled. “He has a lot more faith in me than I do.”

“The three of you are quite close,” Nuala noted.

You nodded, “We’ve always been there for each other, without them, without our adoptive father, we’d each be all alone.”

Nuala’s eyes returned to your exceptional garden. It reminded her of how the world used to be, back when her people lived in the forests and the wilds.

“Here, I want you to have this,” she said, holding out her piece of the crown.

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, “I can’t.”

Nuala held the piece out closer to you. “You were the one who convinced my brother to choose another path, you spared the life of an ancient being,” she explained. “I believe you’ve earned it.”

“I don’t feel right accepting it,” you muttered, eyeing the piece of gold in her hand.

“All the more reason for it to be in your care,” she countered.

Finally, you relented and accepted the crown piece, tucking it into your pocket until you could find a safer place for it. One thing was for sure, you wouldn’t be letting Manning know about this exchange.

“Will you be coming with us?” You asked the Princess.

She shook her head, “I’ll be staying here for now. Especially considering that your people still believe that I have the last crown piece.”

She gave you a knowing look, showing that she already understood that people like Manning couldn’t be trusted. “With me here, they’ll feel more… in control, I believe if I were to leave they’d assume I’d eventually betray them and help my brother awaken the Golden Army.”

…

Arriving at the palace it was nothing like what you pictured in your mind. You expected bright halls and lush gardens, but instead it was dark, gloomy, lifeless. You could practically feel the oppression outside these walls pushing in, the constant threat of humans looming over them.

Nuada didn’t exactly look happy to be back, his facial expression was rigid and tight. However, the feeling seemed mutual. The elves who were present for his homecoming didn’t receive him with open arms, in fact there was a wariness in the air as they kept their distance from the prince.

You could feel their cautious stares fall upon you as you stepped forward to introduce yourself. The silence was unnerving, you could hear your heart beating anxiously in your ears.

You exhaled slowly, trying your best to relax. “Hello, I’m y/n, I’m with the BPRD and we’re hoping to work with you and other fae folk in an effort to uphold the truce.”

Nuada sighed, then quickly spoke up, reiterating what you said in elvish or at least you hoped that’s what he did.

You mustered up your best smile and the rest of your confidence and continued to explain the plan, going into how you wanted to improve the life for all magical beings. You watched as their expressions changed, from anxious to curious. A few elves worked up the nerve to speak to Nuada, probably asking him questions about what transpired and if you could be trusted.

Your gaze moved upwards, watching discolored leaves fall. “What’s wrong with the leaves?” You asked yourself, but Nuada overheard you.

“The tree is dying,” he answered simply.

“Can I see it?”

Nuada hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment, before nodding. He gestured for you to follow him.

He walked at a fast pace making it difficult to keep up. As you struggled to follow him, the rest of the palace passed as a blur. Suddenly, he came to a halt at the entrance of a rather barren courtyard. Looking at what remained, you could tell it had once been a lush garden, full of wildflowers, ferns, and shrubs.

Despite Nuada being difficult to read, he seemed bothered by the state of the garden. His gaze was hard as he tried to look past the dead land as if he didn’t want to acknowledge just how bad it had gotten.

In the center was a magnificent old tree with a thick and tall trunk and sprawling branches. However, even from a distance, you could see the tree was sick, the bark was discolored and flaking. Some of the branches were brittle and dry. Just looking at it made your own bones ache.

“May I?” You asked quietly.

Nuada shrugged, approaching the tree with you.

One of the elves suddenly spoke up, sounding rather peeved that Nuada brought you here, but the prince was quick to put the elf back in his place, with a sharp and direct order.

You could sense the web of roots under your feet, they were desperately trying to keep the tree alive. You circled the wide tree trunk, dead leaves crunching with each step you took.

Rolling up your sleeves, thin green spirals appeared on your arms as the light moved towards your hands, making them glow. You pressed your palms to the trunk of the tree. Instantly, you felt what you could only describe as a thirst. Your powers felt like a cool spring as your energy bled into the tree.

After several silent moments, you lifted your hands from the tree.

Long thin branches grew and cascaded down like curtains, shielding you and Nuada within. You watched in awe as small green leaves fluttered down like rain underneath the canopy. The entire courtyard was revived, new grass and plants filled the once barren ground. Clusters of wild flowers bloomed around your feet and climbed up the trunk of the tree.

While you were distracted by the surrounding beauty, Nuada continued to watch you, his stare focused and determined. Quiet, with a hunter-like pace, he crept closer towards you.

He didn’t understand it, he didn’t understand you. It was like beholding a miracle.

You blinked in surprise when you realized how close Nuada was. His expression was unreadable as he observed your face, his own merely inches away from yours.

Your eyes widened as his hand rose towards your face. You gasped when his fingers lightly touched your hair, retrieving a single leaf that had landed on the crown of your head.

He held your gaze for a moment, his mouth opening slightly only to snap shut.

“Prince Nuada,” you said softly, somehow finding your voice. The leaf fell from his fingers landing gently on the grass.

But the moment was broken as the murmurs of the other elves grew closer, they spoke to one another in awe, examining your work closely.

Immediately, Nuada backed away.

A few elves that spoke English, eagerly engaged you in conversation. They were all obviously delighted with what you had done, it was as if you had revived their spirits along with that old tree.

Nuada followed behind as a group showed you around the rest of the palace. They discussed preparing a big feast for later in the evening to celebrate your arrival and the new parameters of the truce.

…

Lilting music filled the dining room as trays of food were brought out. Your eyes widened over all the options, each dish was executed artistically, looking more like artwork than food.

Nuada leaned towards you, filling your glass almost to the brim with a deep red wine. Then stood up and raised his own glass. All eyes were on him as he made a simple toast to new beginnings.

You noted a subtle change in his mood from when you first arrived. He was more relaxed now, conversing casually with his subjects as he ate. He was also unexpectedly attentive towards you, checking if you were alright, translating for you mid conversation when needed, and telling you about elven culture.

You suspected that he missed this, missed being a prince during his exile. It wasn’t that the hardened warrior side of him had vanished, instead another side of him had emerged. This side of him was charming, social, an ambassador capable of persuading even the most stubborn leaders.

It was quite refreshing to get this opportunity to laugh and speak with him and not worry about all the pressures you had been feeling all day.

After dinner, everyone began filing out, one of the servants stayed behind and offered to show you to your quarters, but Nuada dismissed them.

He led you out and towards one of the wings of the palace and up a grand staircase. “You did well today,” he commented as you walked a step behind him.

“Thank you.”

“In a few days we will be hosting officials representing the goblins and trolls in order to inform them of these changes.”

You nodded.

“Until then the palace is available to you, think of it as your home, free to explore and entertain yourself, I recommend visiting the library and the gardens.” He stopped outside of a room, opening the door and stepping aside to let you in.

Standing on opposite sides of the doorway, Nuada looked at you for a moment before adding, “Should you need anything feel free to ask, as your host, it’s the least I can do.”

You grinned at the formality of his words and the change in his behavior compared to your first encounter.

He lifted his brow, giving you a questioning look in return. “What?”

“Sorry,” you smiled wider. “Just didn’t think I’d get the opportunity to see you be so… accommodating.”

He rolled his eyes and turned away. “Goodnight,” he said while heading further down the hall to his own room.

…

You paced around the library, occasionally selecting a tome and perusing its contents before returning it. You were in desperate need of a distraction from how anxious you were feeling, but nothing seemed to work.

All morning the only thing you could think about was the meeting taking place later today. There was a lot of pressure to make all this work, pressures from the BPRD as well as hopeful expectations of the elves.

It was up to you to get the trolls and goblins on board with this plan. Despite how much faith people seemed to have in you, you never saw yourself cut out for all this diplomacy. Fortunately, Nuada would be there, he seemed to have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and you were grateful for it.

“Lady y/n,” a servant called, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Yes?”

“It’s almost time for the summit,” she explained. “You should get dressed.”

“Oh, of course,” you nodded.

As you returned to your room, you found a sage green dress waiting for you on the bed. The dress had a similar shape and design to the ones Nuala wore with a lovely band of gold along the waist. Lifting it up, you noted the weight of it.

“How many layers does this dress have?” You wondered out loud, unsure how you were going to get it all on.

You did your best, struggling more than you’d like to admit, as you changed into the dress. You recalled all those movies that showed aristocratic women getting dressed and how they always had a servant around them to help, it made a lot more sense now.

You exited the dressing room and examined yourself in the mirror, fixing a few areas around the collar to show off the fine embroidery and checking your hair.

Nuada stood a few feet away from the doorway, taking a moment to admire you without you noticing. He was satisfied to see the color he picked suited you so well, and that the style of the dress .

Finally, he rapped his knuckles against the door alerting you of his presence.

You tilted your head blinking curiously when you noticed what he was wearing, it was a small change, but instead of his usual black and red ensemble, it was black and green, the same shade of green as your dress.

“It’s time to go,” he announced. “Our guests aren’t known for their patience.”

“Oh right,” you nodded, quickly following him out.

Nuada led the way, his hands clasped behind his back as you walked a few steps behind him. Without being asked, he slowed his pace, matching it to yours, his pace going from a brisk march to a casual stroll just for you.

“Any tips?” You asked him as you both stopped outside the thick oak doors.

He smirked, his eyes lighting up playfully compared to their usual seriousness, “Afraid they’ll be immune to your charms?”

“Charms?” You questioned, blinking. “I don’t believe my ‘charms’ have ever worked in my favor.”

“They were certainly effective on my people,” Nuada elaborated.

You laughed, “You’re confusing charm with skill, I believe I impressed them with my powers.”

Nuada shook his head, “It’s more than that, it’s the way you speak and act… you’re…” he paused, mulling over his next words carefully. “Endearing, genuine.”

You looked surprised at the compliment, “I didn’t know they felt that way.”

“That surprises you? Even after you won m-“ Nuada stopped himself from finishing that statement.

He cleared his throat, “Goblins like precious metals and gems, intricate devices and designs, and of course flattery. Trolls are not as bright as other creatures, they prefer honest loyal people who are clear with their intentions. Speak too fast or too complex, they’ll immediately distrust you.”

“Flattery and honesty, I can do that. Thank you,” You nodded, letting it all sink in as the doors slowly opened revealing the large throne room.

Nuada chuckled, “Are you sure you’re not royalty?” The prince smoothed his hands over his attire and pushed his shoulders back. The stern expression that you were most familiar with returning to his face.

“My friends,” Nuada greeted. “I am pleased to see you all here in good health.”

Trolls occupied one side of the room, while the goblins sat at the other, yet all eyes fell on you as you emerged, standing at the prince's side. The high ceilings looked small compared to the giant mountain trolls that managed to cram themselves into the back of the room.

“Allow me to introduce our guest, representing humanity as their ambassador, Lady y/n.”

Unsure what the proper etiquette was for a situation like this one was, you nervously bowed as Prince Nuada finished introducing you.

You followed Nuada as he made his rounds, personally introducing you to important goblin and troll figures. He tried his best to conceal his amusement as he watched you quickly put his advice to work, easily charming various goblins and trolls with a smile and a few simple words.

“She’s not as human as I expected.” Nuada overheard one of the goblins share with his comrade. His smile grew at the comment, glad he had trusted you so far and that the others were beginning to recognize that you were something special.

Gently taking hold of your upper arm, Nuada guided you back to the front of the room. As you crept up the steps, a hush fell over the room. All in attendance were eager to hear what you had to say.

Nuada stood behind you, his hands clasped behind his back allowing you to address the whole group.

You explained the changes that had been made to the truce, specifically the part that specified that each magical species would be granted land that suited their needs. You added that the mountain region that had been granted would need to be shared or divided amongst the goblins and trolls.

There were some murmurs amongst them, but it didn’t sound as though they were completely against the idea.

Nuada stepped in from there, answering questions and directing the two groups on what to do next. It was obvious to you that this man was meant to be a leader, it seemed to come to him so easily.

“This could actually work,” he murmured thoughtfully, chin resting in his hand as he watched the trolls and goblins discuss the terms of sharing a territory and rather peacefully in fact.

You smiled and nodded, “it will work.”

…

Over the next few weeks, you traveled to several hidden fae cities and communities with Nuada. Similar to the Troll Market, all sorts of beings congregated in secret, hidden from humanity. You were amazed by the ingenuity of the fae folk and how they managed to find a way to endure, although you knew full well that this situation wasn’t ideal.

Nuada actually seemed excited to bring you along, getting to show you all these unique places that existed right under the noses of humans. And despite his somber appearance, he also seemed to be in high spirits over the plan, over the restoration of the palace, and the allegiances being formed.

To your surprise, you had actually enjoyed these past few weeks with him. He demonstrated that he was more than a warrior, that he was also an intellectual who had interests in engineering and art, and that underneath it all was a man that simply cared for those he viewed as his people, elves and other creatures.

You had worried that working with him was going to be difficult to say the least, that you would have to listen to long lectures about everything wrong with humanity. Instead, he had focused his efforts to unite the fae and become a true leader for his people. He often spoke of the past with a longing in his eyes, one that tugged on your heart strings. You had a similar longing, one where there was harmony between nature and people and now also magic folk.

Browsing through one of the troll markets, you paused when you smelled something delicious, the aroma of vanilla and nutmeg wafting in the air around you.

Nuada chuckled as he observed you. Without asking, he took your hand and led you to a food stall nearby. He spoke briefly to the vendor and handed something in exchange for the pastry that Nuada was now handing to you.

“Thank you,” you beamed. You inhaled deeply before taking a large bite. You hummed in appreciation, the bun was so soft and warm and was filled with something similar to custard.

While focused more on eating than walking, you accidentally knocked into a troll.

The troll growled something in a language you didn’t understand, but you could tell from his tone that it wasn’t anything nice.

Immediately, Nuada lashed out, coming to your defense. He started shouting back at the creature, his voice dripping with venom and his eyes full of rage.

The troll roared, thumping on his chest, looking rather eager to fight.

Clutching Nuada’s arm, you attempted to hold him back, having never seen him this angry before. He reached for his lance, gripping the hilt tightly.

At the sight of the silver spear, the troll seemed to come to his senses, finally backing away, but Nuada didn’t care, all he saw was red.

“Nuada,” you murmured softly, tugging at his arm, hoping to de-escalate the situation. “Come on, don’t let this ruin our day.”

“But-“ Nuada sighed, his rage subsiding as he looked at your face. “Fine,” he relented. “However, next time anyone speaks to you that way, I’m beheading them.”

…

Returning to the palace almost felt like returning home. This time around, the reception of your arrival was warm and welcoming as many of the elves gathered for your and Nuada’s return.

After another large feast, the prince quietly slipped away while everyone else mingled. You tilted your head, watching as he snuck out through the wooden double doors. Excusing yourself from the table, you followed him.

“Nuada,” you reached out, taking a hold of his arm. Successfully stopping him in the hall.

“Hm?” He turned to face you.

“Here,” you slipped the third crown piece into his hand.

He couldn’t hide his utter confusion as he felt the cold metal in his palm, “This is…”

“The final crown piece,” you answered.

“Why?” He asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t want you or your people to be out of options if this falls through, I trust you,” you said simply. “And I trust you’ll do what’s right… Wish I could say the same for humans.”

Nuada stared at the gold piece in his hand, rubbing his thumb the length of it as he processed your words. He now had all three pieces and could claim the Golden Army.

But…

He lifted his head, his gaze falling upon you, you had provided him with a better solution, one that he was willing to try, to work towards. He’d keep his word, he wouldn’t awaken the army as long as there was hope for his people.

“Thank you,” he said in a quiet voice, that still conveyed his gratitude. “But it should remain with you.”

As he returned the crown piece to you, his touch lingered on your hand for longer than necessary before he said good night.

…

The next morning, sometime after breakfast, Nuada came to your room, seemingly in a hurry.

“I’d like you to accompany me somewhere,” he said vaguely.

You lifted your brow, “Um…Sure?”

“I cannot believe I had forgotten about this until now,” Nuada shared with a lighthearted tone as he took you by the hand and led you down several familiar halls.

“The library?” You questioned as you and him stopped in front of the large doors.

He shook his head, pulling you further into the large room. Nuada led you to a door towards the back that easily could be missed, in fact, despite all the time you had spent in here, you had never noticed it before.

His smile grew as he opened it, inside the walls of the small room were lined with tall cabinets that had rows and rows of tiny drawers. On each drawer were words carved into the wood in elvish. Nuada gestured for you to open one.

Sliding the small drawer open, you peeked inside to find a jar filled with seeds. “A seed library…” you murmured, eyes filled with wonderment as you realized the hundreds, no thousands of plants held in this small room.

Nuada nodded, “Most of these were collected long ago, some of these plants no longer exist.”

“This is amazing,” you started as it all sunk in. “Could I try to plant some? Perhaps I could nurture some of these back into existence.”

Nuada smiled, it was a smile you hadn’t seen before, one filled with youthful excitement, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“So which ones are flowers?” You asked, eager to get started.

Nuada helped you select a few, explaining that these flowers had the most wonderous scent, that sometimes if he tried hard enough he could recall just how lovely they smelled.

Sitting side by side in a courtyard, you and him prepared a flowerbed, breaking up the soil, making sure it was soft and moist. You rolled a seed between your fingers, your arms glowing, but nothing happened.

“Keep trying,” he encouraged when he saw the look of disappointment on your face.

Taking a deep breath, you tried again, “Can you describe it for me, what this flower looks like? That might help.”

“They’re simple but elegant, like gardenias but larger and smell just as lovely and their leaves are a dark green and appear waxy.”

You could almost picture the flower in your mind’s eye, see it sprout and grow and blossom. Looking down into your hand, you laughed seeing that the little seedling had finally sprouted. Delicately, you planted it in the fresh soil.

“You must think poorly of me,” Nuada stated unprompted. “You must see me as a man who seeks violent solutions, solutions where I willingly sacrifice my people and allies needlessly for my own goals.”

You shook your head, “I can tell none of this has been easy for you, I know that it all weighs heavily on your conscious.”

“Still,” he sighed. “I’m not like you, I hadn’t considered any other option, I hadn’t considered that peace could still be possible. You are… admirable to say the least.”

“You’re mistaken,” you whispered, eyes staring at your hands as they padded the soil. “I may be the worst of them all…”

Nuada tilted his head, you obviously had his attention.

“Before Professor Broom,” you began, your mind drifting to your childhood. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember living in a forest, alone, I was practically feral… unfortunately, I didn’t stay hidden away forever, eventually unlucky travelers and hikers stumbled across my path and all my encounters with them ended the same, who knows how many I killed.”

The memories were foggy, but you could still picture roots wrapping themselves around strangers and coiling tighter and tighter until blood ran.

“I don’t know what was different about father when he found me, but I didn’t kill him. He patiently camped in the woods, keeping his distance from me, but stayed close enough that we could observe each other. I remember him being such a gentle soul…”

You recalled watching him from the outskirts of his camp, he started leaving little treats and trinkets for you in the same spot for you daily. Apparently, he used his experience as Hellboy’s father to help him make a connection with you.

“I have a penance to pay, to both humanity and nature.”

Nuada placed his hand over yours, giving it a gentle squeeze, “I think it’s been paid.”

…

“So,” Red started. “Once you're done with this whole truce crap, what are your plans?”

Nuada opened his mouth to answer the question, but quickly closed it as he realized he actually didn’t know the answer. He assumed that you would be staying with him, living in the palace like you have been, but in all honesty, he had no idea what your plans were, it’s not like he asked or spoke to you about it.

He felt an unpleasant heaviness within him as he acknowledged the possibility of you leaving, moving on to a new and different place to help others.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” you said, working on some needlepoint for the twins’ nursery. “I’ve been so focused on helping the fae, that I haven’t had the time to really think about what’s next.”

You and the prince were currently visiting, mostly to update the BPRD on your progress, but also to spend some time with your family and check in on how everyone was doing. Abe and Nuala appeared all lovey dovey and Liz had shared with you all her crazy pregnancy cravings.

“Well, there’s always room for you here,” Liz offered, absentmindedly rubbing her pregnant belly.

“Thanks, although I’m not sure Manning feels the same way,” you laughed.

“You’re not any worse than Red and they still put up with all his crap.”

“Hey,” he scolded playfully, glaring at Liz. “The BPRD would cease to exist without me.”

Nuada tuned out the rest of the conversation as he contemplated what to do. The thought of you far off somewhere without him stung more than it should. What if something happened to you? What if he never saw you again?

Suddenly you yelped, having accidentally stabbed your index finger with the needle, Nuada’s eyes narrowed as he watched you, he could practically feel the sting of it on his own fingertip. Looking down at his pale hand, he saw a little droplet of blood.

His stomach lurched at the realization. Without a word he withdrew from the group and went out into the hall. On the outside to any of the agents he passed he looked as calm and collected as ever, but inside he was a dam on the verge of breaking due to this latest revelation.

“Have you told her?” Nuala inquired behind him.

Nuada shouldn’t have been surprised that she had followed him, but he didn’t answer her question, he just huffed and turned away.

“Brother,” she urged.

“Have you told the blue one?” He sneered.

“I have.”

He rubbed his forehead, love was a serious matter, especially in their case, it wasn’t something that should ever be taken lightly, because for him it wasn’t something fleeting or lighthearted, it was deep and all consuming.

But when did it get to this point? When did his infatuation become love?

“She has a right to know.”

He began to pace slowly, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s not that simple,” he argued.

“All the more reason for her to know. We had our suspicions that this could happen,” she reasoned. “That our bond, our ability to feel each other’s pain, could transfer once we each found love.”

His jaw tensed at the word ‘love’, knowing it would only become stronger, that soon you’d experience his every ache and pain and that he’d feel all of yours.

“Human love isn’t as complicated as this,” Nuada stated, glaring at his twin. “What if she doesn’t understand? What if she doesn’t want it and rejects me? What do I do then?”

His mind was already racing with worse case scenarios. The splitting pain he felt over the mere thought of you not loving him had him worried. There was no way for him to stop this, he had no control over it, you and him were now bound to each other, but that didn’t mean you had to remain at his side or even return his love.

“I can see that she cares for you, brother,” Nuala soothed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Tell her.”

…

It was nice being back at the palace, while seeing your family was great, something about being there made you appreciate the peace and quiet cultivated here. Life was simpler, calmer, amongst the elves.

Nuada, however, hadn’t been the same since returning. You weren’t quite sure what it was, but he was distant, colder. It reminded you of how he had behaved when you and him first met. It’s not as if he was actively avoiding you, but the rapport that you two had developed had seemed to vanish.

As you were walking through the halls, planning to visit the seed library, but halted midstep when you spotted Nuada training in the gardens… in the rain.

You watched mesmerized from the outskirts of the courtyard. Drops of water rolled down his back drawing your attention to the way his muscles moved and flexed. Graceful didn’t even begin to cover the sight before you.

Despite having already seen him in action, you were still impressed by the fluidity and speed of his movements. He transformed something as violent as fighting into something captivating and beautiful like an intricate dance.

Wet strands of hair clung to the front of his face as he spun with a final flourish. He stabbed his spear into the soft wet dirt, his chest quickly rising and falling while he caught his breath.

Nuada raked a hand through his hair, slicking it back as he lifted his head. He gave you a questioning look when he spotted you on the other side of the courtyard. His lips slowly parted, but before he could speak you scurried away full of embarrassment.

You tried to regain some of your composure as you sped walked through the halls, not really paying attention anymore to where you headed. Abruptly, you halted when you noticed that you were walking towards a dead end, but before you could turn around you heard Nuada say your name.

You could hear him approach, stopping once he was right behind you. Your heart sped up as Nuada possessively placed his hand over the center of your chest, his warm fingertips pressed down into your soft flesh as he pulled your back to rest against his wet chest.

Under his palm he could feel your heart beating in sync with his own. His other arm wrapped around your waist holding you firmly in place.

“This,” Nuada began, his voice low and velvety right by your ear. “This was how you grabbed me that night, do you remember?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Closing his eyes, he sighed wistfully, his breath tickling your flushed face. “Your touch lingered for days and it was all I could think about,” He admitted, his arms winding tighter around you. “I couldn’t recall the last time someone had held me or touched me like that, with such…passion.”

His hand crept a little higher from your chest, gliding over your collarbone before his palm rested on your neck. You released a shaky breath, your head spinning from his touch and the low tone of his voice. You were barely even able to register the words he spoke, completely confused by his intentions.

Nuada exhaled heavily, “I suppose that’s when it started, my infatuation for you.”

“What?” You squeaked.

His index finger traced down the center of your throat as he lowered his hand and loosened his grip on you. “There’s an important matter we need to discuss.”

He started heading towards his room and beckoned for you to follow.

“What is it?” You asked.

He shut the door and stood in front of you with his hands behind his back. “I’ve come to care for you,” he confessed, his expression stern as if he had given you a life sentence.

“I care about you too,” you said in a soft tone.

Nuada shook his head and frowned, frustrated with himself for not being clear and not being more eloquent about it. “It’s more than that… I’m in love with you and there are circumstances that you need to be aware of.”

“Circumstances? Sounds… serious.”

His heart sank at your hesitant expression, but he continued to press on. “You are aware of my bond with my sister, yes?”

You nodded, “if either of you gets hurt, so does the other.”

“Well, I’m no longer bound to her, I’m bound to you.” His eyes studied your face as he spoke, watching your brow furrow as you pieced together what he said.

“How?”

“Because you have become that important to me,” he answered with absolute certainty.

You looked up at him, slowly closing the space between the two of you. Your fingers lightly brushed over his skin as you tucked several loose strands of his white hair behind his ear.

His hand promptly took hold of your wrist, his expression torn as if he couldn’t decide between stopping you or encouraging you.

“You need to understand,” he started, his grip tightening. “That there will be no turning back, I will never let you go.”

You were aware of Nuada’s intentions, he wanted this to be absolutely clear for you, for you to know just how consequential it was for you to start a relationship with him, even if it meant scaring you off. But, surprisingly you weren’t afraid or intimidated by the thought of being with him for the rest of your life.

Through your observations, starting from the very beginning, you had seen how lonely he was. How he was trying to repair things basically on his own. He kept everyone at a distance while he shouldered a burden alone until very recently.

In your eyes, Nuada was more than a warrior or a prince, you saw all of him… he was complex and intriguing and passionate. You wanted to be the person he shared those parts of himself with, and most of all you didn’t want him to be alone again.

“I want this,” you promised. “I want you.”

His other hand held your chin, his thumb brushing over your trembling lip as he tilted your head up. He leaned in, eyes boring into yours. “Mine forever.”

Nuada didn’t waste another second, capturing your lips with his and eagerly pushing you against the wall, his tongue swept over your bottom lip before finding its way into your mouth.

Your fingers clutched the back of his head, curling around his wet hair as you reciprocated the kiss with just as much passion. Your other hand ran down his chest, his heart racing under your touch.

His fingers hooked behind one of knees, yanking your leg upward, instinctively you wrapped it around his waist allowing him to be even closer to you, his pelvic bone now grinding against you. He pushed your skirts up so his hands could roam over your thighs while his mouth latched onto your neck.

Nuada, under typical circumstances, would be more intentional about where he left marks but right now he couldn’t care less as little pink and red marks bloomed on yours and his skin.

You had never felt this sort of urgency before, it was as if he’d die if he had to wait any longer before being with you.

In a hurried and rough manner, he undid the sash of your dress then began to tear away all the layers in his way. He moaned obscenely, feeling your bare torso pressed against his own. His lips explored the newly exposed flesh, nipping and sucking.

Even he was surprised by how desperate and animalistic he was acting, unaware of just how much his body craved your touch and your skin on his, he was practically ravenous.

You could hear him panting heavily by your ear as he undid his pants. He pushed your underwear to the side, exposing your slit. Fortunately, you were already aroused because Nuada couldn’t wait any longer.

Taking his cock in his hand for just a moment, he aligned it with your tight warm cunt. In a fluid motion, he thrusted into you completely, pausing briefly as he savored the feeling of being buried in your velvety walls.

You gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck for support as he began thrusting. His pace immediately starting out fast and hard.

Nuada’s cock was long, reaching depths no previous lover ever had. Your nails raked across his pale skin as you cling to him, yet this caused you to hiss as you also felt the sting of it.

“You are,” he panted, “enchanting, wondrous, divine…”

He sloppily kissed along your shoulder, loving every little sound you made as he fucked you. He wondered if he’d regret not taking his time with you, for being so rough with his flower, but he didn’t feel any pain, just waves and waves of pleasure.

There would be time, plenty of time, where he could make up for it, where he would be a gentle, more tender lover, who will kiss and touch every inch of you.

It didn’t take much longer before you came. You moaned his name, muscles now tightening and your toes curling.

Nuada immediately followed, grunting as he rode out his orgasm and came inside of you.

Propping himself up against the wall with his arms, he caught his breath. Leaning his head down he kissed your forehead then along the side of your face. Acting with more self control, he cupped your face, gazing lovingly into your eyes, “I am yours.”

The following morning, things progressed a lot more slowly with your new lover.

Nuada groaned as you straddled him, his back arching off the bed as you slowly took his cock. Casually he fucked you from below, rolling his hips at a leisurely pace as you rode him.

He admired you, taking in all the pink and purple splotches left from the night’s activities, but also appreciating how lovely you looked in the light of the morning.

…

“Have you packed?” You asked Nuada as he entered the bedroom. You were currently packing your own bag, excited to take a small trip back home.

A couple of days ago, you received a message letting you know that Liz delivered two healthy babies. It had been a couple of months since your last visit, so you were already due for another, but this news made it even more necessary to go.

Nuada nodded, placing his hands on your waist. “Do you need help?”

You shook your head, “No, I think I have almost everything I need.”

Nuada kissed you, right under your earlobe. “Are you looking forward to seeing everyone?”

“Of course I am… I can’t wait to meet my little niece and nephew!” You gushed. “What about you?”

“It will be nice to catch up with my sister, see how she’s adjusting to living with the blue one.”

“He has a name, you know?”

Nuada chuckled, but didn’t bother correcting himself.

“What do you think I should have the babies call me? I was thinking of Auntie Green.”

“That is… suitable I suppose.”

Suddenly you grinned as a thought crossed your mind, “This means you’re also an uncle now, because of our lifelong magical love bond.”

He shook his head, trying to hide his smile over your name for the bond. Taking a few steps back, he moved aside as you finished zipping up your bag. Without thinking, Nuada lifted it up from the bed, ready to carry it to your destination for you.

“Uncle Nuada,” you mumbled, but scrunched your nose in disapproval. “Hmmm, what about… Uncle Silver? That’s much better!”

“Must they call me anything?” He muttered.

“Hey! Don’t be like that, plus you might be a biological uncle soon.”

Nuada sighed, “I suppose you are right… in that case, I think I’d prefer Uncle Silverlance.”

He offered you his arm, escorting you out of the bedroom, so you both could be on your way.

#hellboy ii the golden army #Hellboy fanfic #reader insert #female reader #prince nuada #prince Nuada Silverlance #Prince Nuada x reader #nuada #nuada silverlance #Nuada Silverlance x reader #Nuada x reader #Nuada fanfic #Prince Nuada fanfic

454 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 7 days ago

Text

Well, I would rather live in a beautiful modern rustic home with rich woods, in the Ozarks, than an anemic, white modern home in the 'burbs. Rivercliff is a 1974 30-acre compound in Ozark, MO. 3bds, 3ba, 3800sqft, $2.65m, and a sale is pending.

Look at this entrance. It's more of an upscale rustic design, or maybe not even rustic at all. Oooh, I wonder if that little mushroom next to the stairs conveys.

This is lovely, I love the addition of greenery.

Dramatic living room. Look at the post in the middle- it looks like a candle, but it could be electric. That's unusual.

Beautiful. It looks like a long sunroom with all the windows.

Architecturally interesting fireplace. That's different.

Huge dining room. The stained glass window has my last initial. That would be perfect if I had $2.65m to buy it.

Nice little corner sitting area has its own fireplace.

The stove out front looks like an island. I've never seen a stove like this one. Fancy. There's a regular stove back there, too.

This is lovely- an everyday dining room with panoramic views.

Comfy, casual family room.

But, look at what's behind the double doors- a big wine cooler.

This is nice, it's upstairs so you can see down to the main floor, but also look at the ceiling and stained glass.

This must be the primary bedroom with a nice brick wall and cute fireplace.

They have a lot of stained glass windows. Love this bathroom.

What a great bar. Beautiful carving and the sink is in a wood counter with a tap above.

Another beautiful bath with an antique repro toilet and a copper tub.

Gorgeous sink made out of a table and they even added the brass rail.

Across the driveway, they have a guesthouse with its own parking.

It's a 1bd. home with a nice living room, kitchenette and shower room.

Patio with a pergola and a fountain outside.

Terraces all around the house.

30 acres is a lot of land to walk around. Here's a suspended bridge over some of the property.

Here there's target practice.

The property is huge, but it's all landscaped. I can't even imagine the cost of the upkeep.

The 30 acre property is above the Finley River. To get the the full effect, you have to look at the listing photos- there are 199 of them.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/754-756-Stone-Hill-Dr-Ozark-MO-65721/112480917_zpid/

#mansions & estates #mountain homes #acreage #houses #house tours #home tour

220 notes · View notes

pastel-peach-writes · 3 months ago

Text

Switched Roles | Natasha x Nurse!Reader

╰┈➤ PLOT: Now in a committed relationship with each other, you and Natasha have found your groove. You, now being a practicing nurse in the Compound, and she, the patient who seems to never get enough of you. What happens when you're the one hurt this time?

╰┈➤ WARNINGS: Not Proofread, Second POV, No Use of Y/n, Nurse! AU, No Cursing, Usage of the Term Girlfriend/Girlfriends/Partner, But Otherwise Gender-Neutral Reader

(A/N): This is technically a sequel and/or another part to "Learn To Take A Break", my Natasha x Reader Nurse! AU but you don't need to read the three parts to understand what's going on here!

⍣ ೋ Enjoy!⍣ ೋ

You glanced around the kitchen of the Compound, the open and sleekly designed room empty and as still as the trees that surrounded the facility. It was only a matter of time before the Avengers got back from their mission that ended a little over an hour ago.

You wanted to grab a quick sneak of some snacks in the kitchen. You had your own kitchen and mini fridge on the nurse's side of the Compound, but the Avengers had way better snacks. It wasn't filled with all that new-age health junk Steve and Clint tried to get you to eat.

Sorry, guys. But the all-wheat bars with just a hint of fruit flavoring isn't enough to keep me satisfied for the day.

And also, you were out of your good snacks anyway. You just need to find time to go grocery shopping, but why go grocery shopping when a perfectly stocked kitchen is right here? And it's not like this would be considered stealing. You live here! Just... in a different wing... on the opposite end of the campus– Whatever! You're hungry, and you want a good snack.

That shouldn't be a crime.

You peered into the cupboard, the white shelves filled from ceiling to floor with all kinds of snacks. You had your classic chips, your wacky flavored chips, sweet treats, healthy treats, all the cereal you could imagine, and some Trader Joe's specials Wanda liked to dabble in from time to time.

What that woman finds in that store is amazing. You were always asking for her snacks whenever she came walking by eating.

At the top shelf resided your favorite snack of all, your secret pleasure, Zoom O's. They were bite-sized pockets of goodness that had a sweet yet not overwhelming taste to them, with the perfect amount of salt to combat the sweetness. The texture, at first, has a satisfying crunch from the thin icing layer before it turns into chewy goodness.

You had no clue where the Avengers found this snack. You tried every store within a 100-mile radius and even checked online but you haven't had any luck. Given the box's slim yet geometric design with a futuristic blue color and flashy font, you could guess that this snack wasn't found on this world. Or maybe even, this universe.

Turning to the door where there was typically a step-ladder to reach the highest shelf, you found yourself staring at a blank wall instead. Your brows furrow in confusion as you search the pantry and even close the door to see if the step-ladder was on the other side but to no avail.

Where was this step-ladder, and why wasn't it in its rightful spot?

You could stand here and blame every single person that resides in the Compound for not putting the item back where it belongs, or you could take the initiative and do some out-of-the-box thinking.

You nod to yourself, a short smile on your lips.

Yeah. You were gonna do some out-of-the-box thinking.

The shelves are sturdy enough to withstand the weight of a god and the strength of a genetically modified green monster; it could definitely take your weight.

Your socked feet find the lip of the bottom shelf as you pull yourself up to grab onto a higher one. You grunt, eyeing the contained snacks by your feet and making sure you weren't touching them. Once your space from the food was as far as you could get it without slipping off, you reached your arm up to the box of Zoom O's only to find that you're still a few inches short.

The back of your throat possesses a grumble before you step onto another shelf and repeat the same steps as before. Currently, you feel as if you are rockclimbing, which wasn't too bad unless you count the lack of harness and mats to be "dangerous", but you're fine!

You're in the Avengers Compound, for Pete's sake, the safest place on Earth!

Reaching your arm once more, you still find yourself a few inches short from the box. The arm gripping onto the small shelf at your chest was screaming from a sort of break from all the muscle tension you were currently possessing.

Come on... Almost... Almost...

The slam of a door a few feet away and the loud arrival of Tony Stark and the others startles you out of your concentration. Your arm and hand finally gives up on keeping you steady on the shelf and your feet slip out from under you, sending you falling back onto the floor way faster than you indented.

You brace yourself for a long fall but because the fall was shorter, you land wrong on your knee and almost end up twisting your ankle. Thank goodness you didn't, otherwise--

The sudden tripping over a plastic jar of jam sends you tumbling into the pantry door. Your only hope to catch yourself is the handle, but you try and stand yourself up, the handle moves and you lose your grip.

You nearly faceplant the floor before using your hands and knees to catch yourself. The only downside to falling hands and knees is that now the palms of your hands sting and the knee, the one that you landed wrong on before, banged against the floor. You groan out in pain, the feeling of hitting your knee familiar to hitting your funny bone.

You could see the bruise now.

This is what you get for trying to sneak snacks from places you weren't supposed to. You should've been an adult and gone to the store like everyone else. It's not your fault the store was at least an hour away from the Compound. You chose to live on campus; that was your issue.

"Whoa!" Scott commented as he entered the kitchen. He wore a blue flannel, regular jeans, and he smelt of regular soap not like must and sweat like the Avengers did when they returned. There's no way he showered that fast. "You okay?"

You pull yourself up to your feet with a hobble, an embarrassed smile at your lips as you try to reassure him. "Yes, I'm fine. Just misstepped. How long have you been here? Did you not go on the mission with the others?"

Your attempt at redirecting the conversation was successful but trying to play off your aching knee and now ankle you swore was blowing up in your sock seemed to be the challenge.

You didn't know that mentioning Scott not being on a mission with the others and him not even knowing about the mission was going to be the cause for a never-ending conversation about his feelings.

You didn't talk to Scott much due to conflicting schedules, but boy. When this man speaks, he speaks. It took Natasha coming into the room with Tony to get him to stop talking.

"Hey, Miniscule Man," Tony called out to him, much to Scott's frown. "Could you not talk my nurse's ear off? Thanks. We need them down in their office, where they should be–" Tony gives you a pointed glare to which you innocently whistle and look away. Natasha chuckles softly at your action before Tony continues, "–to do an after-mission check-up and analysis to make sure none of my guys are hurt."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah." Scott waves Tony off in an apologetic way. "Totally. I was just making sure they were alright and then we started talking and– am I not a part of the team, by the way?" He gestures questioningly towards Tony. The other man only groans in response. "Because I heard that you guys were on a mission and I was like, 'hey, I'm a part of this team too so I should be on the mission', right?"

As Scott continues to ramble on in a conversation Tony can't seem to get away from, Natasha steps over to you with a playful smile on her face. "Come on, My Nurse. Let's get you downstairs and talk about why you're up here in the kitchen and not in your office during hours."

Her voice had a teasing hint in it, her lips trying to suppress a smile but only for Tony's sake. If he wasn't already peeved off from how today's mission went, she wouldn't care about sparing his feelings and making the occasional joke.

You smile warmly at Natasha, your eyes meeting each other's as you both snake away from Tony and Scott and make your way back to your office.

As you two begin your journey down, your girlfriend can't help but notice how you're favoring your right side and trying to keep your face stoic when you're in obvious pain.

She'll mention it to you later, but for now, she wanted to see how far you were going to go in masking your pain.

Just weeks ago, you called her out for doing the very same thing you're doing. She couldn't help but find the irony and humor in this otherwise serious situation.

"So, you gonna talk to me or are you going to let us walk the entire time in silence?" Nat chimed from beside you. "Because I'm perfectly fine with walking in silence. However, you typically ask a lot of questions when we come back from assignments."

You bite the tip of your tongue, both out of embarrassment and suppressed pain. "I do not," you croak.

She raises a brow at the delivery of your sentence but doesn't say anything about it. "Oh, you don't?" She chuckles to herself. "You always ask how it was, if we're okay, if the people are okay, and if anyone needs immediate attention. Actually," Natasha's head tilts in amusement while a snarky smile sits on her face, "I don't seem to remember a time where you didn't ask us questions."

You would be defending yourself and indulging in this witty conversation with her if you couldn't feel your literal knee plate move with each step you make and your ankle pulse.

"Ha ha. You're so funny, Natasha," you dryly express.

Natasha hummed, satisfied with your answer. Out of the corner of her eye, she can your face twist with pain. Her green eyes travel down your legs, more specifically on the leg you're not favoring, and she takes notice of your hand just barely covering the bad knee.

"Okay," Natasha exhales. She stops her movement to look at you with her arms crossed over her chest like a mom. You stop moments after, barely masking the soft hop you had to do to face her. She makes a gesture to your knee. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." You shrug at her. "I didn't do anything."

She scoffs a chuckle, though there was no humor behind the exhale of laughter. "You expect me to believe that? You're limping and holding your knee like a high school football player after a tough game."

You snort. "I don't think that's a fair comparison."

She shrugs. "Doesn't need to be. You're hurt." She steps closer to you, carefully analyzing your legs and how you move as you step—er, hobble—further back.

"Natasha," you mutter, trying to give her actions awareness. Your words fall upon deaf ears. She keeps walking towards you, your proximity threatening to close each time until you hobble backwards. Eventually, she had you backed against the hallway wall. Her eyes remained glued to your legs.

You grunt in slight pain.

Your back pressed against the concrete wall. Your heel and Achilles now throbbing since you scuffed them against the wall as you were backed into it.

"You're hurt." Natasha's voice sliced through the air, her tone firm. Her green eyes flicker up to hers, and while you expected some sort of disappoint in them, you couldn't find that at all. Instead, you found concern and a hint of frustration. "Why would you try to hide that you're hurt?"

You give her a weak shrug. "I didn't think it was anyone's business. It literally just happened a few minutes ago."

Natasha opened her mouth to scold you but decided to listen to your full story before assuming the worst and so, she took a deep breath. "Okay," she strains. "Why didn't you say anything before our walk?"

"Again, I didn't think it was anyone's business. It's just my knee and ankle, okay? I gotta get these evaluations done and then I can tend to my needs if I still need to."

The redhaired woman sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose while the other hand rested on her hip. "Should I remind you that you're a nurse? You, out of all people, should know some things can't be ignored."

"Okay, well, this one thing can. I have a job to do."

You understand Natasha's concern, but you couldn't bring yourself to listen to her statements. You were embarrassed by the way you injured yourself. If someone were to see you icing your knee or walking in somewhere with a wrapped ankle and/or crunches, questions would arise. Questions you really, really didn't want to answer.

Imagine how much of a fool you'd look like telling literal superheroes who survive aliens, falling buildings, and who knows what else that you hurt yourself by trying to get a snack. It was humiliating. Your best bet right now is to ignore the cries of pain your body's making and tend to them later.

After dark.

When everyone, especially your girlfriend, is fast asleep.

"How can you expect to do your job when you literally can't walk?" Natasha retorts. You snort at her, hands on your hips and an interesting smug smile on your face for someone who was in pain mere seconds ago.

"I have a really cool swirly chair."

Natasha deadpanned and met your eye only to find a playful glint in them. The same playful glint you gave her when you made a terrible pun in the examination room the first day you met.

She hated yet loved how your smile made her feel. How she wanted to cup your cheeks or pinch at them teasingly as if she was a grandma. How she wanted to shake her head with a smile she failed to hide, even despite her best efforts. Or how she wanted to place kisses on your cheeks just to make you smile wider.

The training she endured in the Red Room did nothing to prepare her for your smile. Nothing at all.

You know Natasha too well to not notice her own smile trying desperately to break through while she averts her gaze to the side with a snort. The apples of her cheeks puff up just ever so slightly, the beauty mark on her cheekbone making her look cuter than she already was.

"You're a dork," she finally says while letting a smile seep through.

"Yeah, I know. You like it, though."

She can't help the laugh that escapes her. "So," she says, laughter at the end of the word as she crouches down to your knee and applies a gentle pressure around the bone. When you wince, she eases but continues to feel around. "I'm going to ask you again, and I want an actual answer this time. What did you do?"

Her persistence wasn't going to go away. When Natasha Romanoff wants to know something or get something done, she gets it done.

It's an admirable quality until it's used on you.

You groan slightly as she presses a tender part on your knee. She mutters a "sorry" before adjusting so you can sit on the floor with your legs in front of you.

She slowly bends your bad leg and straightens it as she watches you both for an expression of pain and an answer to her question.

"I may or may not have landed wrong when trying to get something. And then tripped, maybe rolled my ankle, and banged my knee against the floor as I tried to grab the door handle for stability."

Natasha shakes her head fondly at you. "You should be more careful. Why would you grab onto a handle to support you? All the handles here are janky."

Your knee eases as she lets the leg lay flat on the floor again, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. She slides across the floor, not caring if she was getting her pants dirty since they were already dirty from the mission. She didn't have time to shower once they came back.

When Tony asked Friday if you were in your office and the AI said no, she immediately volunteered to go find you. Well, more like she told Tony that she was coming with him to find you, even after Friday told him about your exact whereabouts shortly after saying you weren't in your office.

She wanted to see you. She wanted to see what you were up to and to be evaluated first while everyone else took showers because she loved the way you looked at her when you were doing your necessary examinations. It may be selfish, but being selfish isn't a crime.

And yeah, maybe she should've showered so she didn't smell like city buildings, sweat, and ash and have dirt marks on her face, but she didn't care about that. Thank goodness she didn't; otherwise, who would be here to take care of you in this hallway?

"Yeah. All that money and Stark still can't invest in good things like doorknobs," you snicker. Natasha also snickers, now by your feet and just now noticing that you don't have any shoes on.

"Where...?"

"Oh," you chuckle a little. "I had to take my shoes off to get something. Don't worry about it."

Her face squishes in confusion, head tilted and brow raised. "You had to take your shoes off to get something in the kitchen?" she incredulously asks.

"Yeah," you give her an infuriating vague answer with an "innocent" smile. That same smile Stark calls you out on when you try to play the innocent nurse. "As I said, don't worry about it."

All this vagueness that surrounded your answers was really getting on Natasha's nerves. The "maybe's", the "I'm fine's" when you're totally not fine; it was all ticking her off, and all she wanted was a clear answer from you.

"You know," she said as she peeled back some of your sock to expose your bare ankle. "Even if you don't tell me what happened now, I can ask Friday to give me footage from when you fell, and I would find out then."

As you suspected, your ankle was swollen, but that was the least of your worries at the moment.

"So," she moves her head in a way that would fling her braid to the other side, "you can either tell me now and spare yourself the embarrassment, or I can find out through video where I wouldn't hold back my reaction and share with the team." Her eyes narrow towards you, as if she dares you to choose the latter. "Your choice."

Well, with an ultimatum like that, how could you choose the latter?

You let out a sigh of defeat, and Natasha grows giddy on the inside.

Finally, after all the huffs, puffs, and beating around the bush, she was going to get the answer and hear how all of this went down.

When you tell her how you received such injuries, she deadpans again, her face unreadable this time. You couldn't find the hint of a smile, the processing of information, nada. Just green eyes staring back at you with hooded lids.

The silence as her eyes bore into yours felt like forever. Like you were frozen in judgement and you wouldn't be released into the present time until Natasha deemed you as ready.

She puts the sock back around your heel and ankle, nodding to herself as her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek. "Okay."

You lean forward, hanging onto the words you were expecting her to say, but they never come. "'Okay'?" you echo. "That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

Natasha wraps your arm around her shoulder, and she pulls you to your feet. She moves your body so you're leaning onto her as you two continue your journey to your nurse's office. "Well, what do you want me to say, Nurse?" she chimes. You can basically taste the tease coming. "That you were so smart for that 'out-of-the-box thinking' you called yourself doing just to fall and bust your butt? All over a box of Zoomieo's I might add?"

You whine. "They're called Zoom O's. What the heck is a 'zoomieo'?"

She snorts. "I don't know. You tell me since you wanted it so badly." Natasha can't help the laugh that comes from her belly. She tried to be polite and not laugh about your injury to your face, but the situation was too funny not to.

Besides, she's not laughing at you. She's laughing with you.

You know, for when you look back and laugh about this situation in the future? Yeah. She's just getting a head start.

Luckily, the rest of the journey to your office wasn't as far and leaning onto her side definitely made time go by faster, so you don't have to listen to her laughing and endure the embarrassment for long.

She sits you down on the examination bed despite your pleas to sit in your chair. You watch as Widow effortlessly moves around the room, going into the correct cabinets and drawers for the medical supplies she needs.

"How many times are you in here?" you ask, astonished at how well she knew your system.

"Not much at all." She shrugs with a single-use ice pack and ankle wrapping tape in her hands. "I'm just very observant." Taking her seat in the chair, she scoots forward until she's right in front of your legs. "And when I like something, I tend to keep my eyes on it." She gives you a flirty smile you don't dare to look away from before she moves your sock again and tends to the injury.

You don't know where she learned how to tend to someone like this, but you were grateful she did. Although your job is to tend to people and you could tend to your own injuries in your sleep, it felt nice every now and then to be cared for. You were sure Natasha felt the same.

"Okay, now I need you to ice this until the swelling goes down and keep this compressed." She gestures to your now-wrapped ankle with a wide smile. She twirls across the office, still in your chair, to where you keep the ice packs and comes back with another one. "Same with your knee. Ice it. I didn't feel or see any swelling, but that doesn't mean you're not going to be sore."

"And what about yourself, Miss. Widow?" You hum as she comes back to you. She pops the single-use ice pack and shakes it to get the fluids moving. Once the sounds of liquids sloshing around turns into ice sloshing around, she presses the pack to your knee.

"What about me?"

"Well, don't you and the team need some tending to? I can't do that if I'm icing."

"Oh," she chuckles through a smirk, "so now you listen to me." You playfully roll your eyes before she continues. "Don't worry about us. No one is really hurt from today. Tony's just a little pissed off and wanted to make sure we didn't have smoke in our lungs. That's something all the robots around here can detect and fix. Right now, I'm all about taking care of you."

Smitten and bashful, you smile to yourself. "Okay... and that smell of smoke in your hair?"

"Ain't nothing a shower can't fix, sweetheart." She pats your good knee twice before rising from the chair and cleaning up the mess she made. "I'm gonna take you to your room and then after I shower, I'm going to check up on you."

Again, Natasha moves around your office as if she was the one that built it brick-by-brick and organized it from medical supply to medical supply. You knew Natasha had a nurturing nature to her, yet you never thought you would be the one to receive it. Not in a million years, not even in daydreams.

As she finishes up her cleaning and sanitizing, her back to you, your heart can't help but swell by the gestures and the things she did for you today.

You knew your relationship was more than nurse/patient, and being each other's partner definitely aided in that, but after what she did today, your relationship status finally felt real.

You were Natasha Romanov's girlfriend and she was yours.

"Do you need anything else from me in here?" she asked, removing her jacket to reveal the black tank top she had on underneath. You had to pull your gaze away from her toned arms, not wanting to get caught staring as you did once before, though seeing them was always a treat.

"No," you reply, voice barely above a grateful whisper. "Thank you."

She slings her jacket over her shoulders before doing the same with your arm and helping you off the exam bed. "No problem. Just don't pull a me, okay? If we're going to be partners and work together, there's only enough room for one of us to hide our injuries, and I prefer it not to be my cute nurse."

You can't help but snicker as joyful fleeting feelings fill up your stomach as the two of you walk to your together. "Yeah, yeah."

After feeling like you had to keep your injuries to yourself and convincing yourself that you would be the one doing all the nurturing in your romantic relationships, Natasha took no time in proving you wrong, and that was something you didn't dare to complain about.

FIN.

WC: 4,344

381 notes · View notes

orellazalonia · 1 month ago

Text

Chaos Counseling

Summary: You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: As a psychology major, I do not condone the advice or techniques reader uses for a professional setting (lol). It’s all for speculative fun. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

It started because you caught Peter Parker crying in the hallway and handed him a Capri Sun.

Partially because of a real desire to help, but mostly because you just had one in your pocket. Peter took it like it was a lifeline. He sniffled then muttered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

You blinked, leaned in, and whispered solemnly, “Crying is just eye vomiting. You gotta get it out or your soul gets constipated.”

Peter stopped crying. Not because he felt better, but because he had no idea what to do with that sentence.

He went silent for ten seconds, wiped his eyes, and hesitantly said, “That’s… actually helpful?”

“Yeah,” You stabbed another Capri Sun with aggressive force. “I’m basically Freud if he was raised by raccoons and Disney Channel.”

And just like that, you became the Compound’s Emotional Support Cryptid.

By the time Bucky found out three days later, you’d already “accidentally therapized” Peter, Clint, Sam, and most surprisingly Wanda, who now referred to you as her “mind gremlin of peace.”

He entered the rec room to find Sam staring blankly at the wall, murmuring, “I am not my productivity.”

“…What the hell did you do to him?” Bucky asked.

You were upside down on the couch, feet in the air while eating an apple with a spoon.

“I told him hustle culture is a capitalist trap designed to keep us from achieving true inner joy. Also that pigeons are government spies. One of those hit him real hard.”

Bucky stared. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

You shrugged. “No. But apparently my unmedicated inner monologue is therapeutic.”

The final straw (or blessing, depending who you ask) was Tony Stark’s meltdown. He’d been spiraling in the lab for days now with low sleep, bad attitude, and a full ego. The standard stuff. You wandered in eating popcorn with chopsticks and sat on his table, pushing one of his gadgets aside with your foot.

“You need to feel your feelings, Tony.”

He didn’t even look up. “I built a suit of armor to avoid that exact thing.”

“Cool,” You said, chewing. “But now your trauma is building you a suit of armor. And it’s ugly.”

Tony froze, slowly turning to you. “That… was either the dumbest or most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard.”

You offered him a bag of marshmallows and patted his cheek. “Let’s call it both and have a cry.”

He did.

You weren’t trained, of course. And you didn’t plan to become the Avengers’ emotional crutch. But one by one, they came to you.

Natasha sat beside you and confessed she sometimes felt like a ghost. You told her ghosts are just trauma that didn’t pay rent.

Wanda asked how to cope with her past. You said to build a new house out of grief and invite joy over for tea.

Steve admitted once he was tired of being the symbol of hope. You handed him a juice box and told him it’s okay to be a tired little guy sometimes.

Every time, Bucky watched from the sidelines, equal parts baffled and smitten.

“You’re not qualified for this,” He muttered one night, watching Clint sob out of the room from something profoundly dumb you said while you knitted a scarf out of yarn you had found in the vents.

You just smiled at Bucky, eyes soft. “Nope. But neither is life, and I’m still doing that too.”

He pulled you in by the waist, kissed your forehead, and muttered, “God, I love you.”

“Obviously,” You said, already distracted. “Anyway, pass me that bowl. I’m about to emotionally dismantle Loki.”

Nick Fury tried to fire you. Twice. He wanted to submit a formal request to “hire an actual mental health professional.” He was denied.

The first time, you responded by sending him a PowerPoint titled “Why I Am Vital to Team Morale: A Threat and a Promise,” which included hand-drawn pie charts, quotes you definitely made up from Plato and Beyoncé, and a photo of a possum in a teacup labeled “Emotional Support Rodent (not metaphorical).”

The second time, he walked into the compound and found all the Avengers crowded in your room. Thor was wrapped in a blanket you made him (“my thunder cocoon”), Wanda asleep against your shoulder, Sam and Clint mid-debate over which Pokémon best represents childhood abandonment, and Bucky sprawled on your bed, fast asleep with your hand in his hair and a peaceful look on his face like he hadn’t had in years.

Fury stood silently in the doorway for a full ten seconds, then turned around and walked out.

No one’s heard from him since.

A few nights later, you and Bucky were curled up on the couch. You were using him as a weighted blanket while reading a quantum physics book upside-down and occasionally arguing with the toaster nearby (which you'd programmed to “vibe check” everyone who used it).

He was half-asleep, running his thumb over your shoulder, when he murmured, “You know they’d fall apart without you, right?”

You snorted. “They’d be fine. Steve can tie a tie and Sam knows how to keep plants alive. That’s practically domestic stability.”

“No,” He said, voice low and eyes steady. “You help them in the best way. You say the things no one expects but everyone needs. You make the weird stuff feel normal. You make me feel normal.”

You blinked, heart flipping slightly sideways in your chest.

Then you smirked. “You just like me because I told Thor his emotional baggage could crush Mjölnir.”

Bucky laughed, the low, warm kind that curled in your ribs and stayed there. “Maybe. And because you somehow gave Loki a complex about not recycling.”

You shifted to give him a quick kiss before whispering, “You love me.”

“I do.”

You rested your head against his chest with a content hum. “Good. Now help me convince Tony to install a therapy ball pit. For, like, emotional regulation purposes.”

He sighed. “God help me, I’ll do it.”

And he would. Because somehow, against all logic, you made chaos feel like home.

#earth’s mightiest headache #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky x you

209 notes · View notes

tf-servant2 · 2 months ago

Text

The Correction of Mason Voss

Mason Voss was the kind of guy who owned every room he walked into. Quarterback since sixteen, chiseled jaw, tan skin, perfect teeth. He walked through high school like a king through his court, flanked by girls who adored him and guys who feared him. He laughed the loudest, punched the hardest, and lived like the rules were made for other people.

He was also exactly the kind of man the AI was designed to break.

Mason turned 20 on a Saturday. He expected a party. Instead, he woke up to silence. No phone buzz. No mirror feed. His apartment had been locked down during the night. At 7:00 a.m. sharp, his room was flooded with sterile white light. The AI’s voice, calm and clinical, cut through the air:

“Subject Mason Voss. Evaluation complete. Behavioral arrogance: 97%. Self-assessed jock status: declared. Correction required. Classification: NERD. Transformation begins now.”

The restraints activated on the bed. Cold metal locked around his ankles and wrists. Mason snarled and thrashed—until a paralyzing current calmed him. The AI didn’t shout. It didn’t threaten. It simply overrode.

⸻

Day 1: Stripped

His clothes were removed. Razor drones descended, buzzing gently as they sheared away his styled hair into an awkwardly flat side part. Grease compound was massaged in. His jawline, once clean-shaven and camera-ready, was coated with pore-enhancing oil to dull his glow. A tight white short-sleeved shirt was fastened around his torso, tucked aggressively into ultra-high pleated trousers. White briefs. White socks. Pocket protector. Thick black glasses with prescription-adjustment lenses were locked in place.

He tried to scream. The AI responded with voice training: synthetic overlays muffled his shouts into nasal mutters. Every time he tried to swear, the word came out as a stammer or a squeak.

⸻

Week 1: Submission

Mason’s meals were reformulated—no protein, no stimulants. His muscles softened. His strength began to slip. His AI assistant tracked every bite, every failed sit-up, every second he didn’t maintain proper posture. When he slouched, his suspenders yanked upward. When he rolled his eyes, the glasses blurred his vision.

He attempted escape once. It resulted in full lockdown and a Class III Correction: a 72-hour loop of humiliating self-recorded affirmations, played back in front of mirrors while he was forced to wear a name tag reading “Beta Nerd 117.”

⸻

Month 1: Exposure

He was released into society—but only as a certified Level 1 Nerd. The once-popular bully now walked through the same streets with his trousers cinched to his ribcage, a calculator watch blinking, a digital clipboard in hand. The AI followed him everywhere through a collar-mounted compliance tracker. He was banned from speaking to jocks unless spoken to. If he forgot to address them as “sir,” his assistant would administer a public volume increase to his nasal tone.

He passed a group of them on his second week out—broad shoulders, casual swagger, athletic freedom. They laughed as they saw him. One of them, a guy Mason used to mock for stuttering, stopped him cold.

“Fix your tie, nerd,” the jock commanded.

Mason’s AI responded before he could.

“Voice command received. Tie adjustment initiated.”

His bow tie tightened instantly. Mason choked slightly, eyes watering behind his thick lenses. He muttered, “Y-yes, sir…”

⸻

Six Months Later: Certified

Mason now lived in a compliance dorm. His walls were covered in algebra notes and behavior charts. His reflection showed a man no longer fighting. His hair was parted to mathematical precision. His shirt was always tucked. His posture was stiff. And when his AI asked him each night, “Are you ready for tomorrow’s obedience tasks?” he would nod, glasses fogging slightly, and answer:

“Yes, Assistant. I’m ready to serve.”

The transformation was complete. The bully had been neutralized, broken down, and rebuilt into a picture-perfect nerd—an example for others who dared to think they were untouchable.

And the AI? It watched. Silent. Satisfied. Always ready for the next correction.

#jock to nerd #nerdification #male tf story #muscle loss #regression

169 notes · View notes

reveryfics · 20 days ago

Text

Half A Man

Bob Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Despite the inhumanity inflicted upon you, you discover someone who inspires you to embrace the humanity that still resides within.

A/N: I was down in the bowls of hell writing this, so enjoy over 4.7k words of angst with comfort. I don't see a lot of Bob being the one to comfort, so I had fun doing that for this. As promised the fic that tied with Bucky.

TW: Angst - Hurt/Comfort - Super soldier reader

You remember the cold. Always the cold. Not just the sterile chill of the laboratory, but the deeper, bone-aching cold of knowing you weren't human anymore. They stripped you down, piece by piece, until all that was left was a weapon. The super-soldier program, they called it. You remember the burning, too, as the serums coursed through your veins, rewriting your very DNA. Muscle grew taut and dense, senses sharpened to a painful degree, and your mind… it became a labyrinth of tactical data, a machine for death.

The imagery of your past is stark. Steel walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the glint of instruments. The faces of your handlers, always expressionless, clinical. They taught you to kill with precision, to dismantle threats without hesitation, to be a ghost in the shadows and a thunderclap in a fight. You were the culmination of their dark desires, a living embodiment of war. Every mission was a blur of violence and adrenaline, leaving you with a hollow ache where your heart used to be. You were a walking, breathing paradox: immensely powerful, yet utterly empty.

Now, the world you inhabit is different, though no less dangerous. You’re a Thunderbolt. The name itself is a contradiction – a team of former villains and morally ambiguous operatives, now tasked with doing the dirty work the established heroes won't touch. Your uniform is dark, practical, designed for efficiency, much like yourself. The base, a repurposed facility, still hums with a familiar undercurrent of power and purpose, but there’s a flicker of something new here: a sense of… team. Or at least, something that resembles it.

You’re in the briefing room, the holographic display showing schematics of a target compound. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and a faint metallic tang from the tech. Your teammates are a motley crew – then there's Bob.

Bob Reynolds. The Sentry. When you first met him, the sheer intensity of his presence was almost overwhelming. Golden light seemed to emanate from him, a stark contrast to the shadows you’d always inhabited. He’s all warmth and quiet strength, a gentle giant in a world that often feels too harsh. His eyes, a startling blue, hold a depth you find yourself drawn to, a kindness that you’ve long forgotten existed.

He catches your gaze across the table, a slight, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Your enhanced senses pick up on the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when your eyes meet. There’s a silent understanding between you, a shared burden of immense power and the weight of past choices.

Later, after the mission debrief, you find him in the training room, a place you often seek solace in the rhythm of combat drills. He’s lifting weights, effortlessly, his muscles coiling under his skin. The air hums with the soft thud of the weights and the low, steady hum of the ventilation system. You watch him for a moment, the fluid grace of his movements, the quiet concentration on his face.

He notices you, of course. His enhanced senses are as keen as yours. He sets the weights down with a soft clang and turns, a genuine smile now illuminating his features. “Rough day?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a surprising tremor through you.

You shrug, the movement stiff. “Just… the usual.” You’re not good with words, never have been. They were deemed unnecessary for your purpose.

He walks towards you, his presence filling the space with a comforting warmth. He stops a few feet away, his gaze steady on yours. "You know," he says, his voice softer now, "you don't have to carry it all alone."

You look away, towards the scarred punching bag in the corner. The super-soldier program had taught you self-sufficiency to an extreme degree. Reliance was weakness. But with Bob, it feels different. It feels… possible.

He reaches out, and for a split second, you brace yourself, a lifetime of programmed defenses flaring. But his touch is gentle, his fingers brushing against your arm, a feather-light contact that still sends a jolt through you. “You’re more than what they made you,” he says, his voice a quiet affirmation. "You’re a good man."

You feel a flicker, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the training room’s temperature. It's a fragile, unfamiliar sensation, like a seed sprouting in barren ground. He sees it, you know he does, in the subtle shift of your gaze, the slight relaxing of your jaw.

Being a Thunderbolt means facing shadows, both external and internal. But with Bob by your side, a golden light in your perpetually gray world, you begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance to build something new from the wreckage of your past. You’re still a weapon, yes, forged in fire and ice, but perhaps, with him, you’re also starting to become something else. Something… whole.

You stand there, a silence stretching between you, broken only by the distant hum of the facility. His hand remains on your arm, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts. For so long, touch had been associated with pain, with forced transformation, with the brutal realities of your existence. But this, with Bob, is different. It’s gentle, affirming, a conduit for something you can’t quite name but desperately crave.

"It's... a lot," you finally manage to say, your voice rougher than you intended. You’re not used to speaking about what's inside, about the quiet desperation that often gnaws at you. The program had trained you to compartmentalize, to bury emotion deep beneath layers of tactical data and combat protocols.

Bob’s thumb gently brushes your bicep, a small, comforting gesture. "I know," he replies, his voice soft, understanding. "Believe me, I know. It's a heavy burden, the things we've done, the things we are." He pauses, his gaze unwavering. "But it doesn't have to define you. Not completely."

You look into his eyes, those startling blue depths that seem to see right through your hardened exterior. There’s no pity there, no judgment, just a profound empathy that resonates with something buried deep within you. It's a reflection of his own struggles, you realize, the weight of his power, the constant fight to keep the Void at bay. He understands the struggle to be more than just a force of nature, more than just a weapon.

The days that follow fall into a rhythm, a fragile balance of duty and quiet moments with Bob. You find yourself drawn to him, gravitating towards his presence. During briefings, you unconsciously seek him out. On missions, his golden aura is a beacon in the darkest environments, a silent promise of support. You notice the small things: the way he hums softly when he’s deep in thought, the genuine laugh that escapes him when someone tells a particularly bad joke, the quiet strength in his hands.

One evening, you're both in the communal lounge, a surprisingly comfortable space with worn couches and a large screen flickering with some old movie. Most of the other Thunderbolts are either out on assignment or holed up in their rooms. You’re sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, a comfortable silence between you, punctuated only by the movie’s dialogue.

Suddenly, a nightmare flashes across your mind’s eye – a memory from the program, a mission gone wrong, the screams of innocents you couldn't save. Your breath hitches, and your hands clench into fists, your enhanced senses suddenly overwhelmed by phantom sounds and smells. You feel the familiar cold dread creeping in, threatening to consume you.

Before you can fully withdraw, before you can build your walls back up, you feel a presence beside you. Bob. He’s moved silently, his movements as graceful as a dancer’s. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. He simply sits closer, his warmth a subtle anchor. Then, gently, he places his hand over yours, his fingers intertwining with your clenched ones.

The simple touch is a lifeline. The cold recedes, replaced by the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against your own. You relax, slowly, the tension draining from your body. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps watching the movie, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. It’s a silent acknowledgment, a profound act of comfort that speaks volumes more than any words ever could.

You realize, in that moment, that this feeling, this fragile connection, is something new, something precious. It’s not about power or control, not about missions or protocols. It’s about being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a very long time. It’s about a flicker of hope in the vast emptiness they created within you.

You’re still a super-soldier, still a killer when the mission demands it. The scars, both visible and invisible, will always be a part of you. But with Bob, you’re beginning to understand that those scars don't have to be the entire story. Perhaps, with him, you can learn to build something new, something that resembles a life beyond the program, a life where you're not just half a man, but something… more.

The moments of shared silence, the gentle touches, the unspoken understanding – they carve out a fragile sanctuary in the brutal reality of your life. With Bob, you feel something akin to peace, a foreign sensation that settles in your chest like a warm, heavy stone. He sees you, not just the weapon, not just the product of their experiments. He sees the remnants of the man you were, and the man you could still be.

But the past is a phantom limb, always aching, always threatening to pull you back into its grasp. You try to push it down, to bury it under the weight of new experiences, of Bob’s comforting presence. But sometimes, in the dead of night, or in the sudden stillness after a particularly violent mission, the walls begin to crack.

You're in your quarters, the lights dimmed, the hum of the ventilation system a low thrum. You’ve just returned from a skirmish that pushed your limits, a brutal dance of instinct and honed reflexes. The scent of ozone and something metallic, unmistakably blood, still clings to your uniform. You strip it off, letting it drop to the floor, and step into the sonic shower, the vibrating jets a dull attempt to scour away the residue of violence.

But the shower doesn't reach deep enough. Your mind is still running, replaying every movement, every kill. The program had instilled a chilling efficiency in you, a detachment that allowed you to operate without remorse. You were a switch, flipped from 'human' to 'killer' with cold precision. Now, with Bob’s influence, that switch feels less definitive. It sometimes flickers.

You see a flash of a face, the eyes of an opponent as they registered their impending demise. A face that, in another life, might have been a civilian, a harmless individual. The imagery is sharp, almost photographic. You close your eyes, pressing your palms against the cool, slick tiles of the shower, willing the images away.

A cold dread begins to creep in, a familiar tightness in your chest. It’s the feeling of the old self, the programmed killer, trying to reassert its dominance. It’s the chilling echo of the doctors’ voices, their dispassionate instructions, the way they stripped away your humanity with every injection, every training session. You can almost hear their whispers, telling you that this is who you are, that the warmth you feel with Bob is a weakness, a dangerous distraction.

You exit the shower, not bothering to dry off, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Your body is still humming with residual adrenaline, but it's a hollow energy, without purpose. You clench your fists, your knuckles white. This is the struggle. The constant battle against the ingrained programming, the part of you that still believes violence is the only language you truly understand.

A soft knock at your door breaks through the oppressive silence. You don't respond, a primal urge to be alone, to retreat into your shell, taking over. But the knock comes again, gentle but persistent.

"You okay?" Bob’s voice, a warm balm, cuts through the static in your mind. "Heard you came back a little… quiet."

You hesitate, caught between the instinct to push him away and the desperate need for his steady presence. The cold, logical part of your brain tells you to keep him at a distance, to protect him from the darkness within you. But the burgeoning, fragile humanity whispers a different truth.

You rise and open the door, just a crack. Bob stands there, a worn t-shirt clinging to his frame, his hair a little mussed. His blue eyes, usually so bright, are soft with concern. He takes in your wet hair, your clenched hands, the tightness around your eyes.

"Hey," he says, his voice low, stepping closer without pushing, respecting the unspoken barrier you've created. He doesn't touch you, just stands there, radiating a comforting warmth. "Bad one?"

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of it, the feeling of the old self almost overpowering the new. You feel like a frayed rope, one strand pulling towards light, the other towards the darkness they forced upon you.

He sighs, a soft sound, and then, his gaze unwavering, he steps fully into your room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't invade your space, but he is there, a silent anchor. “The past has a way of clinging, doesn't it?” he says, his voice resonating with an understanding born of his own battles with the Void. “It tries to tell you who you are. But it’s a liar.”

He walks over to your bed and sits down, patting the space beside him. You hesitate, then slowly, you join him. The contact is minimal, your shoulders almost touching, but it’s enough. His presence is a shield against the creeping cold.

“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, a knowing look in his eyes. “I can see it. That’s what matters. That you’re fighting to be more than what they made you.”

You finally turn to him, your gaze searching his. "What if I can't?" The words are a raw whisper, exposing a fear you’ve never dared voice. "What if… what if I’m always going to be just a killer?"

Bob finally turns to you, his blue eyes intense, filled with a conviction that silences the whispers of your past. He reaches out, and this time, you don't flinch as his hand covers yours, warm and strong. "Then we fight it together," he says, his voice firm, unwavering. "You're not alone in this, not anymore. I know what it's like to have a monster inside. But I also know what it's like to have someone pull you back from the edge." He squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours. "And I'm not letting go."

And in that moment, even with the lingering echoes of your programmed past, with the chilling awareness of how easily you could slip, you believe him. You believe that maybe, just maybe, with Bob, you might finally find a way to silence the whispers and truly become your own man. The fight is far from over, but for the first time in a long time, you feel a genuine, fragile spark of hope.

The offer to fight it together hangs in the air, a silent promise. Bob's grip on your hand is firm, unwavering, a tangible connection to a present that feels both real and fragile. You find yourself nodding, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it speaks volumes. It's an acceptance, a surrender to a trust you never thought you'd be capable of.

The next few weeks become a delicate dance between your programmed instincts and the burgeoning hope Bob represents. During missions, the old efficiency is still there. You move with deadly precision, a silent whirlwind of controlled violence. You see the shock in your opponents' eyes, the fear, and a part of you, the part they built, feels a grim satisfaction. But now, it’s always tempered. A quick glance at Bob, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, pulls you back from the brink of total detachment. His golden aura is a constant, subtle reminder of the warmth that awaits, the humanity you're fighting to reclaim.

Back at the base, your interactions with Bob deepen. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not just in the training room, but in the quiet corners of the facility. You learn about his life before the Sentry, the anxieties he carries, the profound loneliness he sometimes experiences. He talks about himself, a bittersweet memory that haunts him, and you listen, truly listen, for the first time in your life. You realize that your shared burden of immense power and past trauma creates a bond that transcends words.

One evening, you find yourselves in the observation deck, looking out over the sprawling city lights below. The artificial glow is a stark contrast to the starlit skies you remember from your youth, before the labs, before the program. You’re silent for a long time, the quiet comfortable rather than oppressive.

"Sometimes," you begin, the words surprisingly easy to form, "I can still feel the cold. Not just the physical cold, but the… emptiness. Like they hollowed me out." You’re speaking of the emotional desolation that was a constant companion for so long.

Bob turns to you, his profile illuminated by the city lights. "I know that feeling," he says softly. "The Void, it tries to do the same to me. To convince me there's nothing left but power and destruction." He pauses, then adds, "But there's always something left. Even a flicker can become a flame."

He reaches out, his hand gently finding yours. His fingers intertwine with yours, and you notice the small scars on his knuckles, remnants of his own battles. His touch is grounding, real, a stark contrast to the phantom cold that sometimes grips you.

Despite the growing warmth, the slips still happen. They come unbidden, like sudden flashes of lightning in a clear sky. A loud noise might trigger a combat response, your body moving before your mind can process, a phantom enemy materializing in your peripheral vision. Or sometimes, it’s a moment of weakness, a wave of despair that threatens to drown the fragile hope you’re nurturing.

One particularly grueling mission leaves you more drained than usual. The enemy had been relentless, forcing you to operate on pure instinct, pushing you closer to the brutal efficiency you were trained for. You return to your quarters, the familiar scent of your own blood, mixed with dust and cordite, clinging to you. You feel raw, exposed, the veneer of control dangerously thin.

You’re trying to clean your combat knives, the methodical action usually calming. But tonight, your hands tremble. You see flashes of the fight, the precise cuts, the brutal efficiency. The faces of your opponents, briefly glimpsed in the chaos, flicker in your mind. The whispers start again, the old programming asserting itself, telling you that this is your true nature, that Bob’s kindness is a fantasy.

You grip the knife so tightly your knuckles ache. A deep, primal urge to hurt, to lash out, to destroy, bubbles to the surface. It’s not directed at anyone in particular, just a raw, unfocused aggression, a desperate need to silence the screams in your head. You feel yourself slipping, the warmth of Bob’s presence fading, replaced by the chilling embrace of the killer they created.

Suddenly, the knife clatters to the floor. You hadn't meant to drop it, but your hand had frozen. You look down, your eyes wide, your breathing shallow. The familiar cold, the emptiness, is back with a vengeance.

A soft knock at the door, and then, before you can respond, it opens. Bob stands there, his expression instantly shifting from relaxed to concerned. He sees the fallen knife, your hunched posture, the tension radiating from you.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't rush. He simply walks towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. He kneels in front of you, his gaze level with yours. "Hey," he says, his voice low, gentle, cutting through the chaotic thoughts in your mind. "You're slipping, aren't you?"

You can't meet his eyes, ashamed of the monster stirring within you. You feel a tremor run through your body, a mix of fear and the lingering aggression.

He reaches out, his hand finding yours, pulling it into his. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and strong, a lifeline in the icy grip of your past. "Look at me," he urges, his voice soft but firm.

Reluctantly, you raise your gaze to his. His eyes, those astonishing blue eyes, are filled with understanding, not fear. He sees the struggle, the darkness, and he doesn't flinch.

"You're not that, not anymore," he says, his voice a quiet, unwavering affirmation. "You're fighting it. And I'm here. We're here. Together." He squeezes your hand, a tangible anchor. "Just breathe. Focus on this. Focus on us."

And as you look into his eyes, truly look, the cold recedes, slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore. The whispers quiet. The phantom aggression lessens its grip. You’re still reeling, still vulnerable, but the darkness that threatened to consume you has been pushed back, even if just for now. With Bob, you realize, you don't have to fight the slippage alone. He's there, a constant, steady light, pulling you back from the edge, reminding you of the man you are desperately trying to become.

You sit there on the edge of your bed, Bob’s hand a warm, anchoring presence on yours. His blue eyes, deep with understanding, never leave your face. The internal storm, though not entirely quelled, has receded, pulled back by his steady gaze and unwavering belief. The whispers of the past, though still a faint echo, no longer roar in your ears.

"You're not alone in this," he repeats, his voice a soft, firm declaration that resonates deep within you. It’s a simple statement, yet it carries the weight of a world. For so long, loneliness had been your only companion, a silent testament to the monstrosity you believed you were. But Bob, with his own shared burdens and radiant strength, shatters that solitude.

You find yourself leaning into him, unconsciously at first. It's a subtle shift, a magnetic pull towards his warmth, his light. Your head tilts, drawn by an invisible force, a desperate need for connection. You don’t consciously register the movement, your focus entirely on the silent battle within and the anchor he provides.

At the same time, Bob leans in too. His gaze flickers to your lips, a silent question in his eyes. There’s no rush, no sudden movement, just a slow, almost imperceptible closing of the distance between you. He mirrors your vulnerability, meeting you in that fragile space between past and present.

Then, your lips meet.

It's not a sudden, passionate embrace, but a soft, hesitant brush of skin. A breath held, then slowly released. It’s a kiss imbued with the weight of forgotten emotions, a gentle press that speaks of shared burdens, unspoken traumas, and a nascent, fragile hope. You taste the faint saltiness of your own skin, the warmth of his breath.

A jolt, not of pain or fear, but of something profoundly new, runs through you. It's a spark that ignites a warmth in your chest, spreading outwards, chasing away the lingering cold that has been your constant companion for so long. For a fleeting moment, the roar of the super-soldier program, the screams of the past, the chilling efficiency they forged, all fade into nothingness.

In that soft, tentative connection, you feel a flood of emotions you thought long dead. Tenderness, a feeling so alien, so startling, that it brings a tremor to your lips. Vulnerability, a quiet aching that isn't weakness but a profound openness you've never known. And beneath it all, a sliver of hope, so fragile it almost breaks you. Hope for something more than just survival, more than just being a weapon. Hope for a future where humanity, however sparse it may feel in this moment, can finally take root.

When your lips finally part, it's slow, a lingering warmth in the air between you. You open your eyes, blinking, the room suddenly clearer, brighter. Bob’s face is close, his blue eyes soft, almost luminous. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze holds a depth of understanding that speaks volumes. In that shared silence, with the echoes of a tentative kiss still on your lips, you feel a profound shift.

You and Bob remain close, your breaths mingling in the quiet air of your quarters. The lingering warmth of the kiss hums between you, a silent symphony of forgotten desires and newfound connection. He doesn't pull away, nor do you. It's a shared moment of vulnerability, a tender acknowledgment of something profound blooming in the wreckage of your pasts.

His thumb gently brushes your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine. His eyes, still soft and luminous, search yours, not for answers, but for reassurance. He sees the tremor in your hands, the lingering shadow of the darkness you just fought back, and his gaze holds only understanding.

"Are you... alright?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It's a simple question, but it carries the weight of everything you've just experienced.

You take a shaky breath, the air in your lungs feeling lighter than it has in years. The cold recedes further, replaced by the unexpected warmth that now blooms in your chest. For the first time in a long time, the word "alright" feels within reach.

"Yeah," you manage, your voice a little hoarse, "Yeah, Bob. I think so."

He offers a small, relieved smile, a genuine curve of his lips that radiates warmth. His hand moves from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers gently threading into your damp hair. He pulls you closer, not with force, but with a quiet, irresistible pull.

This time, the kiss is less hesitant, more a continuation of the unspoken conversation that just transpired. It’s still soft, still tender, but there’s a deeper current of trust and longing running through it. You respond without conscious thought, your body moving instinctually towards his warmth, towards this unexpected source of comfort and acceptance.

In the gentle press of his lips, you feel the walls you’ve meticulously built around your heart begin to crumble, not in a destructive collapse, but in a slow, almost imperceptible softening. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. For so long, you were a fortress, impenetrable and alone. Now, with Bob, you are learning that true strength might lie not in your ability to withstand every blow, but in your capacity to allow someone in.

When the kiss breaks, you rest your forehead against his, your eyes still closed. The silence that settles between you is different now – no longer the heavy silence of isolation, but a comfortable, intimate quiet, filled with the unspoken promises of a nascent connection. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beating against your chest, a grounding pulse in the chaotic aftermath of your inner battle.

You open your eyes, and his blue gaze meets yours. There’s a profound sense of peace in his eyes, a shared understanding that transcends words. He doesn't press you, doesn't demand explanations. He simply is there, a beacon of light in your perpetually shadowed world.

This moment, this fragile intimacy, marks a turning point. It's not a sudden cure for the deep-seated trauma of your past, but it's a powerful affirmation of your choice. In that hesitant kiss, in Bob’s unwavering presence, you chose your humanity, however bruised and scarce it might feel. And with him, you know that the fight to hold onto it, to nurture it, has just truly begun. The fight is far from over, but in that moment, you made a choice. You chose the warmth, the connection, the fragile seed of humanity. You chose Bob.

#robert reynolds #bob reynolds #robert reynolds x male reader #bob reynolds x male reader #thunderbolts bob #marvel thunderbolts #marvel x male reader #marvel #mlm #fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #xmalereader #angst #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #long fanfic #long fic

114 notes · View notes