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worldfullofash · 13 days ago

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Athena's Gift

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Mortal Reader

Part 1: Hob, Death & Athena (Or Not)

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE. IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME.

I needed to write something 'lighter'... will start this to run concurrently with Just A Dream!

Since his release from Burgess, the world had shifted in ways Dream still found dissonant. Cities blazed with screens and lights, mortals walked with glass in their palms, and their stories scattered faster than ever. Yet some things endured.

Like Hob Gadling.

They met more often now. Not once in a hundred years, but every few months — at Hob’s insistence.

Always in a pub or a café near the university where Hob lectured. Always with Hob ordering food, pressing a pint into Dream’s hand or a glass of wine, and Dream refusing it, draped in black even when trying to pass among mortals.

Over time, Hob pieced things together. He had always wondered what Dream truly was — how a stranger could walk unchanged through centuries, how he could stand by a man who had not died, just like him. Someone even older. The answers had come slowly: vivid dreams too sharp to be chance, hints of power felt in his presence, and one night, Death herself walking in with that bright, unshakable smile to take his sixth wife.

That was when, in around 2020, Hob learned the truth. That his immortality had not been gifted by Dream, but given by Death — her hand resting on his shoulder in 1389. And that Dream, his quiet companion across the centuries, had only been testing a wager.

He had never known his name then. He never called him by a name at all until such day as it slipped, unbidden, from Dream’s own lips. Morpheus. A name older than language, worn into story and song, whispered like smoke through centuries of myth.

Even then, Hob had hesitated to use it. For years after, it was always you, or mate, or my friend. To place a name on him felt too strange, too sharp, like pressing a coin into the hand of a king who never asked for payment.

It was only later, a few years ago now, that he learned what the name meant — not a poet’s fancy, nor some pagan title long eroded by time, but truth. Morpheus, Dream of the Endless. King of Dreams, Lord of Stories. His sister was Death, who had touched him once with gentle fingers in a smoky tavern and made him eternal. And there were others, too, siblings older than gods, forces that bound the fabric of creation itself.

To know it all, and still to sit across from him over pints in a pub — that was the strangeness of it. Hob could never quite reconcile the man with the mantle. Perhaps he never wanted to.

But what he had insisted upon, learning that his friend was the King of Dreams, was that he would not bow, nor cower, nor lace their meetings with reverence. Not after six centuries of stubborn talk and easy company. Not after wagers and quarrels and laughter shared in smoke-filled taverns.

“You’ll get no kneeling from me,” Hob had said firmly, pint in hand. “Not now, not ever. You’re my friend. Always have been. Always will be.”

And Dream — who was accustomed to awe, to fear, to worship or hatred, but rarely to simple steadfastness — had only looked at him, long and unreadable, before allowing the smallest flicker of a smile.

Hob had taken a breath, swirled the beer in his glass, then leaned in a little. “And listen. I’d appreciate it if you could stay out of my dreams. Out of my family’s dreams.” His laugh came out short and awkward. “God, you’ve seen them, haven’t you? Me, my… ah, my stupid fantasies, my lovers, my wives, my kids. All of it.”

Dream’s silence told him enough.

Hob grimaced and waved a hand. “No. Don’t say anything. Don’t want to know. Just—give us some privacy. Leave us our own heads at night.”

Dream inclined his head, solemn as a vow. “As you wish.”

And that was the end of it. Or so Hob had thought. That was at least until 2025, which is when things changed quite drastically.

***

It was a Thursday evening. Dream sat in the corner of a quiet pub not far from the university where Hob was working. He had been a professor of history for years now — long enough that most colleagues no longer asked questions about his unchanging face, chalking it up to good genes or lucky lighting. He liked teaching, liked the rhythm of it, liked the chance to talk about the past to students who still believed the future might matter.

Their meetings had settled into a kind of ritual: once every three months, rain or shine, Dream would appear without warning and Hob would be waiting with a pint. Dream would drink nothing, of course, but sit in black as ever, grave and intent, as Hob rattled on about the world.

This time, though, there had been a third at the table.

Death arrived ahead of Hob, waving cheerfully at the barman, sliding into the booth beside her brother as if she’d been coming there for centuries. She ordered a lemonade, propped her chin on her hand, and grinned at Dream like she knew exactly how much he disliked being stared at.

When Hob finally burst in, rain still on his coat, he blinked at her in surprise before breaking into a wide smile. Within minutes, the two of them were laughing like old mates, swapping stories while Dream sat caught between them, silent as stone, trying not to look put out.

Hob took a long pull from his pint, then leaned back with a grin. “There’s this new professor at the uni I work at — classics, mythology stuff. Sharp as a tack, bit eccentric. Keeps telling my students the old stories matter more than anything we can dig out of archives. Some of the kids eat it up.”

Death arched a brow, amused. “Sounds like your type.”

Hob laughed. “Not mine. But maybe his.” He tilted his chin at Dream. “They’re running a lecture series next week and you, my friend, are part of the programme. Whole session on Morpheus in myth. Thought you might enjoy hearing what they’ve cooked up about you.”

Dream’s gaze lifted, pale and sharp. “I have no need to sit among mortals and hear them twist my name into metaphor and superstition. Their stories are shadows of shadows — fragments of what was once known, diluted by time and ignorance.”

Hob only grinned, unfazed. “Which is exactly why you should hear it. Could do with knowing what the world thinks you are now.”

Death smirked into her glass. “And besides, you’ll hate it. Which means it’ll be entertaining. For us, at least.”

Dream’s expression darkened, though his voice stayed cool. “You both take too much delight in my discomfort.” He let the silence stretch, then added, quieter: “But very well. I will go. I will see what they have made of me.”

Hob chuckled into his pint. “Good man. Just… maybe put on some normal clothes, yeah? Try to fit in.”

Dream turned his eyes on him, offended. “These are my clothes.”

Death nearly choked on her drink, laughing.

***

The following week, Dream went to the lecture.

He had dressed in black, of course. Mortal enough — trousers and shirt, coat folded across his arm rather than sweeping the floor like shadow — but still black, still Dream. He looked older than eighty percent of the students in the room, but that was expected. His age was written less in his face than in the weight of him, the gravity that made people shift uncomfortably if they happened to glance his way.

He took the back row, silent, folding into shadow, and observed.

The students carried the usual mix of dreams: the girl in the front row dreaming of books stacked like towers, libraries without end; the boy by the door dreaming of exams gone wrong, endless corridors and lost shoes; another whose nights were swallowed by hunger and noise, no space left in him for dreams at all.

Then the professor arrived. Middle-aged, his hair thinning, papers shuffling on the lectern. His voice was polished, well-worn, eager to hold authority. “Today,” he declared, “we consider Morpheus — the god of dreams. Ovid names him the shaper of men’s likenesses, the one who carries forms into the minds of sleepers. Homer, too, gave weight to dreams, though his were more messengers than makers…”

Dream sat unmoving, his gaze fixed.

The man’s words were orderly, academic, but his dreams told the truth. They were not of Ovid nor Homer, not of poetry or myth. They were of adoring faces in lecture halls, applause at conferences, titles awarded — and always the faces of young women, students leaning forward just a little too close. Desire bled through every scene, disguised in waking but bare in sleep.

Dream’s mouth tightened, the faintest shadow flickering across his face. Mortals, he thought. Even in scholarship, their appetites betrayed them.

He folded his hands, patient, listening.

Then, the door creaked open.

You slipped inside, breathless, cheeks flushed with cold night air and the hurry of running. The professor barely glanced up as you muttered an apology, but Dream’s eyes followed you — sharp and unblinking — as you scanned the room for a seat.

Every row was full except the very back.

You climbed the steps quickly, head ducked, and slid into the empty chair beside him. Only then, as you caught your breath, did you notice the man sitting there: tall, pale, dressed all in black, older than the rest of the audience, his gaze fixed forward with unnerving stillness.

You fumbled with your bag, feeling his presence like gravity beside you.

He did not look at you. Not at first. But when another pair of students tumbled in late, noisy and careless, he murmured, low and disdainful, “Punctuality appears to be irrelevant these days.”

The words startled you. A stranger’s voice, precise, cool — directed at you though it wasn’t meant to be.

You blinked at him, caught off guard. What the hell? Did he just talk to me?

“Uh… sorry?” you whispered back, still a little breathless.

At last, he turned his head. His eyes were pale, strange — as though light caught in them but never left. “I merely observed,” he said softly, “that students no longer seem to value punctuality.”

You blinked again, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t cruel, exactly, just… oddly formal. “Right. I guess I’m guilty of that, then,” you murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear.

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d made a serious admission. “So, it would seem.”

You pulled out your notepad and began scribbling, letting the professor’s voice fill the room.

Beside you, the man in black did not move. He wasn’t taking notes, wasn’t shifting in his seat, wasn’t even fidgeting the way everyone else did. Just… stillness. Watching.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the professor’s words. But out of the corner of your eye, you caught the tilt of his head, the faint tightening of his mouth when the lecturer misquoted a line.

At one point, you risked a whisper: “You look like you want to correct him.”

His gaze flicked toward you, cool and unblinking. “I see no point in it. Though he is mistaken.”

You tilted your pen in your fingers, curious despite yourself. “Mistaken how?”

His eyes returned to the front, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “It was not Phantasos who carried the forms of lifeless things. It was Ikelos. Phantasos was another invention entirely, born of confusion centuries later.

You blinked at him, caught between amusement and unease. He said it so flatly, so absolutely, as though he knew, not as though he’d read it in a textbook.

“Right,” you whispered. “Guess you’ve done your homework.”

His eyes shifted back to you, unreadable. “Homework?”

You gave a small laugh, unsure if he was teasing or genuinely confused. Before you could explain, the professor’s voice cut sharply across the room.

“You there. Back row.” His eyes landed on you, not him. “Since you seem to be enjoying yourselves, perhaps you can answer this: what does Morpheus represent, metaphorically, in Ovid’s Metamorphoses?”

Your stomach dropped. A few students snickered, twisting to look. You opened your mouth, fumbling for something—dreams, illusions, imagination—when the man beside you spoke instead.

“He does not represent anything,” he said, voice low but carrying effortlessly through the lecture hall. “He is not a metaphor. Human kind has reduced him to symbol and allegory, but Ovid named him as he was: the maker of forms, the shaper of likenesses. A being, not an idea.”

The professor faltered, caught off guard, his hand hovering above his notes. A ripple of whispers spread across the room.

“Well,” he said stiffly, recovering his tone, “that’s… one interpretation.”

The man beside you did not answer, his gaze fixed forward, immovable.

You bit your lip, and before you could stop yourself, a giggle slipped out. Not at him, but at the way he’d left the professor scrambling, his authority knocked sideways. You ducked your head, pretending to jot something in your notebook, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

He turned his head slowly, pale eyes landing on you, cool and questioning.

“Why do you laugh?” he murmured.

You pressed your lips together, trying to smother the smile. “Because you completely threw him off. He wasn’t expecting… whatever that was.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable, before he returned to silence. But you thought — just for a heartbeat — you saw the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, turning just enough to glance down at your desk. His eyes skimmed past the hasty scribbles you’d made during the lecture and settled on the pages beneath — the ones you’d brought with you, your own research prepared over the last two nights. Printouts, highlighted passages, margins full of notes in your handwriting.

Notes about him.

Your pulse quickened. You hadn’t meant to leave them half-visible, but there they were: Ovid’s verses, Homer’s epics, scraps of modern scholarship all trying to pin down Morpheus, the dream-shaper.

His eyes lingered on the page too long, pale and unreadable, as though the ink itself whispered to him. For the briefest second you thought you saw it — the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a smile.

You braced yourself, waiting for him to point out your mistakes, to correct the half-legible notes and question marks in the margins.

But he didn’t.

He only sat back in his chair, gaze fixed forward once more, as though whatever he’d seen in your pages was enough.

The silence pressed at you. You tapped your pen against the notebook, suddenly restless. “Well?” you whispered under your breath.

At length, he spoke, voice low and measured. “Your notes are… thorough. Considered. They hold more truth than the man at the lectern has mustered in the last hour.”

Your pen stilled. The words landed heavier than a compliment — not casual approval, but something like judgment rendered from a higher court.

You swallowed, ducking your head, uncertain whether to feel flattered or unnerved. “Thanks… I think.”

He gave no reply, only returned his gaze to the front, the faintest flicker of something unreadable passing across his face.

The professor cleared his throat, shuffling his notes with a flourish that didn’t quite disguise his unease. “All right,” he announced, a touch too loudly, “that will do us for today. Next week, we’ll be moving on to Phantasos, so make sure you’ve read the assigned passages.”

A wave of movement rippled through the hall — chairs scraping, bags unzipping, the low roar of conversation rising as students began to file out.

You slid your notebook into your bag, the papers rustling as you pushed them down. A corner slipped free — the worn edge of a paperback play you’d tucked beneath your notes. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

His eyes dropped to it, pale and unblinking.

For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, only stared at the familiar title as though the letters themselves had taken on weight.

“Shakespeare,” you murmured, tugging the book higher in your bag. “My major’s mythology and literature. Call me crazy, but I actually adore his works. For his time he was… I don’t know, sharper than people give him credit for. Everyone reduces him to the love sonnets and the tragedies, but his plays were layered. Political, philosophical, sometimes even downright cynical. The man saw people for what they were, and somehow made poetry out of it.”

You realised you were rambling, your words spilling faster than you meant them to. With a sheepish laugh, you added, “Sorry. I get carried away. Occupational hazard of studying too many dead guys.”

When you glanced at him, expecting polite disinterest, his gaze was fixed on you — pale, intent, unreadable.

“There is nothing foolish in appreciating such things,” he said at last, voice low, deliberate. “Shakespeare was… singular. His words endure because they touched truth, however he cloaked it. He gave shape to what most could only feel and never name.”

The way he said it made your stomach flutter — not like a lecturer quoting a text, but like someone speaking of an old friend.

You laughed softly, a little nervous. “You make him sound like you knew him.”

For the briefest heartbeat, he didn’t deny it. He only watched you, eyes steady, before turning his gaze forward again as though the conversation was complete.

You hesitated, shifting your bag on your lap, then blurted before you could stop yourself, “So… do you have a name? You seem a fair bit older than the other students, and I’ve never seen you in any of my lectures before.”

His head turned slowly, his gaze meeting yours without flinching.

“Morpheus,” he said, the word falling from his lips with the weight of stone dropped into water.

You blinked, caught between a laugh and a frown. Surely, he was joking. “Right. Of course you are.” You forced a little chuckle. “And I’m Athena.”

You meant it as sarcasm, but he inclined his head slightly, as though you’d spoken nothing but the truth.

Your smile faltered. “You… don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you?”

His eyes held yours, pale and endless. “I expect nothing,” he said quietly. “You asked. I answered.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “God, you are so strange.”

Something flickered across his face then — not offense, not quite amusement either. Just a stillness deepening, as though he were weighing the word itself. Strange.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, nerves skittering in your chest. “And this might sound super weird, but… would you like to grab a drink? Ponder a bit more about, I don’t know, this lecture and… Shakespeare?”

For a heartbeat, he only looked at you — his eyes intent, unreadable. You almost regretted saying it. Almost.

Then he spoke, voice low and resonant, every syllable deliberate. “There is little in that lecture worth repeating. But I find you… intriguing. And I would certainly welcome discourse on Shakespeare’s works.”

The words did not sound like flirtation. They sounded like truth, solemnly given, as though he had weighed them before speaking aloud.

It sent a shiver up your spine all the same.

You blinked, startled into a shaky laugh. “Wow. You don’t do small talk, do you?”

His head tilted slightly, his pale eyes narrowing, as though weighing the words themselves. “Small talk?” he asked, the phrase sounding strange in his mouth — as if he’d never bothered with such a concept.

You bit back another laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You know… pointless chatter. Weather, sports, how terrible the coffee is. That kind of thing.”

He regarded you with perfect seriousness. “Why would I speak of things that hold no meaning?”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “You definitely need a drink, I think. Come on — I know just the place, Morpheus.” You let his name linger, half-mocking, half-curious, as if daring him to crack a smile.

He didn’t smile. But he rose when you did, following as though the matter was settled.

***

When you arrived at a bar near the campus, the air inside was thick with the smell of hops and cheap fried food, the chatter of students rolling over each other in waves. A jukebox played something faint and scratchy, half-lost beneath the clatter of glasses.

You pushed through the press of bodies, glancing back to see him trailing behind you. Dressed in black, pale and severe, he looked like a raven that had wandered into a flock of pigeons. People glanced at him and quickly looked away, unsettled without knowing why.

You found an empty booth at the back and slid in, dropping your bag beside you. He sat down across from you, still wearing his coat.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The din of the bar pressed around the edges — laughter, clinking glasses, someone swearing near the dartboard. But between you and him, the air felt still.

“So tell me,” you said at last, leaning your chin on your hand. “What do you do? You are not a student. Clearly.”

His pale gaze held yours, unblinking. “I was merely interested in the lecture. To see what it would be like.”

You arched a brow. “That’s it? You just… dropped in for fun?”

“I do not attend for amusement.” His voice was calm, deliberate. “I wished to hear how human kind speaks of what they no longer understand.”

You gave a short laugh, shaking your head. “Wow. Okay. You really don’t go halfway with answers, do you?”

Before he could respond, the bartender set two glasses down on the table with a dull clink — one pint of amber beer and a darker stout you’d ordered on a whim. You slid the stout toward him.

He regarded the glass for a moment, then lifted it with both hands, tasting it as though it were some ancient rite. His expression didn’t shift, but he set it down slowly, as though memorising the weight of the moment.

The two of you talked — or rather, you talked, and he listened with that piercing stillness, answering only when he had something to say. The conversation drifted to Shakespeare first, his plays and their tangled truths, then slipped almost naturally into gods. Gods who were no longer gods, who lingered only in stories now.

It was strange, speaking with him. Strange because he never filled silences with noise, never reached for distraction, never smoothed things over with jokes the way others did. Every word he gave you was deliberate, cut clean and heavy, like stone laid in place.

And stranger still — you didn’t want to look away.

At one point, you leaned back in the booth, smiling crookedly over your glass. “You know, you’re either the best conversationalist I’ve ever met or the worst. Still deciding.”

His head tilted slightly. “How so?”

“Well, on the one hand, you sound like you swallowed a philosophy textbook. On the other, I can’t remember the last time someone actually listened like you do.”

His eyes lingered on you, unreadable. “Listening is not difficult. But few do it with care.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “See? That right there. You say something like that, and suddenly I feel like I’m in a cathedral instead of a campus bar.”

The faintest shift tugged at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smile, but close. “Perhaps you are.”

Your laugh caught in your throat, softer this time. The din of the bar felt far away, the chatter of other students nothing more than static. He hadn’t moved, not once, but the weight of his attention was like heat against your skin.

“So,” you said, lifting your glass as a distraction, “we’ve covered Shakespeare and lost gods. What about you? What’s your story?”

His pale eyes held yours, steady, unblinking. For a long moment, he said nothing, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far.

At last, his voice came, low and measured. “My story is… long. And not for this place.”

The words were simple, but they landed with finality, like the closing of a book.

You raised your brows, trying for levity. “That’s mysterious.”

He inclined his head, as though accepting the charge. “So I have been told.”

Then, with disarming swiftness, he turned the question back on you. “And you? Why mythology and literature?”

The abrupt shift left you blinking, caught mid-sip. He wasn’t asking idly — there was weight in it, as though your answer mattered more than you realised.

You set your glass down, tracing a finger over the condensation ring it left on the table. “Because… stories are the only things that last. Empires fall, languages die, people forget. But the stories? They linger. Even when no one believes in them anymore, they’re still here. Still shaping the way we see the world.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “That probably sounds pretentious. But I guess it’s the closest thing to meaning I’ve found.”

When you looked back up, his gaze was fixed on you — pale, fathomless, so intent it made your breath hitch.

At length, he said quietly, “It does not sound pretentious. It sounds true.”

The words sent a ripple through you, equal parts unsettling and… seen.

His eyes did not waver. “And what is it you seek in these stories? Knowledge? Escape? Or do you hope to find yourself within them?”

The question hit harder than you expected, cutting straight past the usual small talk you’d grown so used to. He wasn’t asking to fill silence. He wanted an answer.

You shifted against the booth, suddenly warm despite the cool air that drifted in from the open door. “I… don’t know. Maybe all of that. Maybe I just want to believe there’s more to life than essays and paychecks. That there’s still mystery out there.”

He studied you a long moment more, as though committing every word to memory. Then, softly: “There is.”

The words sat between you like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward, unsettling and thrilling all at once. You swallowed hard, suddenly too aware of the space in the booth, of how close his hand rested to yours on the table.

For a long breath, neither of you moved. His gaze held you fast — not demanding, not pleading, simply there, as inevitable as gravity.

You curled your fingers tighter around your glass, just to keep from brushing against his. There was something about him — too much, too close — and when the silence tipped from charged into awkward, you cleared your throat.

“Well,” you said, pushing back your empty glass, “I should probably head home. It is getting late.”

“I will accompany you,” he said at once, as though the decision had already been made.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He regarded you steadily, pale eyes unflinching. “Only to your door,” he said, voice low and certain. “To ensure your safety.”

Something in the way he spoke — so matter-of-fact, so absolute — made it sound less like an offer and more like a vow.

“I live nearby,” you insisted, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “I really am going to be fine.”

For a moment he only looked at you, still as stone. Then, softly, “Perhaps. But I will walk with you, nonetheless.”

There was no arrogance in it, no condescension — just certainty, as though he had already decided, and reality would bend to match.

You exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I have been called worse,” he said.

That almost pulled another laugh from you. Almost.

@crispyduckpirate @stranger-chan @hiraethmae

@friendstolobsters @queenofstresss @iamempty13

@marsmallow433 @eveiiiscorner @villain-in-the-dark @boywivlove @anatheladybug

@new-author3 @drunkennunicornn

@sandmanmasterlistblog @phythius @miarabanana @ladyofhisrelam @gemtales @peterpangirl21 @zafirina12 @li22ie2017 @slimearchon @dreams-a-little-dream @sriasavet @peterpangirl21 @ifnotredthenwhite @hopingtocleaemedschool @arya-woodland @sighingforalongtime @radioactivewatson @bubblegumflamingos

#morpheus recs

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worldfullofash · 15 days ago

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I’m addicted to this series

Lullaby of the Ancients

Summary: In the dark, one would look at the stars for guidance. Dream does not have to look very far, when the Queen of The Dreaming are the stars themselves. Throughout his journey in Hell, pieces of you are returning. Dream is so close to having you back in his arms. Warnings/ Tags: Established Relationship [Series Masterlist] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

✦ Chapter 4 — Hope Found in the Stars ✦

Avernus.

Tartarus.

Hades.

There’s something in the air. It’s thick and unrelenting, hindering all sight. The sand around him settles, but the cloud of ash blows all around.

The scent of death is unmistakable. Putrid. Rotten. Foul. It’s so different from the freshness that comes from his sister – there’s no kindness here.

“I just didn’t expect Hell to be so cold.” Matthew shakes his feathers. “So, which way do we go?”

The ash is too thick to make out anything in the far distance, blurring the horizon in clouds of grey . . . Except . . .

Except a lantern with a light not made from fire cuts through the hazes. It shines from the corner of his eyes.

Down the hill, and through the distance, you emerge from a fog made from the ashes of the dammed. The dust rolls away from your very presence, settling into the ground with your silent command.

You turn towards him . . . waiting . . . expecting.

It’s funny, really – almost hilarious, even – how his body moves on its own, drawn to your light like a moth to a flame.

Dream of The Endless doesn’t run, yet bones crunch beneath his feet as he takes faster and faster and faster and faster strides to reach you.

Matthew has to fly to follow his speed. “Hey – Hey, wait!” he says, squawking a little. “Where are we going?”

There are so many things he wants to say . . . and even more thing he wants to do.

It takes every drop of his control not to reach out for you. There’s fear as well. It’s in the way he digs his nails into his palm.

A small part of him says it’s a foolish endeavor to try and reach out. You are not here, thus reaching out will only amount to nothing.

Control . . . Fear. You always were the best at unraveling those threads in him.

“To the palace,” he says instead. “I wish to go to the palace.”

A single nod – That’s all you give him.

You turn your back towards him, leading him to a path with an unknown destination. It doesn’t even matter if following you leads him somewhere else.

All Dream knows is that he trusts you, and never once have you steered him wrong.

It’s difficult, if he was being honest . . . almost impossible, if he was really being honest . . . to pretend you were not next to him. Matthew doesn’t seem to notice your presence.

The trail of stardust. The scent of the universe. All are so unmistakably you. More and more pieces of yourself are returning as he amasses more of his power.

Dream hopes this will lessen the pain of being consumed by dreams.

One hundred and six years.

That’s how long he was imprisoned. That’s how long you’ve been imprisoned as well. But the prison that bound him was made by Roderick Burgees. The prison you are trapped in was made by your own husband – the being who vowed to love you.

He is The Dreaming, and The Dreaming is him.

Thus, he is doing this to you.

There’s a fork in the road — evenly split, evenly ominous.

There is confidence in the way Squatterbloat steps towards the right, letting the fog of ash and bone consume him.

You pause between the two paths, even as your lantern settles the blurry clouds on the left. Dream stills for longer than a moment, his whole body steeling . . . but the words he has for the demon die in his throat.

There’s a certain expression on your face.

It’s in the way you tilt your head, smiling curling just a fraction higher. You’re starting at him again, and those eyes of yours are certainly watching every tick in his muscles. Dream wonders what you see in those eyes of yours.

The vision of a Celestial certainly differs from an Endless. There are things only your eyes can reveal.

Whatever you see in the right path is unknown to him. You watch Squatterbloat walking deeper into the fog, and follow after him, your lantern illuminating the burnt and decaying of flesh.

The action nags at him. Just why would you suddenly change course?

Dream . . . well, he decides that it doesn’t matter. If you turn decided on the right, then it must still lead to the palace. The way you were watching him and Squartteebloat brings questions into his mind.

And there are very few things Dream of The Endless doesn’t have an answer to.

“Kai’ckul?”

The name beings a heavy wave of memories. It forces him to take a moment, learning how to breathe again.

The nails dig deeper into his palm as he slides his eyes to Squatterbloat. So this is the greeting of the Morningstar — their plan all along.

You’re watching him again, that small smile on your lips. Did you foresee this?

No.

The paths of Hell are subject to the whims of their monarch. The fork in the road was a misdirection. All roads would lead to here . . . to her.

Nada presses herself to the thorns of her cage, uncaring if the points dig into her skin. “Dream lord?”

The weight of a different time, a different face, pushes deep into him. It is the weight of the burden they have both carried for ten-thousand years. “I greet you, Nada.”

The conversation lasts as long as it needs to —mothing more, nothing less.

Yet . . . Dream is thrown back to that night, as if he was still there. The sound of a fire-kissed castle. The scent of charred skin. It’s all still the same; curiosity then fondness then love then pain then rejection. . . then wrath.

You’re watching him with a smile he cannot decipher. It’s gentle but unkind, soft but uncaring.

“Yes, I still love you . . . but I have not yet forgiven you.” Dream of The Endless turns his back on the Queen of The First People. It is a story that never changes. “Come, Matthew.”

Nada cries out for him, reaching out with a certain inconsolable madness.

You cease your watchful eye, and not a single glance is spared in his direction when he passes you by the steps. Instead, you lower yourself to Nada, watching as she reaches out.

There’s a moment where you still before her cage.

You meet Nada’s touch, cradling her hand in your hold even if she doesn’t understand. Nada tries to latch onto the first kind touch in ten-thousand years, but she cannot fully reach you.

The Queen of The Dreaming bows before the Queen of the First People, and presses her lips on the back of her hand.

Nada calms instantly, finding peace that was blessed upon her by the stars themselves. Her fingers slip from your hold, brushing slightly against your own.

You climb the steps, pausing before your king. One hand rests on your heart . . . the other shoots out when your head lowers before him — A performer’s bow.

Ha . . .

There shouldn’t be that faint smile growing on his lips, yet it’s there anyway.

Such mockery . . . but it pulls him out of the wave that drowns him. Hope trickles in as well.

If you had the presence of mind to mock him, then you have recovered another piece of yourself that he has taken from you.

Matthew perches on his shoulder. Dream allows this intrusion, seeing he’s been forgiving them all day. “So that woman back there.” He squawks a little. “Anything you wanna share with your friend Matthew?”

For some unknown reason, Dream feels compelled to explain. He’s never had a raven this talkative before. You would like Matthew . . . Maybe the reason isn’t so completely unknown.

Dream stares ahead, sneaking a glance at the stardust that trails with your every steps.

“Her name is Nada,” he says, and the name feels foreign on his tongue. It’s been thousands of years since he thought about speaking her name. “She was the ruler of a tribe that call themselves the First People. We were in love.”

“So what de she do?” Matthew says. “How’d she end up here?”

Stardust catches the light, shining even brighter than jewels in his eyes. It always captures him, and it takes Dream more than a moment to answer.“. . . She defied me.”

“Wait,” Matthew says, blinking at him. “So, you put her here?”

“The Morningstar is letting me know that Hell has prepared for my visit.”

Matthew shuffles on his shoulders, stepping closer to him when ash blows a little too close. “So, that’s your wife . . .?”

The word comes out quick, without thought but with assurance. “No.”

“Wait but you told her . . .” Matthew trails off, choosing his words carefully. “Didn’t you tell Johanna Constantine that you had a wife.”

“I still have one.” Dream reaches for his ring, and all he meets is smooth skin.

One-hundred and six years, and he still forgets what Roderick Burgees stole from him. The ring held no power, but it’s symbol is far greater than his tools of office.

“That’s,” Matthew starts, “ . . .cool . . .?”

“She is the stars themselves — every single one that was and will ever be.” Dream knows he doesn’t have to entertain Matthew anymore, but Dream of The Endless cannot stop himself when it comes to you. “The universe itself trembles with her very presence, but our union was one of . . .”

Dream trails off. How does he describe the life he’s living with you? How does he describe the tale of Dreams and Stars?

There are no words in the human comprehension that can describe his union with you.

You and him.

Him and you.

The evidence is already there.

“Is she around?” Matthew shakes his feathers. “Ah, well, I mean. Y’know. Like stars . . . They must be busy shining?”

The castle comes into view, and Dream doesn’t bother to respond anymore.

Squatterbloat leaves and there’s a second where he fears you would do the same. Dream learns to move again when you stay.

The path is steep, making it easy to fall. The fog lightens with your lantern, but Dream knows he is safe in your hands.

The fog of ash and bones settle at the confines of the palace. Matthew scoots even closer when he notices the wall of fused bodies.

Lucifer Morningstar is as beautiful as legends describe — probably even more so. They’re starting at him, watching his every movement.

There’s a moment where they seem to follow his gaze . . . and their eyes find you.

Dream steps between you and the Morningstar. It’s a foolish action, but he does it anyway. It is a chance he does not dare take.

Lucifer’s smile widens a fraction higher. “Hello.”

The word is a greeting — the beginning of something.

In your hands, the word started a lullaby of dreams and stars. In the hands of Lucifer Morningstar, the word started a very, very, old game.

A dire wolf, prey-stalking, lethal power.

A hunter, horse mounted, wolf-stabbing.

A serpent, horse-biting, poison-toothed.

A bird of prey, snake-devouring, talons ripping.

A butcher bacterium, warm-life destroying.

A world, space-floating, life-nurturing.

A nova, all-exploding, planet-cremating.

A universe, all things encompassing, all life embracing.

Anti-life.

The Beast of Judgement

The dark at the end of everything.

The floor is as cold as he is. It’s a bit comforting to be here, curled into himself. Dream of The Endless is dying, and that is a fact.

Lucifer Morningstar is watching him again, and despite every cell in his body screaming at him to stay strong, Dream of The Endless turns to look at you.

It seems he has more in common with his son than he realizes. You are the last thing he wants to se—

Drip.

A single tear slides down your face.

You bring a hand to your cheek, tracing the path of the tears. The lantern clatters to the floor as you bring your hands to your face. More tears drip from your eyes, but through the haze . . . the Queen of The Dreaming smiles.

You lower yourself to Matthew, and whisper into his ear.

Ravens are connected to The Dreaming in ways others are not.

These are the words Lucienne told him. Ravens can soar between the Waking World and The Dreaming. A gift, apparently, from the current queen long before she became their beloved lady.

If he’s connected to The Dreaming . . . then . . . then perhaps this makes sense.

Something . . . something? Whatever it is, it barrels into him, pulling him down in a deep, deep sea. Matthew cannot tell up from down, right from left.

It’s a sea of dreams. No, it’s a sea of starlight.

Yes.

No.

Matthew is connected to The Dreaming, and right now it is digging its nails into him. It’s dragging him into its depths. For some reason, Matthew allows it to drown him.

Pain.

Anger.

Sorrow. Oh, so much sorrow.

Despite its maddening grip, there’s love in the hands that drown him. It’s carefully hidden underneath the waves, but it’s unmistakably there. It twinges every time he glances at Dream.

It takes him a moment to realize that these emotions do not belong to him, but they’re there and they’re real and they’re hidden beneath his own.

Emotions that do not belong to him refused to be ignored. Words that do not belong to him refuse to be ignored.

There’s so much love in the sea that’s drowning him, and all that love gathers into the words on his beak.

“The Star shines despite the absence of the Sun.” Matthew watches Dream. There’s a flicker of recognition on his face, a faint twitch of his hand. “It reminds us we are never truly alone in the darkness.”

Dream stares beyond Matthew, keeping his eyes locked to the air next to him.

Matthew doesn’t understand the words that are not his, but he does know it needs to be said because . . . because Dreams don’t fucking die.

It takes three words, then Dream of The Endless retrieves his helm.

In the far corner of his mind, where The Dreaming’s reach retreat into its shores, Matthew hears a faint humming . . . it almost sounds like a lullaby.

Whatev—

No, whoever is in the sea of dreams is waiting.

I love Dream. He’s such a big hypocrite. He’s tortured over things that are not really his fault (Reader basically being a battery for The Dreaming) but doesn’t think twice about things that are actually his fault (Nada lol) Also love love love writing characters that aren’t very nice. Reader is a deity!! And it shows in her actions. Ugh! The hypocrisy is so compelling to write. Can’t wait to get to S2 and write his growth. Kudos and Comments are not required but I do appreciate it very much! I'm interested in seeing your thoughts and perhaps any theories. Or just in general. Tags: @sandradune @themarch-oftheblackqueen @honeyedbliss @twowrongsarearight

#morpheus x reader

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worldfullofash · 17 days ago

Text

Rhapsody, Ch. 1

pairing: spencer reid x pianist!reader

summary: after a truly awful case, spencer and the team relax by attending a concert at the kennedy center. little does spencer know that the night's program will change the trajectory of his life.

w.c.: 1.8k

a/n: this is just the beginning - they don't even meet in this one. maybe a bit of a slow start, but i thought this special first encounter deserved its moment.

It's the happiest coincidence that their paths cross. Spencer is not a socializer, and tends to head straight home after work. He prefers to relax in silence and the comfort of a good book, unlike his teammates who like to go out to drink and socialize. However, this is a rare occasion when his teammates - notably Penelope - have ganged up on him.

Spencer supposes the distraction of their company is beneficial, even though he's tired to his very bones. The case they've just finished was a rough one. It had hit all of them hard, and JJ, Emily, and Derek had jumped at the opportunity to go out that Garcia brought up when they got back.

"I know you're all tired and deserve your rest, but I've gotten a set of tickets to a concert at the Kenney Center," Garcia announces, fanning her face dramatically with the cardstock tickets. "Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. I think we need a nice dinner and some relaxing music."

"God, I haven't been to a concert in ages," JJ sighs. "Who's playing?"

"I don't exactly know," Garcia admits. "It's a classical concert."

Spencer, who has already tuned out of the conversation, tunes back in abruptly, perking up with interest. "What's the program?" he asks.

Garcia squints at the small print on the tickets. "Something Rachmaninoff, apparently," she says. "I don't know enough about classical music to know much more than that. The Kennedy Center produces fantastic concerts, though, so I figure it can't be bad."

"Did you know that Rachmaninoff had a handspan of an octave and a half?" Spencer asks excitedly. "That's highly improbable, even for a male musician. His compositions, especially for the piano, reflect that. Another famous pianist with a similar reach was Franz Liszt."

"Okay, so I assume Spencer is going," Emily laughs.

"I think it sounds very nice," Spencer defends. "Especially depending what's programmed for the rest of the concert."

Penelope blinks in surprise, then breaks into a grin. "That wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it would be," she says. "Everyone, be ready at five to head for dinner?"

"I can pick everyone up," Derek offers. He elbows Spencer. "We don't need you getting lost on the subway in your fancy concert clothes again."

"It was one time," Spencer grumbles. "I take the metro daily and it's never a problem!"

The next evening, Spencer is dressed nicely in a suit with a purple tie - one of his favorites, a gift from his mother - when his doorbell buzzes. He grabs his wallet, phone, and keys, and answers the door.

Penelope is standing outside, wearing a bright blue dress. "Spence, you look fantastic! Ready to go?"

"Thanks, Penelope, you look great too. Yes, I'm ready." He steps into the hallway, locking his apartment door behind him.

"We haven't gotten either of the other girls yet. They're both getting ready at Emily's," Penelope explains as Spencer holds the building's main door open for her. "JJ thought it would be easier without the boys getting underfoot."

"I bet they're getting so big," Spencer says fondly. "I haven't seen them in awhile. I'll have to visit soon."

"Isn't Henry's birthday coming up? I'm sure JJ is planning something for that."

Derek is waiting in the parking lot, his SUV running. Penelope hops in the front seat, and Spencer takes the seat behind her, capitulating on the extra leg room he knows he'll find behind her seat.

"Hey, Pretty Boy," Derek exclaims. "Ready for a night of dinner and dancing on the town?"

"You don't dance at a classical music concert," Spencer explains patiently. "You sit and you listen, and you enjoy the performance."

"Doesn't sound as much fun as a pop concert," Derek says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

"That's because your idea of good music is a singular repeating four-chord progression with constant driving percussion. Once you hear Rachmaninoff, your whole life will change."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Okay, Mozart," he scoffs, but Spencer can hear the lightness in his friend's tone.

Penelope has already texted Emily and JJ that they're close, because the final two are waiting in the parking lot outside Emily's building when Derek pulls up. They both look lovely, JJ in a lavender tea-length dress and Emily in burgundy. They hurry to the car, giggling at something Emily must have said.

They enjoy dinner at a nice Italian restaurant, although they remark that Rossi's cooking is much better.

"That's because he can cook authentic Italian cuisine," Spencer points out. "Establishments like this serve an Americanized version of Italian dishes, and their ingredients are not traditionally sourced."

"Also, Rossi knows how to host," JJ adds. "The food is only one part of the experience."

"And he has an excellent wine collection," Emily says pointedly, swirling her own glass. "This isn't bad - it goes nicely with the meal - but once you've had something at Rossi's, everything else is ruined forever."

A short drive later, the team is mounting the steps of the Kennedy Center. Garcia rummages in her purse for the tickets, handing them out before they reach the front doors.

"I've never actually been here," JJ says, craning her head to look at the ceiling as they reach the entrance. "It's beautiful."

"I've been, but not for awhile," Emily says. "I think the last time I was here was in college."

Spencer doesn't mention that he comes here at least twice a year, depending on his schedule and the concert offerings. As a major artistic institution, the Kennedy Center attracts world-renowned musical artists, and Spencer comes whenever he can. He doesn't feel like attracting his team's teasing right now, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

They have decent seats, midway back on the right on the orchestra level. The hall is relatively full, and there's a buzz of conversation around them, layering over the pleasant cacophony of orchestral instruments onstage as the musicians warm up.

Tuning out the chatter of his teammates, Spencer glances through his program, feeling his anticipation build. The first piece isn't just any Rachmaninoff, it's the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Spencer has never heard it live, but it's one of the first recordings he can remember his mother playing for him as a child. The second half of the concert is Dvorak's New World Symphony, another of Spencer's favorites.

He doesn't recognize the piano soloist's name. According to her biography in the program, she's still a student at the National Academy for the Arts, and won this debut with the symphony through a competition.

"Did you know that Rachmaninoff is quoting the Italian violinist Paganini for the initial melody of this work?" he asks Emily, who's sitting next to him. "Paganini was thought to have sold his soul to the devil since his violin technique was so advanced for the time. Paganini's piece was a set of incredibly difficult violin variations, and Rachmaninoff turned the same melody into a set of variations for solo piano and orchestra."

Emily's face wrinkles in thought. "I think I've heard a bit of this one before," she says. "One of the famous parts?"

"You'll recognize the main melody," Spencer tells her. "And the twelfth variation is especially well-known and beloved for its beauty and lyricism. But the whole work is incredible, and a lot of fun to listen to."

Emily grins, and gives Spencer's arm an excited squeeze where it's resting on the armrest between their seats. "Well, I'm looking forward to it."

Spencer's glad he's sitting next to Emily. With her international upbringing and time spent abroad, she's more familiar with classical arts and literature than the rest of their friends.

He also makes a mental note to mention this concert in his next letter to his mother. He knows she'll appreciate the programming.

Finally, the lights dim, and the noise in the hall begins to settle. The audience breaks into applause as the concertmaster enters the stage, bowing before turning to the orchestra. A breath of silence, and then the oboe's sweet tone rings out a tuning note - a sound that never fails to send a shiver of anticipation down Spencer's spine. The tuning note swells as the rest of the orchestra takes it, fractaling out in waves of overlapping sound before it dwindles away and the concertmaster takes her seat.

The audience begins to applaud again as the soloist and the conductor appear. The orchestra stands to welcome them, and the soloist shakes both the conductor and the concertmaster's hands before moving to the piano.

Spencer is surprised how young she appears. She looks tiny next to the piano, dressed in a sleeveless full black gown. The fabric has a subtle shimmer under the stage lights. Her hair is pinned off her neck into an effortlessly easy-looking arrangement of curls, and he catches the flash of tasteful diamond jewelry at her earlobes and neck.

It's especially surprising to Spencer because he knows a lot of the difficulty of Rachmaninoff's music lies in the sheer range for which the composer wrote. Statistically speaking, handspan is usually proportional to heigh, and he's very interest to see how this young woman handles the challenge.

A charged, expectant silence settles over the hall as the pianist settles on the bench and the conductor picks up his baton. A soundless, ferocious preparatory breath, and the orchestra breaks into music.

From the first chords, the young pianist shows complete mastery of the instrument and the music. It draws Spencer in instantly, how she almost disappears within the sound, her fingers flying effortlessly over the keys. He's amazed at the volume she can coax from the giant instrument.

Time melts away, and only the music remains. It's sparklingly clear, a wonderful intellectual debate between the piano and the orchestra, building and resolving over and over again through each variation.

And finally, the music melts to the glorious richness of the twelfth variation. Spencer is dimly away of tears streaming down his face at the sheer beauty of the sound surrounding him, but also because of the pianist creating it - she has given herself completely over to the music, her eyes closed in perfect bliss as her fingers float across the keyboard. There's a sensitivity and almost sadness within the sweet melody - Paganini's initial melody turned upside-down, Spencer distantly remembers - and something within it calls his own heart to crack in sympathy in time with the rolling arpeggios.

And then a swirl of sound, the variations building slowly to their final peak, and a crashing crescendo to the end. The final chord - just the piano - rings out into the hall, dying into a long moment of stunned silence before the audience jumps to its feet in wild applause.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur for Spencer. He can't even remember to share the fun fact that Dvorak spent a summer in the tiny town of Spillville, Iowa while he composed his New World Symphony and several other famous works. He sleeps deeply and restfully that night. None of his usual nightmares or waking terrors haunt him. Instead, when he opens his eyes in the morning, he has a distant memory of the twelfth variation spinning through his dreams and echoing in his subconscious, easing all into rest and peace.

#spencer reid recs

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worldfullofash · 1 month ago

Text

This was beautiful>>>

DEAR ALLIE | ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS

SUMMARY ⋆ sequel to dear april & dear arthur. as much as bob found a makeshift family among new york’s newest heroes, he couldn’t help but remember the one person who had always been his hero.

PAIRING ⋆ bob reynolds x fem!reader

WARNINGS ⋆ mentions of substance abuse, mention of self-harm, dependancy issues, toxicity, mention of hallucinations, bob being silly obvs, no use of y/n, lowercase intended, povs r switching, long asf (hope ur all into that)

A/N ⋆ minors dni!! i love these two so i had to make a part three

TAGS ⋆ @storystorktwo , @knights0fkylo , @fightmeyoushits2 , @moonz33 , @nervousstrangersandwich , @lalalunascope , @writeoffside , @httpfandxms

WORD COUNT ⋆ 6.8k

'my dearest allie, i couldn't sleep last night because i know that it's over between us'

since your conversation with bob two weeks ago, that dull, gnawing pit in your stomach had only grown heavier.

the guilt surprised you. not just for the call, but for finally putting yourself first. for choosing not to break yourself open for him again. and still, you hated yourself for it. that fragile thread of self-respect you'd managed to hold onto felt like it was fraying. you wanted to run to him and tell him you were sorry, that maybe you’d made a mistake. that maybe you were ready to give him another chance.

but were you?

you wanted this version of him, the one who sounded steady, sober, whole. but you were terrified that if you saw his face again, you wouldn’t be able to see past the one that haunted you: gaunt, trembling, lost. the version of him that you had tried so hard to save. and that wasn’t fair to him. because he deserved someone who could see him as he is now, not someone still trapped in the version he once was.

and unfortunately that person wasn’t you.

you’d tried to heal. you did what the internet told you to do — signed up for therapy, showed up, and paid for the hour. but when it came time to speak, you couldn’t. vulnerability was hard enough on your own; doing it in front of a stranger felt like peeling off your skin and being asked to explain the anatomy beneath.

so instead, you smiled politely, nodded along, and walked out more guarded than when you arrived.

though you’d saved his new number, you hadn’t dared reach out again. the silence weighed on you, thick with uncertainty. you were afraid that your one moment of hesitation, your single, breathless rejection, had closed the door for good. and maybe it had. not because you didn’t want to try again, but because when it came down to it, you froze. you panicked. you’d handed him a piece of your soul, and the idea of facing him again felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

but the blame didn’t rest solely on your shoulders. bob hadn’t reached out either. he’d taken your refusal with a quietness that unsettled you, but you knew him; you knew that silence wasn’t peace. what you said had likely wrecked him, just as it wrecked you. because you and bob were more alike than either of you liked to admit. two people carrying around too much grief, always mistaking survival for healing. that's what happens when you spend most of your life with someone.

when he offered to fly out, it terrified you. not just because you’d have to see him again, look him in the eyes after everything, but because of what he might see. since getting clean, bob had moved into the old avengers tower, a sleek monument of glass and steel rising from the heart of manhattan. no leaking ceilings. no threadbare couch. no chipped paint curling off the walls like shedding skin. he had stepped into a world of clean lines and comfort, and you hadn’t. you were still here — in the same apartment he left behind, where time hadn’t so much stood still as it had quietly decayed around you.

the idea of him walking through that door and seeing how little had changed... it made your chest tighten. you didn’t want him to know that while he had climbed his way out, you were still trapped in the shadow of what his life used to be. as much as you wanted to avoid the heroes he now surrounded himself with, even that seemed easier than letting him see the life you hadn’t yet outgrown.

you were confused, too. confused that he was now telling you what you thought hadn’t happened. you needed more than denial. because if he hadn’t gotten clean for them, then who had he gotten clean for? and what really happened?

when you first saw him on the news, it felt like your lungs collapsed. you spent hours scrolling through every headline, every clip, every anchor, trying to make sense of why bob was there. everyone else in that tower had a story, a mission, a purpose. one had destroyed a city. another had tried to stitch it back together. but bob? no one said why he was there. his name was just listed.

then you saw it, a grainy still of the figure everyone was talking about. a silhouette so black it looked like light bent away from it. a void. you remembered his words when he would describe his bad days: “it feels like nothing, y'know. like i’m nothing. but when you're there for so long, it stops feeling scary. it starts feelin' safe.”

you stared at that image and felt something cold settle in your stomach. because that kind of nothingness was the kind you’d heard about long before the world had.

but you knew you couldn’t just ask him, not in your first real conversation in two years. “hey, by any chance, were you the black, floating guy?” no. that would’ve sounded insane, even if it was exactly what you were thinking.

so you swallowed the question and tucked it away, like you’d done with so many others. you decided if the figure ever showed up again, if that darkness returned, you’d ask him then. it would give him the space to be honest, to tell you the truth on his own terms. maybe even a chance to explain everything that happened after he walked out of your apartment and disappeared into a world you no longer recognised.

that was, until he called and tried to apologise for all the pain he’d caused. and looking back now, maybe you should’ve let him speak. maybe you should’ve told him the truth, that you weren’t ready to see him, but that you could still listen. if you had, maybe he would’ve given you the explanation you’d waited for. maybe then, you could’ve started over. or at the very least, picked up from where you'd left off.

picked up from the words: i love you.

robert reynolds, present day

robert reynolds hated himself. not in the loud, destructive way he used to, but in the quiet, constant way that lingers.

he didn’t need to ask what he’d done wrong. he’d lived it. he remembered the nights he left you waiting, the weight of your disappointment, the way you always tried to hold him together even as he was falling apart. he’d hurt you, and not in a single, cinematic blow, but in slow, accumulating ways. still, part of him hoped you’d forgive him even though he knew he permanently scarred you.

but when you hung up, it was like hearing a door close that had always stayed open, even when it shouldn’t have.

afterward, he sat alone, running through every word. would you even want to hear him out if he had another chance? would explaining really matter, when the damage had already been done? you’d told him how you felt, the weight of the years he abandoned, the ache of seeing his face on the news after all that silence. you had every right to be angry. you’d bled honesty while he offered too little, too late.

his mind circled back to the last thing he’d said before he left: i love you.

and he did. he always had. but the years had taught him that love wasn’t always enough. not when it was buried beneath guilt, not when it came without the strength to protect the one you loved from yourself.

since living with the others, the so-called heroes, he’d started to understand love in a different way. through quiet gestures, through second chances, through the heavy silence after a mission when no one said anything, but everyone stayed. he loved them, in his way — yelena, john, bucky, ava, alexei — all fractured people trying their best.

but the way he loved you was different.

it wasn’t loud. it didn’t need saving or survival. it was something still, something sacred, something that felt like it had always been there, long before he ever said the words aloud. he couldn't define it, couldn't explain it, but he knew it set itself apart. you were never just part of his life. you were the thread that ran through it. and now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get the chance to hold it again.

bob regretted the way he left things. the way his words lingered like smoke in the silence that followed. a confession spoken too late, too suddenly. he imagined it must have left you reeling, and not just because of what he said, but because of everything he hadn’t. he didn’t mean to open old wounds. he only wanted you to know that your love had mattered. that your time, your care, and your relentless belief in him had stitched him together more times than he could count.

and though it hadn’t saved him, not then, it had kept him breathing. that was something.

he regretted asking to see you. not because he didn’t want to, he ached for it, but because it was selfish. he should have stayed on the line, let his voice carry the truth gently, and let you stay where you were safe. maybe then you would have listened; maybe then you wouldn’t have felt the need to close the door so tightly.

but he’d rushed, as he always did. he fumbled his chance to make things right. he’d taken the fragile thing between you and pressed too hard, leaving cracks where there could’ve been healing.

he only wanted to explain. to tell you what really happened in malaysia, the things no one saw. to show you how much he loved you — not in a grand way, but in a quiet, human one. because those final words were just the surface. beneath them was a whole world he never gave you the chance to see.

this whole thing had left him wrecked in ways he couldn’t hide, not even from them. his friends had always kept an eye on him — his history made that a necessity — but lately, he could feel their concern shift. it had sharpened, crept out from under the surface, and taken shape, like they were all holding their breath around him.

and it annoyed him. he knew it was petty, but part of him resented it. that kind of quiet vigilance, that care dressed as caution, belonged to you. not them. you were the one who had earned the right to worry, not people who only knew the healthier, half-healed version of him.

the team had started noticing how withdrawn he’d become, how often he disappeared into his own head. he was starting to suspect that their concern wasn’t really about him, that it was about the void. as if they were just waiting to see if it would claw its way back through him. as if his sadness might be a warning flare.

he wasn’t even sure it worked like that. if being upset could summon it. no one really knew what triggered the void, not even him. not when every bad day ended in a blackout and a memory full of holes.

and it had been two long weeks of the same rhythm. the team was watching him like hawks, checking in so often it stopped feeling like care and started feeling like surveillance. they forced him out of his room, out of his silence, into the daylight he wasn’t ready for, and he hated it. hated the way concern felt like a cage.

that was, until this morning.

his phone buzzed, which was rare and jarring. it hardly ever did. no one knew him, and the only friends he had were the ones under the same roof. he’d never cared much for social media either, not enough to stay connected.

hi robbie :) sorry for not reaching out sooner but i've been thinking about what i said when u called me and i regret it. i was just too scared because i haven't seen u in so long and i didn't want u to come to florida because i still live in shit lol. anyway i booked a flight to new york so hopefully ur available because otherwise i've wasted a lotta money

bob thought his heart had stopped. he’d convinced himself he’d ruined it. that your silence was the end, that there was no coming back from it. but then your message came, saying you were on your way. relief crashed over him in waves so strong, it felt like he could barely breathe. to say he was ecstatic didn’t come close.

but with the joy, obviously, came worry. would they even let you in? no one ever had visitors at the tower, not like this. you’d be the first. what if they turned you away? would they really expect you to wander the city alone, like this wasn’t something fragile and important?

he didn't have answers, just the growing hope that nothing would get in the way now — not security, not bad timing, not fear. not again.

he stared at the message for far too long, rereading it again and again, as if the words might vanish if he blinked too hard. as if this moment were too good to trust.

he typed out response after response, deleting each one just before hitting send. everything he wrote felt too big or too small. too desperate. too vague. too much of what he hadn’t said before. in the end, he settled on something simple, something safe:

Hi! I'll explain everything when u get here. Can u text me when ur here so I can meet u in the lobby?

he hit send. then he turned off his phone.

leaning back against his headboard, he stared at the ceiling, heart thrumming in his chest like a warning bell. the panic crept in slowly, threading through his ribs like wire. he was so unprepared. there was no speech tucked away in his mind, no clear way to explain the years, the silence, or the pain.

and his friends were still here, scattered somewhere around the tower. what if one of them saw you first? what if they mistook you for a threat? would they pull a weapon? say something unforgivable?

he rose from his bed and began pacing, the floor cold beneath his feet, hands twisting together as though they could wring the anxiety out of him. he checked his phone again. and again. still nothing. each moment of silence felt heavier than the last. doubt started to settle like fog in his chest. maybe you’d changed your mind. maybe the message was a flicker of bravery, already snuffed out by fear or second thoughts.

maybe he’d already lost you again.

since the blackout in manhattan, he'd been really trying not to let his worst thoughts take the reins. grounding techniques, redirection, all the tools his therapist had handed him like lifelines. but in this moment, every one of them scattered like dust in a storm. all he could do was pace the length of his room, muttering half-formed thoughts under his breath like prayers.

in the haze of his panic, it took him far too long to realise something obvious: that he didn’t actually know when you were coming. you said you booked a flight, sure. but that could mean today, tomorrow, next week, or next month. he let the high of hearing from you carry him away and made himself believe it meant now.

the realisation hit with a dull thud in his chest. how embarrassing. he’d wound himself up, worked himself into a frenzy, just to discover he didn’t even know what day to expect you.

you probably weren’t even coming today. did people book same-day flights? he wasn’t sure. he’d only ever been on a plane once, and he booked that one mid-manic episode, high out of his mind, convinced he was chasing something worth crashing for. of course he got his hopes up too fast. of course he assumed too much. that was always the problem; he never knew how to wait for good things without breaking them first.

he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, and all he could think about was the last time he let hope bloom too early in your name. how it unfurled like spring too soon, only to wither beneath the frost.

robert reynolds, age 21

bob was there because of you.

god, he hated it there — the smell of sterile floors, the too-bright lights, the way everyone spoke like they were reading off scripts. but he stayed. because you got him in. you, with your scraped-together savings and tired eyes, somehow made space for his ruin. you believed there was something left worth saving.

so he showed up. walked through those doors like they didn’t terrify him. sat in a circle with strangers and confessed things he barely understood. let his hands tremble as he spoke. listened when he could.

all for you.

and today, you were coming.

it had been two months. two months since he last touched anything sharp enough to carve his mind into silence. two months since he numbed himself into that floating, bottomless place. he missed it more than he could say, more than anyone wanted to hear. he missed it in the mornings, missed it in the stillness of night, missed it when his chest got too tight and his thoughts too loud.

but you called. every week, without fail. your voice, familiar and steady on the other end of the line, was the tether that kept him from drifting off into the void again. sometimes, you’d talk about nothing, boring stuff like the weather, a weird ad you saw, or what you were cooking for dinner. other times, you'd say very little at all, and it still made a difference.

in the beginning, he was bitter and withdrawn. he lashed out at anyone who spoke too softly or too kindly. but by week three, he'd burnt himself out. the fire inside him didn’t roar the way it used to. now it just smouldered, low and tired. and when you called earlier that week and said you were coming, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

hope.

it sat strange in his chest, brittle and unfamiliar. but it was real. and when he opened his eyes that morning, the world didn’t feel as heavy. for once, he didn’t wake up aching to be unconscious.

he wasn’t healed. not by a long shot. in therapy, he still lied through his teeth; he gave them half-truths dressed up as progress, nodded when they said things he didn’t believe. the real work, the hard stuff, he hadn’t even touched. couldn’t. not without you.

because the truth was, he didn’t know who he was without you holding the edges of him together.

it wasn’t the pills that got him through, or the routines, or the people in that building. it was your voice. your boring small talk that wasn't boring to him. the thought of you walking back into his life, even for a second. that was his medication. his distraction. his salvation.

you were the reason he swallowed the bitterness every morning instead of something stronger. the reason he didn’t throw a chair through the window when his chest got too tight to breathe. the reason he even bothered to pretend he was getting better.

because if you came today, if you looked at him and didn’t turn away, maybe he could believe, for a fleeting moment, that he was worth something again. that there was still a version of him you could love.

and he needed that more than any fix he’d ever known.

so when he heard his name echo through the hallway, he sprang up, bolting toward the phone like a child chasing christmas morning, heart thudding with hope.

"hi!" he breathed, the grin on his face practically audible through the receiver.

"hi, robbie!" you chirped in return, and god, he could hear the smile in your voice too — soft, familiar, like home. it soothed something frantic in him. for a moment, everything felt okay.

"what time are you comin'?" he asked, voice nearly tripping over itself. he rocked on the balls of his feet, twisting the hem of his shirt until the fabric was wrung tight between his fingers.

then came the pause. a breath, long and slow, curling into a sigh.

his smile wavered.

that sound clanged through his chest like a warning bell, and in the space of a heartbeat, his mind spiralled. did something happen? did you change your mind? were you not coming at all?

“rob...” you said gently, like you were approaching something skittish and trembling. “i’m not comin' today. i said next thursday, remember? my shift couldn’t be covered any sooner.”

your voice was calm, apologetic, measured in the way someone speaks when trying not to provoke. and it made sense, because at this point in his life, bob reynolds was something feral. all nerves and rawness. a bundle of open wires sparking in the dark.

what you didn’t know was that since stepping into that rehab, bob had quietly, completely rewired his world around you. every thought, every choice, every fragile scrap of progress hung on the idea of your return.

he didn’t mean to. didn’t even notice it happening. but you had become his compass, his constant, his imagined finish line. when he spoke in the group, he spoke about you. when he ate, when he slept, when he held himself together by the threads, it was for you. he carved your name into every inch of his day, like some subconscious prayer.

by your third call with him, you started to wonder if he was hallucinating you.

and now, even a single delay, a small, logical correction in his memory, felt like a landslide beneath him. because when you told him you were coming, that was it; that was the only thing his mind could hold onto. the thought of seeing you again eclipsed every other detail, including the one where you said it wouldn’t be for another week. he didn’t hear that part. or maybe he did, but his hope twisted it into something sooner, something immediate.

this was the longest he’d gone without seeing you. you’d placed him in rehabs before, but he never lasted. a few weeks at most before he spiralled and found his way back to the void. but this time was different: two whole months of aching sobriety, of group therapy sessions where he barely spoke, of nights spent tracing the memory of your voice just to fall asleep.

and god, it was eating him alive. the loneliness, the craving, and not just for the substances, but for you. for your presence, your voice, your hand at the nape of his neck. the absence of you felt worse than detox. it was quieter, slower, but somehow more lethal.

“but i thought you were comin' today…” he said, frowning. but the voice wasn’t angry, not really, more confused, like something sacred had been promised and then taken back without warning.

the truth is, he didn’t know why he thought today was the day. he just needed it to be. needed something to arrive. needed you to arrive. and now that you weren’t, he felt it in his chest like a collapse, as if the little scaffolding of progress he’d built had been knocked sideways. he wasn’t just disappointed. he was unravelling. and he hated that it was you holding all the threads.

tears blurred his vision before he could stop them, welling fast, hot with something that wasn’t quite sadness, not yet. it was the sharp sting of rejection, twisting into something darker. something bitter.

he felt resentment rising in his throat like bile. you weren’t coming. not today. even after everything, even knowing how much he needed you, you still chose next week instead. it didn’t matter that you had a reason. that you said your shift couldn’t be covered. he didn’t believe you. not in that moment. not when the ache in his chest was loud enough to drown out logic. no, you were lying. just like the others. just like everyone else who had promised they’d stay.

you were supposed to be different. you were supposed to be the one person who didn’t leave. who wouldn’t push him aside or delay seeing him like he was some obligation. a burden.

why wouldn’t you want to see him sooner?

“i fuckin' hate you,” he snapped, the words breaking on his tongue like glass. and then he slammed the phone down, hard enough to make the room feel smaller.

there was no guilt clawing at his chest, no second-guessing in the silence after. only a terrible calm, as if by cutting the cord to you, he’d finally proven what he feared all along: he was alone.

and maybe that was better than pretending you’d ever show up in time.

robert reynolds, present day

he was ripped out of that godawful memory — the sting of your voice still fresh in his head — by the sharp, mechanical scream of the alarm system echoing through the tower.

UNAUTHORISED ENTRANCE. UNAUTHORISED ENTRANCE.

the voice repeated, tinny and cold, as red lights flashed along the corridors like sirens in his brain. his heart jumped into his throat.

he shot up from bed too fast, the blood rush making his vision tunnel for a split second. one hand grabbed the doorframe for balance; the other curled into the hem of his shirt, grounding himself in the fabric as he stumbled forward into the hall. the moment he turned the corner, he saw his friends all gathered near the elevator, guns in hand, eyes hard and focused. it wasn’t training. it wasn’t routine. it was real.

even more panic shot up his spine.

“what’s happening?” bob asked, voice taut as he ran a shaking hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the strands like he could yank the anxiety straight from his scalp.

all heads turned toward him.

it shouldn’t have made him feel guilty, but it did. the way they all looked at him, just for a moment. like he might be the reason the alarm was blaring. like the storm outside might be leaking from somewhere inside him.

he took a hesitant step closer, his frown deepening.

“stay there, bobby!” john barked, eyes snapping back to the elevator, finger tightening on the trigger.

bob froze in place.

something in his chest snapped tight, like a cable stretched too far. he knew that tone. knew it from his father, from clinics, from the times when people weren’t trying to help him; they were trying to contain him.

his body locked up, breath caught in his throat. fight or flight had never felt like a choice for bob, it had always been fight or freeze. and right now, every part of him was still as stone, pulse loud in his ears, hands twitching but unable to move.

he wasn’t sure if he was afraid of what was coming out of the elevator or if they were afraid of what he might do. either way, he stood there in the flickering red light, a ghost in the hallway, silent and shaking.

the stillness stretched on, a tension so sharp it seemed to hum in the walls. time felt suspended, drawn thin and tight like a wire about to snap. the silence didn’t comfort; it suffocated. it collapsed the space around them, made the wide hallway feel smaller, like the walls were inching inward with every breath.

he could hear everything.

every inhale was too fast and too shallow, with ragged lungs trying to stay steady. the shift of weight from foot to foot echoed louder than it should’ve, boots thudding softly against the floor like muffled thunder. fingers twitched against gun triggers. a leather glove creaked. someone cleared their throat, quickly stifled. the air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

bob could feel the static of it in his bones. no one spoke. no one dared to. that kind of silence, the kind born not of peace but of fear, was worse than any noise. it made him realise how fragile it all was. one movement. one breath too loud. one mistake.

that was, until they heard the low, mechanical whir of the elevator reaching them.

it climbed slowly, too slowly for the heat of the moment. the sound was faint, but in the thick silence, it might as well have been a thunderclap. instantly, everyone tensed. fingers tightened around triggers. shoulders squared. the quiet was swallowed by the shallow breath everyone seemed to take in unison, a single, sharp inhale before stillness reclaimed the room like a held breath.

then, with a final groan, the elevator reached their floor. a second passed.

then a soft ding.

the metallic squeal of the doors sliding open echoed through the hallway, cutting through the tension like a blade. it was a small sound, barely more than a whisper of rusted steel, but in the silence, it felt deafening. every eye locked on the elevator. every muscle taut. every possibility, every threat, every memory of what they’d seen before lingered like a ghost in the doorway. and then movement.

“what the fuck is happenin'?” you blurted, stumbling forward, hands shooting up in surrender, your voice echoing off the metal walls of the corridor.

everyone froze. the shift in energy was instant. weapons didn’t lower entirely, but grips loosened, and gazes flickered from aggression to confusion. you weren’t supposed to be confused. you weren’t supposed to look like this. if you were an intruder, why were your eyes wide with surprise? why did your voice shake not with malice, but with disbelief?

you were supposed to be a threat. so why did you look like you’d just stepped into the wrong room?

one by one, heads tilted, frowns etched themselves deeper into the lines of trained faces. you stood just beyond the circle of their suspicion, your breath caught somewhere between fear and frustration. then he saw you.

not all of you, not yet. there were bodies in front of him: tall silhouettes of soldiers, agents, people built for combat and chaos. but between them, in the narrow spaces between shoulders and stances, he saw your face.

time didn’t just slow; it crumpled.

it was like every second since the last time he saw you had collapsed into a single breath he didn’t realise he was holding. you looked the same. in the literal sense — the exhaustion, the tension around your mouth familiar — but also the soul of you, the essence, was exactly as he remembered.

shoulders slightly slouched. eyes tired, but still too kind. still you. still heartbreakingly, incomprehensibly you. he thought, foolishly, that he’d been ready. that if he saw you again, he’d be prepared. he’d have words, explanations. apologies. but all of it vanished the second you walked in, or maybe floated in, because to him, you didn’t seem entirely real.

and just like that, the flood came.

memories he thought he’d buried. the sound of your laughter on the fire escape. the weight of your hand pulling a needle out of his grip. the sob in your throat when you told him you couldn’t do it anymore. they came rushing back, as vivid as if they were happening all over again.

then, familiarly, came the guilt.

because now, looking at you as he was now, sober, lucid, no longer swallowed whole by the pit he’d been living in, he didn’t just remember what he did. he felt it; he saw it.

saw the way he’d shut you out. the way he’d blamed you. the way he’d looked you in the eyes and lied, and begged, and crumbled, and expected you to carry all of it. and yet here you were. after everything. he had no idea what you saw when you would look back at him, but he hoped, with everything inside him, that it wasn’t the same man who’d once stood in your doorway, high and hollowed out, telling you that love meant leaving.

he didn’t have words, not yet. but as the weapons slowly lowered around you and your name formed silently on his lips, he realised: maybe this was his second chance.

this time, he knew he wouldn’t waste it.

“robbie, can you tell your friends to back the fuck off?” you breathed, the sharpness in your voice thinning beneath exhaustion. you still wouldn’t look at him, not yet. not when it hurt this much.

your tone was firm, but your chest was heaving. every word took effort, like dragging yourself out of a dream you weren’t ready to leave or a memory you didn’t want to return to. and your voice, even in its anger, trembled just slightly, just enough for him to hear the ache that never left.

“m'sorry,” he said softly, and something inside you flinched.

he wasn’t just talking about the team, their guns, and the intrusion. he wasn’t even really talking about the moment. he was speaking to every moment before this one: every missed call, every scream that ended in silence, every relapse, every time he promised he’d change and didn’t. it was an apology years too late, stitched through with guilt that had been eating him alive. and you both knew it.

he turned slowly, wordlessly motioning for the others to stand down. there was a hesitation in the air — the kind that comes before a wave breaks. one by one, everyone stood back. curious glances were exchanged. the air cleared, but not the tension. not the electricity still thrumming between you and him.

they fully stepped back. and then it was just the two of you, standing a breath apart across a chasm of time and ruin.

he inched closer, uncertain, like a man approaching sacred ground. you didn’t move, not forward, not away. just stood there, frozen beneath the fluorescent light and the ghost of every version of him you had ever known. he wanted to reach for you, to say something, anything, that might bridge the space between who he had been and who he was trying to be now. but his hands stayed clenched at his sides.

you finally looked up. just enough to meet his eyes, and that was all it took for the air to shift.

his heart beat once, loud, insistent, and time felt like it folded in on itself. all the arguments, the cold nights, the messy apologies, the pain didn’t vanish, but they throbbed differently now. quieter. sadder.

neither of you moved. not yet.

because this wasn’t a reunion, but it was recognition. of what you had been, of what you’d survived. and maybe, of what you still wanted.

without a word, you stepped forward and took his hand, and just like that, the room, the tower, and the world slipped into the background. he followed, too stunned to speak, feet barely keeping pace with you as you tugged him through the sterile hallways in search of somewhere that didn’t have eyes watching and breaths held.

the others faded. their voices dimmed. their stares evaporated behind him.

time slowed the moment he saw you, and now it had nearly stopped altogether. his ears were ringing with that thick, muffled hum he always got before a panic attack or a miracle. he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. he wasn’t sure which this was.

his hand felt small in yours, like a child's. you were warm, real, and present. and that terrified him. because part of him had decided you were never coming. part of him had already buried you in his mind, and not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t think he could survive the hope anymore.

and now, here you were, pulling him through the flickering lights of a building he hated, wearing an expression he couldn’t decipher, saying nothing, yet doing everything. he couldn’t quite hear you. couldn’t quite see you. his vision was blurry, like there was water in his eyes that he didn’t remember forming. his thoughts raced in circles:

why were you here? why would you do this? what did he do to deserve this? why did you still care?

you pushed open a door and slipped into an unused room, the kind meant for quiet conversations or maybe storage; it didn’t matter. the moment the door clicked shut behind you, it felt like the air had thickened.

still, you didn’t let go of his hand.

bob stood still for a beat, swaying slightly where he stood. he was breathing, but barely. every part of him screamed for some version of control, but none came. his grip tightened, just slightly, like he thought you might vanish if he didn’t hold fast enough.

and finally, he asked the only thing that had made it through the chaos in his mind.

“why’re you here?” he mumbled, voice low and rough, like he was forcing it through gravel.

his eyes searched yours but didn’t quite land. everything was soft, hazy, not quite right. he blinked hard, hoping it would clear. it didn’t. the question wasn't an accusation. it was quiet devastation. it was disbelief. it was please don’t leave me.

you shrugged, eyes flickering down. “i don’t really know… guess i just missed you.” and the words hit harder than either of you expected.

bob felt something twist inside his chest, so sharp it made his breath catch. missed him? the trembling, half-mended wreckage of a man standing before you?

he wanted to speak. say something light, something that would take the edge off, but he was choking on every word that tried to surface. he couldn’t stop staring. couldn’t stop thinking about how much time had passed and how little of himself was left to give.

he had imagined this moment, this exact moment, more times than he could count. but in every version, he was stronger. cleaner. smiling. saying all the right things, arms open and waiting. not this. not standing here in his wrinkled clothes and thin skin, trembling with uncertainty, barely holding himself upright. you looked at him like you could see through all of it.

and he hated how badly he wanted you to touch him. to hold his face, to wipe the exhaustion off his skin with your hands, and whisper that none of it mattered. but he didn’t deserve that. not yet. maybe not ever.

so neither of you said anything else. the silence bloomed between you, dense and shapeless, folding over your shoulders like a weighted blanket. not uncomfortable, not quite, but heavy with everything unspoken.

bob, unable to hold himself back any longer, crashed into you like a wave breaking at last against the shore it had always longed for. his arms wrapped around you with a desperation so quiet, it spoke louder than any scream, and in that moment, he pulled you into the kind of embrace you had shared before.

but this one was different.

there were no lies clinging to his skin. no tremors of withdrawal or frantic apologies tumbling between sobs. this wasn’t an embrace born of fear, or need, or guilt. it wasn’t him begging you not to leave. it was something quieter. something more whole.

it was the kind of hug that felt like a homecoming, like he’d finally returned to the part of himself that only existed when you were near.

“'m so sorry,” he breathed, voice muffled into the crook of your neck. the words trembled out of him, soft and hoarse, the same shape as every apology he'd ever given, but this time, it carried weight. real weight. not the kind that collapses, but the kind that anchors.

this wasn’t the sorry of someone who wanted to be let off the hook.

this was the kind of sorry that cracked at the edges, that came from someone who had bled for it. someone who had crawled through shame and memory and silence and somehow still found your name at the end of it all.

you didn’t hesitate. you held him tighter.

“s'okay,” you whispered, and it wasn’t a dismissal. it wasn’t an easy forgiveness or a wave of the hand.

it was permission to breathe again. to be held. to come undone safely, in the arms of someone who still saw the good in him, even through all the ash.

and for the first time in a long time, bob believed you.

#bob reynolds recs

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worldfullofash · 1 month ago

Text

Write it shitty, write it scared, write it without a clue but don't you be so spineless and have an AI write fanfic for you.

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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“nothing new” — “museums are sexy, right?”

(established-relationship!tasm peter x reader — soft dorky boyfriend hours, at the museum)

~5k words

cw: established relationship, soft pda, emotional intimacy, teasing, grinding, oral (f), protected p-in-v, crying during sex, aftercare, mutual love & worship. horny in a warm cozy boyfriend way. im not accountable for the content you want to consume!

an: hey guyth, ive missed you, its been so long... first time writing (and posting smut... hope its not cringe...)

⟡

he’s late, but he’s always late.

and when he finally jogs up to you in front of the museum, hoodie half-zipped, camera bouncing against his chest and curls all windblown and ridiculous, you don’t say anything. you just raise your eyebrows. one hand on your hip. the other clutching your iced coffee like a weapon.

“before you say anything,” he pants, holding up a peace offering—a squished museum map that he probably crumpled in his back pocket three days ago—“i brought a coupon.”

you squint. “we’re both under twenty-five. it’s free.”

“okay,” he shrugs, “but it felt boyfriend-coded.”

you smile despite yourself.

he insists on doing the entire sculpture garden first.

you try to be patient, really. but peter’s in full nerd mode—taking photos from four different angles, crouching next to marble torsos like he’s interrogating them, saying things like “wow, look at the muscle tension here, that’s insane,” and “i just think it’s cool that this guy has better calves than me and he’s from like 300 B.C.”

you mostly just watch him.

you could look at the art. you’re trying to look at the art.

but your dork of a boyfriend is wearing a too-big tan jacket over his hoodie, his fingers smudged with sunscreen he clearly didn’t rub in all the way, and he keeps pushing his glasses up with the back of his wrist while talking about how hot it must’ve been in ancient greece.

and honestly?

it’s way more interesting.

⟡

inside, it gets worse.

every time you try to walk more than ten feet into a gallery, peter finds something else to comment on. or take a photo of. or pose next to like a chaotic tour guide who got fired for being too enthusiastic.

“okay, wait,” he says, catching your sleeve gently as you pass a huge oil painting of some saint bleeding dramatically into a bowl. “hold on. babe, you have to see this.”

“i’m looking at it,” you say, dry.

“no, like—look,” he points with his chin, adjusting his camera strap. “look at his hands. that’s crazy detail.”

you glance at him.

his expression is serious.

his cheeks a little pink, because he gets excited like a toddler.

he turns to you and grins.

“i wanna draw you like that.”

“bleeding into a bowl?”

“posed dramatically.”

you snort. “you’re so annoying.”

he bumps his shoulder into yours. “you love it.”

you don’t answer, but you reach for his hand anyway.

⟡

in the impressionist gallery, he tries to act normal.

you sit beside him on one of the little benches in front of a blurry monet, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching.

he’s bouncing his leg.

you glance at him.

he glances at you.

and then he breaks.

“so, like,” he says, very seriously, “are we gonna talk about how sexy these brushstrokes are, or—?”

you slap his thigh gently.

he bites a grin into the side of his hand.

“i’m serious,” he says. “this is very sensual.”

“you are literally the worst person here.”

“the second worst,” he nods. “the guy who took that selfie in front of the crucifixion has me beat.”

you’re trying not to laugh.

he notices. you feel him shift closer.

then, after a moment—

“you looked really pretty earlier. by the statue. with the light hitting your face like that.”

your breath catches a little.

he’s already pretending to examine the monet again.

you lean in, voice low.

“you gonna send me those pictures later?”

his ears go pink.

“i mean,” he shrugs, “if you want…”

you nudge his knee with yours.

“i always want.”

and then—just for a second—he turns his head, kisses your cheek, and lets his lips linger.

it’s quiet. safe. soft enough to settle in your bones.

⟡

when you stand up to move on, he tugs at your sleeve again.

“wait. one more.”

you glance down.

his camera’s already out, lens pointed toward you. he doesn’t even let you fix your hair.

click.

“perfect,” he murmurs.

and when you look at him again—

he’s not smiling like before.

he’s looking at you like a painting.

like you’re worth being framed.

like he still can’t believe you’re his.

⟡

you don’t even make it five feet outside before peter’s pulling his camera out again.

“babe,” you warn.

he’s already lifting the viewfinder. “no no no, wait—stand there, don’t move.”

you groan. “peter.”

“the light is literally insane right now, just let me—hold on—”

you’re halfway through rolling your eyes when the shutter clicks.

click. click click.

“gorgeous,” he says under his breath.

you blink.

he’s not talking about the sky.

you cross your arms. “what if I hate being your muse.”

he drops the camera a little, steps closer.

his voice goes quieter.

“what if I’m not giving you a choice?”

you stare at him.

his curls are all messed up from running his hands through them. there’s a tiny sunscreen smudge still near his temple. his thumb’s twitching over the shutter button like he wants to take one more.

your lips twitch.

“you’re really pushing it, parker.”

“am I?” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth.

he’s wearing that look—the one that says I know you’re mad but I LOVE getting on your nerves!

and unfortunately, it’s true.

you take two steps toward him and pluck the camera from around his neck, letting it fall gently to your own chest.

then you kiss him.

just enough to get the smug off his face.

his breath catches.

his hands come up to your waist instantly, pulling you closer like you’re gonna disappear.

you smile against his mouth.

he sighs into the kiss, deep and soft and already a little needy.

“mm—thought you were mad at me,” he mumbles against your lip.

“shut up.”

you press your mouth to his again. slower this time.

you can feel the tension leave his shoulders. can feel the way his fingers flex at your sides, like he wants to touch more, but he’s still being good.

you’re in public. people are passing behind you.

and he doesn’t care.

⟡

you pull back after a few long seconds, breath uneven.

he’s blinking at you, dazed.

then—

“shit.”

you look down just in time to see his camera slipping off your neck.

you lunge. Peter lunges faster.

he catches it right before it hits the edge of the stone fountain.

you both freeze.

his mouth is open. your hands are still on his hoodie. a couple kids laugh behind you.

“…oops,” you murmur.

he glares at you, clutching the camera like it’s his firstborn.

“I just told you the light was perfect.”

you kiss his cheek. “you’ll live.”

“you almost dropped my soul in the fountain.”

“I almost dropped your camera, dramatic ass.”

“same thing.”

you laugh.

and when he’s not looking, you snap a photo of him.

crooked smile, ears flushed, camera strap clutched in his fist.

you tuck the camera back against your chest and say:

“I’m keeping that one.”

he narrows his eyes.

“that’s fine,” he mutters. “I already have a hundred of you in my drafts, so.”

you pause.

“…you what?”

he grabs your hand like he didn’t just say that.

“let’s go see the baroque room,” he says way too fast.

“peter.”

“you love religious trauma.”

“peter.”

“I’m buying you a keychain.”

⟡

he doesn’t stop taking pictures for the rest of the afternoon.

but you let him.

because you’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does when his camera’s in his hands—

like he’s documenting something rare.

something holy.

something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

⟡

you sit on the grass just below the museum hill, the skyline glittering behind you, and peter’s picnic bag spread open like a survival kit for a couple lost in whole foods.

you eye the contents.

“…peter.”

he looks up from where he’s unfolding a floral blanket (may’s, obviously, it still smells like her detergent).

“hm?”

you hold up a single pre-sliced cucumber and a ziploc bag of… hot cheetos.

“what is this meal.”

he blinks. then shrugs. “balance.”

“you brought half a pack of turkey, one string cheese, four clementines and three drinks, but no bread?”

“okay,” he says, unbothered, “first of all, i panicked at the bodega. second of all, i love you.”

you raise a brow. “so you’re using affection as a distraction tactic now.”

he opens the bottle of apple juice and takes a long sip.

“yeah. and it’s working.”

⟡

you end up sitting between his legs, leaning back into his chest while he feeds you a medley of unfortunate snack combinations and random museum trivia.

he's warm behind you. hoodie soft. voice quiet against your ear.

“this hill’s my favorite part,” he murmurs after a while. “i used to come up here alone in high school and pretend i wasn’t stressed out of my mind.”

you tilt your head, looking at him sideways.

“and now you bring me.”

he meets your gaze. smile slow.

“yeah. figured if i was gonna spiral again, i’d rather do it with someone hot in my lap.”

you snort and elbow him lightly.

he laughs and holds you tighter.

you talk about everything and nothing.

you lean forward to reach the bag of chips and he whines until you lean back again.

you brush stray petals off the blanket while he hums some dumb jingle under his breath.

you eat a clementine in perfect silence, and he just watches you.

you glance over, peel dangling from your fingers.

“what.”

he blinks. “nothing.”

you narrow your eyes. “why are you looking at me like that.”

“i like your mouth.”

you choke a little. “peter.”

he sips more juice like he’s innocent.

you toss a chip at his head. he catches it in his mouth. grins like a fiend.

“still got it.”

you lunge for the bottle and take a sip.

he wipes your chin lazily with his thumb, then licks the pad of it without thinking.

your pulse stutters.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

“what,” he says again, too soft this time.

you shake your head.

“i like your mouth, too.”

⟡

five minutes later, you’re lying flat on your back and he’s on his side beside you, drawing little shapes on your stomach through your shirt.

you close your eyes. the sun’s warm on your eyelids.

“this is nice,” you say.

“mhm.”

“don’t feed the ducks, though.”

“babe, the ducks are five yards away.”

“i’m just saying. if you feed them hot cheetos, you’re gonna get cancelled.”

he laughs. and you smile.

because his laugh sounds better than the city does.

and his hand’s still on your stomach, and the grass is soft, and you’re so full of juice and snacks and him that it’s hard to breathe.

⟡

the museum gift shop is a war zone.

there’s a hundred people inside and only three aisles wide enough for one person at a time. children are screaming over art-themed plushies. someone knocks over a display of pocket-sized monet calendars. peter disappears within ten seconds of entering.

you find him by the postcards, spinning the rack like a contestant on wheel of fortune.

“okay,” he says, pulling one with a dramatic renaissance martyr bleeding into a cherub’s arms, “this one’s obviously for you.”

you take it, unimpressed.

“are you saying I’m dramatic?”

“I’m saying you’re a divine tragedy, baby.”

you roll your eyes, but keep the postcard anyway.

a few minutes later, he finds you holding a tiny notebook shaped like a bust.

“do you think this is funny?” you ask.

“I think if you don’t buy it I’ll cry.”

“you cried at the museum fountain.”

“you almost dropped my camera into the museum fountain.”

“you’re deflecting.”

he kisses your cheek quickly.

you put the notebook in the basket.

he smiles like you’ve forgiven him for every crime he hasn’t committed yet.

he keeps wandering away and then coming back to show you something else.

“okay but this water bottle says ‘hydrate and create’ and that’s a pretty solid life motto.”

“should we start collecting these little magnetic portrait frames? like, for our future fridge?”

you pause at that one.

he doesn’t notice.

you do.

you watch the way he handles the fridge magnet, carefully turning it over in his fingers, brows drawn, tongue poking out just slightly between his lips.

like he means it.

like it’s not a joke. like he wants your life to include a fridge. and magnets. and you.

“hey,” you say, suddenly soft.

he glances up.

you hold up a tiny enamel pin shaped like a camera.

“this is so you.”

he blinks. “what?”

“you should get it. it’s dorky. and it’s exactly your vibe.”

he stares at it in your hand.

then at you.

you reach forward and pin it to his hoodie without waiting.

he doesn’t breathe the whole time.

“perfect,” you say, smoothing it out.

and when you look back at him—

he’s already looking at you.

like you just kissed him. like you just said I love you out loud. like you just told him yes.

⟡

you’re halfway to the register when you glance over your shoulder and grin.

“hey, should we steal something?”

peter immediately drops the tote bag.

“what?”

“like, just a sticker. to feel alive.”

“I literally have superpowers and you wanna get your adrenaline rush from a $3 sticker?”

“don’t kink shame me, peter.”

“I—"

“you’re already an outlaw,” you say, waving the postcard, “let’s complete the arc.”

he stares at you for three full seconds.

then reaches for your hand.

“fine. but if we get caught, I’m telling them you seduced me.”

“they’ll believe you.”

“you are wearing those boots.”

⟡

you do not steal anything.

peter does buy you the little magnetic portrait frame though.

and he doesn’t stop looking at his new pin the whole subway ride home.

⟡

the subway ride home is too long.

‘’peter’s legs are too long. your skirt is too short. the plastic seats are way too hard. and yet—none of that matters. because he’s warm. and he smells like sunscreen and spearmint gum and the apple juice you shared under the sun. and you’re sitting in his lap.

his camera bag is squished under your thigh. one of his hands is wrapped around your waist and the other is barely holding onto the rail above your heads. you can feel his heartbeat in his palm.

you lean into his chest with a sigh.

“tired already?” he murmurs.

“you’re exhausting.”

“thank you.”

he kisses the top of your head.

you play with his hair idly.

he lets you.

head tilted back against the subway wall, lashes fluttering, mouth parted. he looks young like this. soft and flush-cheeked. worn out in the way boys only get when they feel safe.

you twist a little strand between your fingers.

“I love your hair like this.”

he hums.

“messy?”

“a hot, messy nerd.”

he chuckles under his breath.

“you like me for my brain.”

“I like your brain and… yep.”

his hand tightens on your hip.

“…noted.”

⟡

he taps your thigh lightly and nods toward the next stop.

“we gotta change lines here.”

“ugh.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“no you won’t.”

“no I won’t.”

you stand slowly, stretching. your legs feel like jelly.

he slaps your ass gently as you step off him.

“hey!”

“accident.”

“that’s not—!”

“momentum,” he grins.

“you’re so annoying.”

“you’re in love with me.”

you glare. he sticks his tongue out.

⟡

by the time you’re back on the bus, his legs are bouncing again.

you’re still tucked next to him, shoulder pressed to his chest.

he’s staring out the window, fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.

you glance up.

“what?”

“what time is dinner at May’s?”

you blink. “you invited me.”

“yeah but I forgot to ask her what time.”

“peter.”

he pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously.

you lean your head on his shoulder. watch his fingers fly.

“are we late?”

“maybe.”

“is she gonna kill us?”

“probably.”

“…oh. okay.”

he smiles.

his cheek presses against your hair. and you feel it again—that ache in your ribs. the good kind. the I love this boy so much it’s stupid kind.

you make it to May’s ten minutes late.

peter’s shirt is wrinkled. your lipstick is smudged. his pin is still clinging to the edge of his hoodie like a badge of honor.

may opens the door and looks at you both with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who’s known peter since birth.

“you’re late.”

“traffic,” Peter lies.

“you took the subway.”

no response.

may rolls her eyes.

but when she hugs you, she squeezes you extra tight.

⟡

may’s kitchen smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and the softest, warmest kind of love.

peter sniffs dramatically.

“is that—” “meatloaf,” May says, already tired.

“meatloaf again?” he cries. “may. my body is a temple.”

“your body is 80% junk.”

you giggle and slide onto a chair at the kitchen table.

peter dramatically collapses into the one beside you, resting his head on your shoulder like he’s just been through war.

“you’re so brave.”

may sets the dish down.

it’s good.

of course it is. it’s may’s meatloaf. theres something sweet in the sauce and you’d honestly eat ten slabs of it if you didn’t have someone’s thigh pressed to yours under the table.

peter is a menace.

his socked foot finds yours.

you side-eye him.

he’s chewing with exaggerated innocence. blinking at you like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

“peter,” you hiss.

“what?” he says, mouth full. “I didn’t do anything.”

you nudge him hard with your elbow. he gasps, clutching his ribs.

“may,” he groans. “she hit me.”

“she’s allowed,” May says.

⟡

you help clear the table.

Peter tries to carry too many plates at once. may tells him not to drop anything. he drops a fork. blames gravity.

you rinse. he dries.

he keeps bumping your hip. you keep elbowing his side.

your fingers brush at the counter’s edge. his knuckles are warm.

he murmurs—

“thank you for coming.”

you glance up. he’s close.

soft-eyed. flushed cheeked. little bits of sun still tucked under his collarbones.

“I like seeing you here,” he says.

you smile.

may disappears to her room.

peter practically drags you down the hall.

“I just wanna show you something.”

“your penis?”

“ok, two things.”

his room is the same as always. cluttered. cozy. full of scraps of old tech and socks that don’t match and one too many textbooks shoved under the bed.

he tosses his hoodie into a chair. flops face-down onto his bed with a groan.

you climb in after him.

he rolls over and pulls you onto his chest like you’re the most natural thing in the world.

⟡

his fingers find your spine. trace lazy lines.

your nose nudges his jaw. he sighs into your hair.

“you’re warm,” he mumbles.

“you’re heavy.”

“you love me.”

you kiss the spot under his ear.

“I do.”

he squeezes your waist. buries his face in your neck.

you tangle your legs with his. his toes wiggle against your ankle.

his voice is barely a whisper.

“I don’t want this day to end.”

⟡

his room’s dark now.

just the bedside lamp on. the kind of golden glow that makes your skin look soft and warm and kissable.

he’s looking at you like you’re lit from the inside out.

“what?” you whisper.

“nothing,” he says. “just. you.”

you’re lying beside him, head on his pillow. he’s curled toward you, one arm tucked under his head, the other tracing your waist.

his fingers keep dipping under your shirt.

warm palm, light scratch of fingernails. a little higher each time.

you press your cheek to his shoulder.

“you always smell like that.”

he smiles.

“like what?”

“clean laundry and metal and… like a boy who runs too hot.”

he turns his head. nose brushing yours. breath warm.

“I smell like you now.”

⟡

his lips find your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.

you roll closer. your legs tangle. he slips his thigh between yours.

his kiss is gentle, then a little less.

you sigh into it. his hand slides up, under your shirt, across the curve of your back.

your hips shift.

you both breathe through it.

his lips ghost yours again.

“can I—” “mmhm,” you hum.

his hand finds the underside of your thigh. your shirt rides up.

his knee nudges yours apart just a little. not enough. too much.

your hand slides up his chest. over his ribs.

he shivers.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he nods.

“just—just nervous. I always get nervous when I really, really like someone.”

your heart aches.

you kiss him, soft.

“me too.”

he pulls back to look at you.

his pupils are blown wide. his lashes are fluttering. he looks—

god, he looks gone.

“you’re so pretty,” he says, breathless.

you smile against his neck.

“you’re such a dork.”

his hand cups your waist. anchors you. your knee hitches over his hip.

“still like me?” he whispers.

⟡

you’re not even naked yet.

your shirt’s still half on. your bra too. his hoodie’s long gone but his jeans are just unbuttoned, not even off, and your skirt’s bunched around your waist like it’s scared to go.

you’re both breathless. flushed. his forehead rests against yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

his hips rock into yours slow.

grinding.

it’s barely anything. just pressure and the slow ache of almost.

his voice is all breath when he says—

“don’t look at me like that.”

your brows furrow.

“like what?”

he kisses you. shaky. your lips part for him without thinking.

when he pulls back, his voice cracks.

“like you mean it.”

⟡

his hands are everywhere.

your ribs, your back, the curve of your stomach. he treats you like you’re art. like he’s worried he’ll mess you up by holding too tight.

you grab his hand. press his palm to your chest.

“I want you to mean it.”

he stares at you like he can’t breathe.

“I do,” he whispers.

“then look at me.”

he does.

oh he does.

his eyes don’t leave yours after he kisses you again.

he keeps whispering your name.

his mouth on your cheek, your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

you squirm underneath him, soft whines in your throat, your bodies grinding harder now. your panties soaked. his cock twitching, pressed against you through his briefs.

he groans when you roll your hips up.

“god—”

“I want you,” you whisper.

“I want you so bad I feel sick.”

he chokes on a laugh. kisses your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“you have me.”

he slides down. kisses your stomach. whispers your name again like a prayer.

his hands curl under your thighs.

“can I?”

you nod.

his thumbs hook under your panties.

he’s slow. reverent. like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

when he gets them down your legs and tosses them aside, he just—

stares.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“I’m gonna die.”

⟡

he’s between your thighs now.

kneeling at the edge of the bed like he’s about to pray.

his hands are shaking. not nervous—overwhelmed. like he’s not sure if this is real. if you’re real. if you’ll disappear if he touches too hard.

“is this okay?” he asks, voice barely there.

“yes,” you breathe. “yes, peter. please.”

he kisses the inside of your knee again. your thigh. your hip.

his hair tickles your skin.

his hands spread your legs like you’re delicate—but not fragile.he can’t stop staring.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers. “every part of you. I didn’t know— I didn’t know I could want someone this much.”

you nod, breath hitching.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper.

he swallows hard.

then he lowers his mouth to you.

it’s—

soft at first.

a slow kiss to your clit. a gasp against it.

he whimpers.

like the taste of you hurts.

his hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you. your hips jerk and he moans—like you just did something to him.

“peter—”

he shakes his head, mouth still on you, eyes wide.

you see it in them.

the awe. the desperation. the little bit of ruin.

his tongue flattens. licks a stripe.

then he sucks—gentle, wet, noisy.

your breath shudders.

he watches your face. watches every twitch and flutter and gasp like it’s the only thing that matters.

his eyes start to water.

“you okay?” you pant.

he nods against you. clutches your hips tighter.

“just— I’m okay. I just—” “you feel like everything.”

you try to sit up. to reach for him.

but he moans again and sucks harder.

you fall back, thighs twitching, hands gripping his hair.

“oh my god—”

you’re panting now.

he’s whining.

you feel his mouth tremble.

like maybe he’s crying just a little.

but he doesn’t stop.

he doesn’t stop.

⟡

after,

you climb into his lap slow.

your thighs still sticky from his mouth, from your slick, from the heat of it all. his hands find your hips instantly—like they were made for it. like you were made for this.

he’s so hard it’s almost painful. cock flushed, thick, twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“do you have—?” you whisper.

he nods fast. fumbles for the drawer. his fingers tremble so bad he nearly drops the foil.

“you okay?”

“yeah— yeah,” he breathes. “just— I want this to be good. for you.”

you kiss him soft.

“it already is.”

you roll the condom down him with shaking hands.

he gasps when you touch him—like just your fingers make him weak.

you brace yourself with your hands on his chest and lower down slow.

he’s thick.

you sink onto him inch by inch, his cock stretching you open, and the second you’re seated fully, both of you still—just breathing.

his head falls back.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“you feel— you feel so—”

he can’t finish.

you press your forehead to his.

you move slow.

the tiniest rock of your hips makes him whimper.

he grips your waist like he’ll fall apart without it.

his eyes flicker open. his voice is soft.

“you love me?”

you nod.

“I love you.”

“say it again.”

“I love you, peter.”

“again.”

“I love you.”

“again—please—”

you’re grinding harder now.

“I love you.”

his breath shatters.

“I love you too,” he gasps. “I love you. I love you. I—fuck—don’t stop saying it—”

⟡

you’re bouncing now. soft and sloppy. your bodies soaked and trembling and desperate.

his arms wrap around your back.

his head presses to your chest.

“don’t leave,” he whispers.

“never,” you breathe.

“I won’t ever let you go.”

“good.”

your moans mix together.

you clench around him.

his cock twitches.

and he—

“baby— baby, I’m—”

you kiss him as he comes.

he sobs when he does.

you hold him until the trembling stops.

⟡

it’s hot under the covers.

his chest is flushed and sticky, arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your hair. you can still feel him twitching inside the condom, can still taste his shaky moans on your tongue.

you’re both so out of breath. so warm. so stupidly, incredibly in love.

“you okay?” he whispers.

“mhm,” you breathe. “my thighs are sore.”

he grins, lazy and smug, kissing the swell of your shoulder.

“good sore or bad sore?”

“shut up.”

⟡

you’re not supposed to be here.

may thinks you were both sleeping on the couch. you were. until peter pulled you into his room with that pouty little please like he couldn’t sleep without you. (he can’t.)

now you’re buried under a blanket in his childhood bed, still panting, trying to keep your voice down like it wasn’t the creak of his old bedframe that probably gave you away already.

“do you think she heard?”

“yes,” you whisper.

“god—”

“you were so loud, peter—”

“me?! you were—”

“shhh!”

he clamps his hand over your mouth, wide-eyed, grinning.

“you’re gonna get us caught,” he whispers.

⟡

you sneak to the kitchen an hour later.

you’re in his hoodie, in underwear. he’s in boxers and socks, looking ridiculous with bed hair and bite marks down his neck.

you both raid the fridge like kids. leftover meatloaf. cold pizza. oreos. he feeds you one like you’re royalty.

“you think she’s gonna be mad?”

“i think we should run away.”

“you and me?”

“mmhm. far away. a loft with bad plumbing and big windows.”

“ooh. sexy.”

“and a cat.”

“you’re allergic.”

“i’ll suffer.”

you eat sitting on the floor.

you, between his legs, leaning back against his chest. his arms wrap around your middle, soft fingertips tracing lazy lines across your tummy.

“you ever think about the future?” he mumbles.

you hum.

“sometimes.”

“like… moving in? waking up next to each other? cooking together? real adult shit.”

“you’d eat all the cereal.”

“you’d never do the dishes.”

you smack his chest lightly.

“you’d never do the laundry!”

he huffs, once more.

you look up at him. he’s already looking at you.

“i want it to be you,” he says softly. “all of it.”

your heart aches in that perfect, full kind of way.

“me too.”

⟡

you fall asleep in his arms, in again that night. to the sound of rain. to the softness of his breath. to the rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

quiet. loved. home.

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-

⟡ made by @flxttershyz , please do not copy or repost without consent!!⟡

taglist: @seraphibunni @nolita-fairytale ^^

so sorry for disappearing for like for ever i got like triple whammey(ed?) by life these past weeks but i havent forgot u guys trust

also let me know if you want to be added to my small but mighty taglist, or ima just add who likes this atp

#peter parker recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

Text

In The Woods ; B. Barnes

The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been.

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending, no tb spoliers/ WC: 13.5

A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.

The forest was bleeding.

Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood.

Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat.

They weren’t going to make it.

He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been.

“Bob,” Bucky called, voice tight, hoarse. “Stay close.”

Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager.

Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try.

Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them.

But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it.

They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go.

Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other.

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view.

Grid 48-F.

The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles.

These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing.

But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map.

A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.

His chest caved in around it.

The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down.

He knew these coordinates.

Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second.

A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year.

A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word.

Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.

Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else.

He hadn’t been able to go back.

Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him.

He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you.

But now?

Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried.

“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet.

Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.”

“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.

Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.”

He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago.

Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving.

They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later.

The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry.

He didn’t think you’d be here.

You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val.

Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him.

The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints.

His stomach dropped.

You were here.

He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low.

“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.”

He crossed the snow like a ghost.

Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.

The porch creaked under his weight.

His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked.

He didn’t want to break in.

He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it.

He didn’t want to hurt you again.

He just—

He just needed somewhere to hide.

His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine.

And then—

Click.

“Don’t move.”

He froze, muscles stilling.

The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth.

Your voice.

Bucky turned.

And there you were.

Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.

He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment.

Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots.

Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you.

The only thing different was your expression.

New.

You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in.

You looked furious, angry, murderous.

That, he decided, was the worst part.

“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.

You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?”

The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop.

Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious.

Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger.

You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive.

“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.”

That hit him.

It hit him.

He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.

You clicked the safety off.

He didn’t even raise his hands.

“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”

“You think you can just show up here?”

It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling.

Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears.

He was still standing on your porch.

Your space.

A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer.

You were seething. How fucking dare he?

“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”

“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?”

He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty.

He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly.

His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected.

Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident.

And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees.

Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”

You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood.

Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.

They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell.

But you didn’t look at them, not really.

You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern.

It made you sick that part of you still cared.

That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door.

“Inside. Now.”

Bucky didn’t move, not right away.

Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say.

But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide.

The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising.

The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.

It smelled like you.

And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him.

Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink.

Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic.

You didn’t look at Bucky.

You didn’t need to.

You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat.

Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.

“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him.

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

You snorted. “There’s always a choice.”

His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?”

The silence after was thick enough to drown in.

And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper.

“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.

“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were.

“I just… I thought—”

“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”

He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.

Good. He shouldn’t.

You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.

“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.

You shook your head. “Too late.”

He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully.

For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back.

You worked in silence.

Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you.

There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler.

Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth.

You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways.

His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away.

Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier.

Then you turned to Walker.

He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped.

You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left.

He winced when you pressed against the gauze.

“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth.

You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management.

Resentment lingers—you’d know.

“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.”

Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.”

You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.

Across the room, Bucky flinched.

He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint.

You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed.

There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found.

He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too.

You handed Bob another towel.

“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.”

Bob nodded, instantly obedient.

You turned away.

Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right.

You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just bruised.”

“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.”

She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway.

And then—silence again.

Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.

You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards.

And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.

He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone.

You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out.

“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.”

It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile.

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless.

You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again.

You turned your back to him.

It was past midnight when Yelena stirred.

You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed.

“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe.

She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear.

“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.”

Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you.

“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry.

You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe.

“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.”

A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.

“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.”

She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”

You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.

“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.”

“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.”

Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.”

Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.”

“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.”

You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

You crouched down. “Know what?”

“That you’re her.”

You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?”

Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.”

Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing.

“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.”

Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”

She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes.

They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed.

Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful. Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.

And Bucky—

Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it.

He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight.

He could have fought harder.

He should have fought harder.

He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that.

He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while.

You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting.

Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space.

You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket.

It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.

You’d never stopped carrying it.

Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl.

You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet.

Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.

You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger.

The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him.

He sat beside you.

Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him.

You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods.

The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart.

“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence.

You said nothing.

A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden.

He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand.

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.”

He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket.

“You shouldn’t’ve been.”

You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place.

“No—”

“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.”

You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that?

“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind.

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists.

“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.”

Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still.

“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.

“I couldn’t.”

You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?”

He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted.

“Because Val knew about you.”

Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken.

“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.”

You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body.

“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.”

“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.”

“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.”

Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.”

“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.”

Silence—the woods watched, trees listened.

The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.

You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.”

Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry.

You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.”

He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm.

“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”

He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them.

“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.”

“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.”

Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you.

“I shouldn’t’ve come.”

“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.”

He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction.

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.

“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.”

Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you.

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”

He said it with heat—desperation.

Please, he was saying, understand—I love you.

You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off.

“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.”

The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen.

The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.

The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Not after you ask him to stay.

There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp.

And then—

You laugh.

It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped.

“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.”

He flinches, chin tipping downwards.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest.

For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television.

“I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you.

“I’m not sure I recognize you now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him.

“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.”

“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.”

You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?”

“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows.

“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling.

“No.”

“Then what?”

Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you.

“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him.

“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”

You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.”

I always have, you didn’t say.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.”

You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”

“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry.

“It didn’t.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.”

“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.”

“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in.

Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him.

“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat.

“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.”

You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart.

“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.”

His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”

You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.”

He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.”

“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?”

His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched.

“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.”

Bucky’s quiet for a long time.

His shoulders shake once—twice.

With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying.

Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him.

You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep.

He didn’t ask for comfort.

You stood still.

“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm.

He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.”

You’re both quiet again.

Just the wind now, the trees.

He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much.

After a long, long beat—you sat too.

The knife is still in your hand.

You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try.

He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone.

And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty.

It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.

The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired.

The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough.

You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.

“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder.

You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.”

“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips.

You almost smiled.

Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.”

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?”

You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.”

His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.”

You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee.

“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.”

Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still.

You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.”

You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold.

“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”

He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before.

You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders.

“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched

You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you.

“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.”

“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained.

“I almost wish you hadn’t.”

He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you.

You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.”

You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier.

He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.

“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.”

Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.”

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.

“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.”

He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.”

There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.”

He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.”

You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”

Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months.

You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it.

He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.”

You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted.

“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia.

You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could.

Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s okay to ask me.”

You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again.

“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.”

You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.

Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family?

Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.”

His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them.

But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length.

There’s a long, still beat.

“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.

“What brought you here?”

Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away.

“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.”

He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.

“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.”

You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too.

“And then you came here.”

His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.”

“And when you did?”

His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.”

You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this.

“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.”

He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.” You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.

There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment.

And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—”

“Stop, Buck.”

He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company.

“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.”

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you.

You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.”

Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his.

Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy.

His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow.

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.

The morning came quietly.

Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air.

When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer.

It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right.

Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional.

Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours.

You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here.

And not long ago.

You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring.

Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at.

And Bucky—

Bucky watched you before the door even closed.

You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive.

You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.

“We’ve been compromised.”

They all stilled, exhaled quietly.

You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.”

Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little.

You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.”

Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.”

Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?”

“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight.

And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened.

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it.

You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.

He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.

“Oh, please.”

“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you.

“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.”

“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.”

His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.”

There it was.

The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between.

Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head.

“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.”

“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.”

The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested.

They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him.

His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it.

Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood.

You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity.

“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself.

“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding.

He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto.

But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself.

He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff.

“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.”

“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.”

“I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.”

“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.”

Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.”

The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.”

He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.

“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw.

“I know,” he replied.

You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it.

“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was.

“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.”

You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real.

He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love.

“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.

You let him go.

Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time.

“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.

You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety.

He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it.

“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.”

You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.

You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting.

And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.

It snowed again that morning.

This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.

You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did.

Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back.

Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.

And that’s when it happened.

Three slow, heavy knocks at the door.

You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.

Bucky.

He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.”

You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight.

And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him.

God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you.

He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild.

He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words.

“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw.

You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m still so angry.”

He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.”

He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home.

The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass.

You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?”

“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”

You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.”

He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you.

“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.”

His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips.

“I’ve always been yours.”

You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold.

The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful.

“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?”

He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship.

“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.”

When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught.

He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.”

He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved.

“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.

He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation.

You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck.

Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin.

You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat.

“Wanted to—”

He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.”

He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips.

He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty.

He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips.

“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds.

“Please, Buck,” you breathed out.

That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands.

You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob.

“James—”

His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.”

“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much.

He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.”

And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there.

“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”

He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before.

When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him.

“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue.

“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—”

He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—”

He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.”

“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.”

He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust.

“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth.

“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.”

“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.”

Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain.

His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear.

“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.”

He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined.

And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.”

“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.”

He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in.

“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing.

“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.”

He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure.

His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear.

“Come inside me”

He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration.

“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.”

He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck.

“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear.

You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.”

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly.

Outside, the snow fell silently.

Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home.

#bucky barnes recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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i had this dream where you were different…

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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She scares the Void

A/N: I have a new love. Bob with a girlfriend (or partner in general) with black cat energy! Obviously this man is such a puppy, either golden retriever or rottweiler depending on the day, so if you have request for this idea please send me some <3

xoxoxo

Void doesn’t understand her.

She’s not afraid of him. She should be. Most people are.

Hell Bob is. Bob flinches when he feels Void swell inside his bones—when his shadow gets too long, when his breath comes too fast, when the static hum of his skin begins to split at the seams.

But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t scream when the walls go black or when her vision blurs around the edges with that unnatural, oily ripple of him arriving.

She doesn’t fall to her knees or weep or pray.

She just tilts her head. Blinks once. Like a cat watching something shift on the floorboards.

Void coils around her slowly, deliberately. Not in the air—not exactly. He’s in the room. In her head. In the way the light bends around her and doesn’t touch her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he hisses, voice not a voice, a thousand radio signals tangled in barbed wire. “You don’t belong to him.”

She smiles—softly...Cruelly.

“Maybe he belongs to me.”

Void surges. The floor buckles. The lights flicker. Her ears ring with the scream of galaxies imploding in a vacuum no one can survive.

Still—she stands. Unflinching. Steady. Inhumanly calm.

Void tries to crawl beneath her skin, sink into her spine, make her bend, make her see what he is. The undoing of gods. He wants her to shatter under the weight of him.

But when he presses against her mind, she doesn’t crack.

She presses back.

It startles him. Shocks him. For the first time in… ever, maybe, he feels contained. Stilled. Stucked. Pinned under the weight of her gaze like a moth under glass.

“I know what you are,” she says, quiet and sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “And I know what Bob is. You have to wear him like a skin—but he bleeds. He feels. And he chose me.”

She takes a step forward—and Void recoils.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” she whispers, stepping into the space where he isn’t but could be. “I’ve lived in it. I've thrived in it bud. I became it. You think I won’t tear you apart if you hurt him?”

Void growls. A soundless, world-ending frequency. “You can’t hurt me.”

She smiles again.

This time it's mean.

“No. But I can make Bob want to lock you away so deep, you’ll never breathe again.” The Void flinches as if he was electrocuted then; the darkness pulses and fades. The room stills.

And there—slumped on the floor—is Bob. Wide-eyed, sweating, breath ragged, looking up at her like she’s something holy and terrifying all at once.

“You came back,” he whispers.

She kneels beside him and cradles his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his brow.

“I'll always come back,” she says. “He doesn’t scare me.”

Bob shakes. Not from fear—but from relief. From awe.

And from the quiet, impossible truth that maybe—for the first time in his life—the thing inside him is more afraid of someone else than he is of it.

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

@qardasngan

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@jesterghuleh

@zzz000eee

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@murnsondock

@sxbrinajade

@articel1967

@krystalyn7171

@erule

@saucysasha2035

@awesompawsum

#bob reynolds recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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Hi, can you make like doctor bucky x reader or doctor reader x patient bucky and it starts when one of them starstruck by another like a slow burn but they got happy ending .... Lol, sorry for the messy writing, but it never leaves my minds, so i hope you can think about this one, thanks

Steady Hands

Pairing: Doctor!Reader x Patient!Bucky Barnes

Rating: T (slow burn, emotional whump, medical themes, hurt/comfort)

Content Warnings: PTSD, medical recovery, emotional vulnerability, past trauma, mild injury description. All handled with care.

Word Count: 6.1 K

Summary: In the sterile quiet of the med bay, Bucky found an unexpected kind of solace in the steady presence of the new trauma doctor, someone who treated him with care instead of caution. What began as routine checkups slowly became something deeper, as her quiet compassion unraveled his tightly wound walls and reminded him that healing wasn't just for the body, but was for the soul, too.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale halo across the hospital corridor. Stark Tower’s private med bay was sleek and clinical, all metal edges and antiseptic chill, but there was a warmth to the way you moved through it. Confident, quiet. A steady heartbeat in the middle of chaos.

Bucky noticed the second you walked in.

He was sitting up on the exam table, a little too tense to look relaxed but too proud to admit the pain in his ribs. His shirt was long since shredded, soaked with dried blood and discarded by the nurse. Stark had brought him in half-limping, half-grumbling, and promptly left without ceremony.

Then you stepped in. Clipboard in hand, white coat swishing. He didn’t expect someone so composed. So calm. So… startlingly human in a world where everything felt like it was either burning or breaking.

Your eyes met his, and for a second, he froze.

You smiled politely. “Mr. Barnes?”

He blinked. “Bucky.”

You nodded, moving closer, scanning his chart. “Okay, Bucky. I see you took quite the hit. Mind if I take a look at those ribs?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was still staring—trying not to, really, but failing. The clinical lights behind you made your features glow soft, warm. You looked like safety.

Like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

“Sure,” he rasped, voice low and a little hoarse. “Go ahead.”

You were careful when you touched him. Gloved fingers pressing gently along the side of his ribcage. He winced, breath hitching, but didn’t flinch away.

“You’ve got at least one cracked rib, maybe two,” you said gently. “No punctured lung, though. That’s good.”

You leaned back, stripping the gloves off, and reached for the gauze.

“You’re the new trauma physician,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “They brought you in after that mission in Prague, right?”

You looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you kept tabs on us doctors.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I mean—I didn’t. Steve mentioned you.”

That wasn’t exactly true. He had kept tabs. Or rather, he’d asked. Once. Maybe twice. There was something about the sound of your voice over comms during emergencies—steady, reassuring—that had stuck with him.

“You’re good,” he added, awkwardly. “At this. The patching people up thing.”

You smiled again, and this time, it reached your eyes.

“Thanks,” you said, wrapping the gauze gently. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. You focused on your work. Bucky focused on not watching you like you were something untouchable. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the pain in his side or the flicker of warmth he hadn’t felt in years.

When you were done, you stepped back and gave him a small nod.

“You’ll need to rest. No combat for at least a week. I’ll write it up, but you’ll have to fight Stark on enforcement.”

“I’ll manage.”

You lingered at the door for a second longer than necessary.

“If you need anything—pain management, help sleeping—just page me. Night or day.”

And then you were gone.

Bucky exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Three days later, Bucky was back in the med bay. Not because he had to be—he could’ve lied through his teeth and walked it off—but because he hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Well, that and his ribs still ached like hell when he breathed too hard.

You noticed him the second he stepped inside, wearing that same vaguely annoyed expression he used to mask discomfort. You set down your tablet and tilted your head.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you said lightly. “Did something feel off?”

“No,” he said too fast. Then, after a beat, “Maybe.”

You approached, expression softening. “Let’s take a look.”

He climbed back up onto the exam table, slower this time. Less bravado, more honesty in the wince he didn’t quite hide. You noticed.

“You’ve been resting?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He gave a dry little laugh. “Define ‘rest.’”

You let out a small sigh, not scolding, but not amused either. “Bucky, cracked ribs don’t just vanish because you decide you’re fine. They need time.”

“Time isn’t something I usually have.”

You were quiet for a moment, fingers ghosting over the edge of the wrap you’d done days ago. “If you keep pushing your body like this, eventually it’ll stop keeping up. You know that, right?”

He did. God, he did.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared straight ahead—at the sterile cabinets, the neatly coiled IV lines—anything but your eyes.

You didn’t press. You just began to unwrap the bandages, gentle as ever.

He hated how aware he was of your touch. It wasn’t even like that—not really. It was just… it had been so long since someone touched him with care. With intent that wasn’t violence or protocol.

Your hands paused briefly on his skin. “You’re still bruised pretty badly. There’s swelling. I can feel a lot of tension in your back too—are you sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly.”

“…No.”

You didn’t react. No surprise, no pity. Just a soft nod.

“Do you want something to help?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t like meds,” he said. “Too many bad memories.”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Okay. Then we find another way.”

That startled him.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” you continued. “You’re not a machine, Bucky. You’re allowed to heal.”

It hit harder than it should’ve.

He turned his head away slightly, jaw clenched. You didn’t apologize for saying it, and that mattered more than he could explain.

You redressed the injury in silence, and he let you. Trusted you, without realizing that’s what he was doing.

When you were done, you didn’t walk away right away.

“I’m here late most nights,” you said gently. “If you ever want to come in. No pressure.”

He looked at you then. And something in his chest shifted.

A tiny breath of warmth in the cold room he’d gotten used to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that night, long past midnight, Bucky found himself standing just outside the med bay again. He didn’t go in.

But the light was still on.

You were still there.

And that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There wasn’t a set schedule to when Bucky stopped by the med bay.

Sometimes it was under the guise of a follow-up. Other times he claimed he “just happened to be passing through.” You didn’t call him on it. You let him come and go as he pleased, offering only what he’d take.

A cup of water.

An offered seat while you updated charts.

Silence, sometimes. Comfortable silence, if a little weighted.

You learned quickly that Bucky wasn’t the type to fill a room with words. He spoke like every sentence was a test, like he was measuring the safety of every truth before it left his mouth. But when he did speak—really speak—it meant something.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twelve

He sat quietly while you reset the cabinet locks and muttered under your breath about new inventory codes.

“You’re too calm for this place,” he said, after a long silence.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You think I should be yelling at the walls?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else does.”

You chuckled. “Well. Someone has to keep the temperature down.”

You didn’t see it, but he smiled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Seventeen

He brought you a coffee.

Didn’t say much about it, just handed it over with a quiet: “You looked tired last time.”

You didn’t ask how he remembered your order. You just took it, fingers brushing his glove.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

He looked away like the words had more weight than he could handle.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Four

You caught him in the hallway. He wasn’t heading to you this time—he looked like he was trying to disappear.

“Rough day?” you asked gently.

His eyes were a little darker. The circles under them deeper.

He paused. Then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just tired.”

You didn’t push. But you did say: “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

And then he disappeared into the elevator, the doors closing too quickly for you to read his face.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Five

2:46 a.m.

The knock was soft.

You weren’t even sure you heard it at first—just the faint shuffle of movement past the glass. You were reviewing scans, half-asleep on your feet. But then it came again. A gentle knock, barely there.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

No jacket. T-shirt damp with sweat. Left hand gripping the doorframe just a little too tightly.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “What—”

“I just—” he cut off. Voice hoarse. Strained. “Can I sit here? Just for a bit?”

You stepped aside immediately. “Of course.”

He walked in like someone unsure of the floor beneath him. Sat on the edge of the nearest chair, back stiff, jaw clenched. His metal hand flexed in his lap.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

You just turned on the electric kettle you kept for late shifts and moved quietly around the room, giving him space to breathe. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was fragile. Sacred.

After a while, you handed him a mug of tea. Chamomile and peppermint. He didn’t drink it at first. Just stared into the steam like it held back a tide.

“It was a dream,” he said finally. Voice rough. “Same one I’ve had since Bucharest. Different sometimes. But it always ends the same.”

You sat down across from him. Close, but not too close. You didn’t speak. You let him have the silence.

“I was fine for a while,” he said. “But I—I heard something this morning. On the radio. Russian. Just a word. And it was like…”

He trailed off. Breath catching.

You waited. Patient. Steady.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered. “It’s just a sound. But it stuck in my head, and then I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—” He broke off again, jaw clenching harder. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Those last words barely registered above a whisper.

You felt your heart ache.

“You did the right thing,” you said softly. “You’re safe here.”

His hands shook a little, just a tremor, but enough for you to see it.

You reached out—slow, careful—and rested your fingers over his. Not gripping. Just there.

“Let’s just breathe for a while, okay?” you said. “You don’t have to talk. Just stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Morning crept into the med bay like it was afraid to disturb the peace.

You sat on the edge of the couch across from the chair where Bucky had finally fallen asleep—not deeply, but enough to soften the lines around his mouth, to let his shoulders drop a fraction. The tea sat untouched. His hand, the one you’d gently held for a while before he drifted off, had gone still in his lap.

He looked younger like this. Or maybe just less haunted.

You didn’t wake him. You just sat in silence and watched the early light settle across the floor like a blanket.

When he finally stirred, it wasn’t abrupt. No sharp startle or swinging reflex. Just a slow blink, the kind that comes after too many sleepless nights finally surrender to exhaustion.

His eyes found yours immediately.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He looked around like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Then he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, long and low.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” he muttered. “I thought I’d leave after a few minutes.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you said, with a small, honest smile. “You needed the rest.”

He didn’t answer that. Just looked down at his hands. One flesh, one metal. Both trembling slightly.

You reached for your thermos on the table and offered it toward him. “There’s still some coffee left. It’s not great, but it’s warm.”

He took it like it weighed more than it should.

“You okay?” you asked, voice still low. Still careful.

“Not really,” he admitted, almost immediately. It surprised both of you. “But I’m… here.”

It was the kind of statement that sounded simple, but wasn’t.

You nodded slowly. “That’s enough for today.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After that night, something changed.

Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or declarations. But it was there—in the way Bucky lingered a little longer when he came by. In the way he let his guard down in pieces.

Sometimes he’d bring you news from the field—briefings, updates, occasional sarcastic commentary on Stark’s latest upgrades. Other times, he’d just sit and read in the chair by your desk while you charted vitals or typed notes. Once, you caught him watching you with an unreadable expression when he thought you weren’t looking.

You never called attention to it. You never asked him to explain.

Instead, you built something with him in the quiet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Six

You found a small packet of Turkish delight on your desk. No note. Just the candy, wrapped carefully.

He wouldn’t admit it was him, but he watched your reaction with a flicker of pride in his eyes when you opened it.

You smiled. “You know this stuff’s addictive, right?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Thought you liked challenges.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Seven

He walked into the med bay with blood on his temple and a gash across his arm, and instead of brushing it off like usual, he sat down without a word and let you clean the wound.

“Wasn’t even a mission,” he muttered. “Just an accident. Barnes Classic.”

You stitched in silence for a moment, then glanced up at him. “You know, it’s okay to come here even when you’re not bleeding.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

“I know.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Eight

He brought you a book. Worn cover, dog-eared pages. A spy thriller from the ’40s.

“It’s kind of dumb,” he said. “But I read it before… everything. Figured you might like it.”

You looked down at the cover, then up at him. “You brought me a piece of who you used to be.”

“Yeah.”

“You trust me with that?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next night, he showed up again. No injuries. No mission. Just him.

You were surprised, but you didn’t let it show.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently.

He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I sit with you again?”

You smiled and patted the seat next to you. “Always.”

And this time, when he sat, his shoulder brushed yours. Deliberately.

He didn’t move away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t come to the med bay every night.

But when he did, it was different now.

He sat closer. Let you read over his shoulder. Once, he fell asleep on the little couch while you worked, head tilted back, arms crossed, metal hand unclenched.

You’d covered him with your spare hoodie and turned the lights down low.

You weren’t sure he noticed that you always made tea when he arrived. Or that you kept his favorite mug—the navy one with the chipped handle—tucked away in the back corner of the cabinet, just for him.

But maybe he did.

Maybe he noticed everything. Just like you did.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t think anyone else had picked up on it. The tower had its own rhythms, its own chaos. People passed in and out of the med bay all the time, and Bucky always slipped in with quiet ease. Never too long. Never too loud.

Until one afternoon, when Natasha Romanoff walked in.

You were finishing up a routine exam—Bucky had taken a minor blow to the ribs again, and while it wasn’t serious, you insisted on checking him out. He’d given in with the usual half-sigh, half-smile that had started creeping into his visits lately.

He was sitting on the table, shirt off, arms loose at his sides. You stood in front of him, gently palpating his ribs, speaking softly.

“Any sharp pain when I press here?”

“No. Just a bruise.”

Your hand lingered a second longer than strictly necessary.

That’s when Natasha stepped through the door.

You didn’t hear her at first. Neither did Bucky.

She leaned against the doorway with her arms folded, one eyebrow arched.

“Well, well,” she said casually. “Should I come back later, or are we having a moment?”

Bucky flinched. Just slightly. His spine straightened like a snapped cord.

You stepped back, suddenly very aware of the space between you.

“Nat,” you said, clearing your throat. “Didn’t see you.”

She smirked. “Obviously.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Natasha gave him a long, amused look. “Sure it isn’t.”

You turned away, trying to compose yourself, but Natasha’s voice followed.

“You’ve been in here a lot lately, Barnes. Didn’t realize you were that prone to getting injured. Or… maybe the doctor’s just good company.”

She wasn’t being cruel. Teasing, maybe. But underneath it—curious. Watching.

You met her eyes, steady. “He’s been doing regular follow-ups. Standard protocol.”

“Mm,” she said, like she didn’t quite buy it. “Right. Standard.”

Bucky hopped off the table with more speed than necessary, grabbing his shirt.

“I’ll, uh… catch you later,” he muttered, avoiding both your gazes.

You watched him leave. The room suddenly felt too quiet.

Natasha’s voice softened. “Hey.”

You looked back.

“He trusts you,” she said.

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

She tilted her head. “You like him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. Then answered, quietly, “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“You’re good for him,” she said. “He needs someone who doesn’t treat him like a ticking bomb.”

You exhaled, tension easing a fraction. “Thanks.”

Natasha pushed off the wall and headed for the door.

“Just don’t let him run from it,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “When it starts feeling real, he’ll want to.”

And then she was gone.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, Bucky didn’t come by.

Neither did the next.

But on the third night, just as you were about to turn off the lights, there was a soft knock.

You turned.

There he was.

Eyes tired. Shoulders tense. But there.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he said, voice low.

You just nodded. “I figured you’d come back when you were ready.”

“I wanted to,” he said. “I just… I got scared.”

He didn’t say of what.

You didn’t need him to.

You stepped forward slowly, not reaching out yet—just being there.

He looked at you like he was still waiting for the sky to fall.

It didn’t.

“Come in,” you said softly.

And he did.

This time, when he sat beside you, his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been twenty-two minutes since Bucky walked through the med bay doors again.

Not that you were counting.

He sat beside you on the couch like he belonged there now. Like the space wasn’t sterile and cold, but safe. His knee brushed yours—barely—but it stayed there. A silent anchor.

Neither of you had said much. The TV was on low—some late-night documentary about ocean currents that neither of you were really watching.

He hadn’t met your eyes since he sat down.

You waited.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confident. But it was honest.

“Nat cornered me.”

You looked over. “Yeah?”

“Said I was hiding.” He gave a wry, humorless chuckle. “She’s not wrong.”

You didn’t rush to respond. You knew better than to fill silence with fluff when something real was coming.

“She said I trust you,” he added after a pause.

You glanced at him. “Do you?”

He finally turned his head. Met your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Scares the hell out of me.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise—but from the weight of it. The truth of it.

“Bucky…” you started, then paused. “I never wanted you to feel pressure. You don’t owe me anything. Not trust. Not time.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not pressure. It’s just—new.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

He shifted, fingers lacing together, then unlacing. Restless.

“I’ve spent years trying to be something safe. Something stable. Something not… broken.” He exhaled, sharp. “And then I met you.”

That made your chest ache in the best, worst way.

“You don’t have to be fixed,” you said softly. “You just have to be real.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flickering down to the floor.

“Sometimes I think if someone looks too close, they’ll see it. All of it. Everything I’ve tried to bury.”

You leaned closer, not touching, but close enough for him to feel your presence like a pulse.

“I see you, Bucky,” you said. “And I’m still here.”

His eyes lifted.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed you.

He swallowed hard. “Do you ever wonder what this is? Between us?”

You felt your heart skip. Then settle.

“I do,” you said. “But I think I know.”

He blinked, expression tight with uncertainty. “And what if I can’t be good at it? What if I mess it up?”

“You probably will,” you said gently, with a small, knowing smile. “So will I. But if it’s real, it’ll survive it.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, finally, finally, let his hand rest over yours.

Not fleeting. Not tentative.

Certain.

“You make it feel… possible,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You turned your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Then let’s find out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, he didn’t leave when the lights dimmed.

He stayed. In the chair beside you, hand still in yours.

No kisses. No confessions shouted across rooms.

Just steady breathing.

Two people who had been broken by the world, quietly deciding to rebuild—together.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The call came in at 1:03 a.m.

An extraction in Slovakia had gone sideways. Bucky had been among the team deployed—standard recovery mission, in and out. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should’ve gone wrong.

But then the report hit your console:

“Unidentified triggers. Psychological compromise. Winter Soldier protocol proximity suspected. Barnes unresponsive during comm check.”

You dropped everything.

By the time the quinjet landed, you were already waiting in the emergency wing, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt too fast for calm, too slow for panic.

When the ramp lowered, Steve was the first off, looking grim. Natasha followed close behind.

Then you saw him.

Bucky was walking under his own power, but just barely. Shoulders rigid. Gaze unfocused. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless—one flesh, one metal. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance around.

Like he was still somewhere else.

Somewhere cold.

Steve approached first. “He won’t talk,” he said quietly. “Not to us. Not yet.”

You stepped forward without hesitation.

“Bucky?”

His head turned slightly. Just enough to see you.

His eyes locked onto yours—and something cracked.

He walked straight toward you.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t pause.

Just reached for you like he was drowning.

You caught him. Arms around his shoulders, grounding him. He buried his face into your neck like it was the only safe place in the world. His breath came in ragged gasps. Shaking. Silent at first—then not.

You felt the tremor before you heard the sound. A raw, muffled sob, choked into your shoulder.

You held tighter.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He didn’t answer. Just clung harder, like letting go would undo him.

Steve and Natasha backed away without a word, leaving you both alone in the hallway.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You guided him back to the med bay slowly, his weight leaning into you more than he realized. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask for one.

You helped him sit on the edge of the exam table and knelt in front of him, keeping your touch gentle.

“Do you want to talk?”

He shook his head, throat working like it hurt to breathe.

You nodded. “Okay. Then just sit with me.”

Minutes passed.

Then he spoke. Just a whisper.

“He said the words. The trigger ones. I knew they wouldn’t work. I knew—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just heard them echoing in my head. Like I was back there. Like I was him again.”

You reached for his hand. Waited for him to let you take it.

He did.

“You’re not him,” you said. Firm. Clear. “You’re here. You’re with me. That part of you isn’t in control anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “But it still lives in me.”

“So does the part that came back. The part that fought to come back.”

He looked at you like he didn’t deserve that truth. Like it hurt more than the memory.

“I don’t know how to carry it.”

“Then don’t carry it alone.”

His breath hitched.

You stood, moving slowly, and without asking, gently eased him back onto the table. He didn’t resist. Just followed your lead, eyes flickering between fear and something deeper. Something more vulnerable.

You sat beside him and curled one hand around the back of his neck. The other rested against his chest—right over his heart.

It was racing.

“You’re not broken,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same.”

He closed his eyes. And for the first time, let himself fall into you fully. Head resting against your shoulder, breathing shaky but steadying.

You stayed like that for a long time.

No words.

Just presence.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The med bay was still and quiet when you woke.

It took a moment to remember why you were even lying on the small cot near the wall—why your arm was sore, why the fabric of your hoodie was slightly damp against your shoulder.

And then you turned your head.

Bucky was there.

Curled in the recliner beside you, long legs awkwardly bent, arms crossed, eyes closed. His hair was a mess of waves against his face, one lock falling across his brow. He looked… peaceful.

And so heartbreakingly tired.

But more than that—he looked safe.

You shifted slightly, and his eyes cracked open.

There was no panic this time. No tension.

Just the quiet settling of recognition.

“Hey,” you said, voice low and husky with sleep.

He blinked once, then rubbed his face with his metal hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash here.”

“You didn’t crash,” you said gently. “You rested.”

He swallowed, jaw flexing. “I should go. Didn’t mean to—”

“Stay,” you said, before he could finish. “If you want to.”

He hesitated.

And then—slowly—nodded.

You sat up and passed him the coffee you’d poured earlier from the machine in the hallway. It had cooled slightly, but he took it anyway, cradling it between both hands like it meant more than warmth.

There was silence for a moment.

Then: “I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

You glanced over. “I know.”

“But I didn’t feel… ashamed,” he added, almost to himself. “That’s new.”

You smiled. Not big. Not smug. Just soft. “Good.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The gaze that lingered. That pressed its weight gently into your chest and made it harder to breathe.

“You make it feel… okay. Just existing.”

“I’m glad.”

Another silence. But this one had tension in it.

Not the bad kind. Not fear.

Possibility.

Bucky turned his mug slowly between his hands. “I’ve been trying to figure out what this is. What’s happening. Between us.”

Your throat went dry.

“And?” you asked, quieter now.

His eyes met yours.

“I think I care about you.”

The words hung there.

Fragile. Exposed. Heavy with truth.

You let them settle. Let them breathe.

Then you reached over and took his hand again. That same quiet gesture he’d come to recognize as safety.

“I care about you too.”

A long breath escaped him—like he hadn’t known he’d been holding it.

He nodded once. Then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But a promise.

And it was more than enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You started seeing him in the daylight now.

Not just during late-night panic spirals or quiet graveyard shifts in the med bay, but during actual hours of sunlight. He’d knock on the door like he always had—soft, almost hesitant—but when you opened it, there was a little less tension in his shoulders. A little more light in his eyes.

Today was one of those days.

He stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He’d shaved. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered.

“You busy?” he asked.

“Never too busy for you,” you said, not even thinking about it.

And for once, he didn’t flinch at your honesty.

He smiled.

“Can I stay a while?”

You gave him a look. “You don’t have to ask that anymore.”

He nodded, then walked over to the couch and dropped onto it with a quiet sigh. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t haunted—just… human.

You sat beside him.

Close.

Your knees touched.

He didn’t move away.

In fact, after a minute, he shifted slightly. His thigh pressed against yours. Then his arm—warm, solid—brushed your shoulder. You turned your head, heart skipping a beat.

He was looking at you. Really looking.

“You always smell like tea and antiseptic,” he murmured.

You huffed a laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

He didn’t smile this time.

He reached up, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a second too long. Barely there. But enough.

The silence between you stretched and pulsed.

“I keep thinking about that night,” he said quietly. “Not the part where I broke. The part after.”

You waited.

He looked down. “The way you held me. Like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I wasn’t… a mess.”

“You weren’t,” you said, just as softly. “You were hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

His throat bobbed.

“I keep wondering if I can ask for more.”

Your breath caught.

“More?”

His hand moved—hesitating—then rested over yours on the couch cushion. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles.

“More of this. Of you.”

You turned your palm slowly, letting his fingers intertwine with yours. “You can always ask.”

He leaned closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough that you could feel the question between you. On his breath. In the slow, deliberate way his forehead came to rest against yours again.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

You saw it in his eyes before he moved.

That flicker of courage.

Then, finally, finally, his lips touched yours.

Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he held on too tightly.

You kissed him back with the same reverence.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just present.

When he pulled back, he rested his head against your shoulder and exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this again.”

“You do,” you said, threading your fingers into his hair. “You have me.”

He didn’t speak after that. He didn’t need to.

He just curled closer into your side, hand still in yours, heart steadying against your ribs.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted off until the pale light of dawn slipped through the blinds and warmed the back of his neck. The med bay was quiet—too quiet for how often he used to wake up in places just like it, sweating and gasping, the world blurring between then and now.

But not this time.

Because he wasn’t alone.

He was on the narrow cot, one arm draped around your waist, his metal fingers resting gently over the curve of your ribs. Your hand was tucked against his chest, and your breath moved steady beneath his collarbone.

Safe.

Real.

His first instinct was to move. To pull away before he made it strange or uncomfortable. Before the fragile spell of last night broke in the daylight.

But then you shifted—just slightly—and your arm tightened around him.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled into his chest.

He relaxed again instantly.

“Morning,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep.

You tilted your chin up to look at him, your hair a little messy, your eyes soft and still half-lidded with dreams. You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked.

“A few minutes.”

“You okay?”

He paused.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

You smiled, and it was brighter than any sunrise he’d ever seen.

He watched you for a while in the quiet. The way your fingers traced small circles on his shirt. The way you didn’t look afraid of him—didn’t look like you were waiting for him to disappear.

“I never thought I’d get to wake up next to someone like this again,” he said suddenly. “Like I wasn’t some weapon stored on a shelf between missions.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a person. You always were.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in and pressed his lips to your temple.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It wasn’t desperate.

It was home.

“I want more mornings like this,” he said, words muffled against your skin. “With you.”

You looked up at him, and the way you smiled—it cracked something open in him, something tender and unguarded.

“You can have them,” you whispered. “As many as you want.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, you sat together on the edge of the cot, coffee in mismatched mugs, your knees bumping. The tower was slowly waking up, the distant sound of Tony arguing with someone echoing faintly through the floor.

“You ever think about the future?” Bucky asked suddenly.

You glanced sideways at him. “Sometimes.”

He hesitated. “Does it ever… include me?”

You reached over and linked your fingers through his again.

“It always did.”

He looked at your joined hands. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t look afraid of the future.

He looked like he was ready to live it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting long golden lines across the hardwood floor. It was quiet—just the low hum of the fridge, the faint chirp of birds outside the balcony, and the occasional soft clink of a spoon against a mug.

Bucky stood barefoot at the counter, shirt rumpled from sleep, hair falling into his eyes. He was stirring sugar into your tea the way you liked it—two spoonfuls, not stirred too long, always in that chipped navy mug.

He didn’t need to ask anymore. He just knew.

He turned around and found you leaning against the doorway, arms folded, smile blooming sleep-slow and soft.

“You watching me again?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You shrugged. “It’s a good view.”

He huffed a laugh and handed you the mug, brushing a kiss across your temple as you took it.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

You nodded. “Yeah. No nightmares.”

“Me either.”

It still felt a little like a miracle when he could say that. And mean it.

You moved to sit at the little table by the window—the one he’d insisted on fixing himself when one of the legs got wobbly. The sun warmed your back as he joined you, sitting sideways so his knee pressed against yours under the table.

You watched him watch the light play across the surface of your tea.

“Y’know,” he said after a long moment, “for a long time I thought I didn’t get to have stuff like this. Mornings. Kitchens. You.”

You reached for his hand. His flesh hand. Warm and calloused and steady.

“You do,” you said. “You fought for it. You let yourself want it. That counts for something.”

He looked at you like you were still a little unreal. Like you were the first good thing that hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

“Every morning I wake up next to you,” he said, voice quiet and clear, “I remember that I made it out.”

You leaned over and kissed him—slow and familiar and home.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, just like he had the first time. Only this time, there was no fear behind it. Just love.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Not just here. Always.”

You smiled.

“Try and get rid of me.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. But he smiled so wide you could see the lines around his eyes, and he kissed you again like he’d waited lifetimes for this, because maybe he had.

#bucky barnes recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

Text

DEAR ARTHUR | ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS

SUMMARY ⋆ sequel to dear april. as much as bob found a makeshift family among new york’s newest heroes, he couldn’t help but remember the one person who had always been his hero.

PAIRING ⋆ bob reynolds x fem!reader

WARNINGS ⋆ mentions of previous substance abuse, bob being silly again, no use of y/n, lowercase intended, povs are switching

A/N ⋆ minors dni!! many a'folk (2 people) have asked for a part 2 so here we go, honouring rdr2 (i used one line)

TAGS ⋆ @moonz33 , @fightmeyoushits2 , @nervousstrangersandwich

WORD COUNT ⋆ 5.4k

'my dear arthur, you never showed up, and now, after looking at the newspapers i understand why'

it had been a year since bob left for southeast asia when you saw him again — wide-eyed and disoriented — tucked behind assassins and super-soldiers alike on the news.

you weren’t the type to keep up with the news anymore. not since you’d made the conscious decision to protect whatever fragile peace you’d managed to scrape together. the world was too heavy, too loud. you used to care; that was until a purple alien snapped half the population out of existence on a random tuesday afternoon. after that, silence became sacred.

you hadn’t even meant to land on that channel. you just wanted to unwind with a movie after a long day. but there he was, captured in motion, standing awkwardly among legends. and you couldn’t look away.

he looked good — clear-eyed, steady, healthy.

and somehow, that wrecked you more than anything else ever had.

sure, he’d been on the news before. you remembered that time all too well: florida man arrested after attacking civilian while wearing a chicken costume. you’d laughed when you first saw the ridiculous headline, right up until the phone rang and he was on the other end, crying, asking you to pick him up.

this time, he wasn’t high. he wasn’t rambling. he wasn’t alone. this time, he was standing beside heroes.

and not you.

you were happy for him, of course you were. or at least, that’s what you told yourself. but those people, the ones he stood beside now, didn’t look like they had known him long. they hadn’t sat through his lowest nights. they hadn’t held him through the shakes, or cleaned the blood from his knuckles, or stayed awake for 36 hours straight just to make sure he didn’t die in his sleep. and yet, he got better for them.

after all the years you spent trying to help him, carrying him when he couldn’t carry himself, he chose to get better for a group of people who kill for a living. it wasn’t fair, and you knew how childish that sounded, but fairness had stopped applying to your life a long time ago.

and now, all the feelings you’d buried deep — rage, heartbreak, betrayal — crawled back up from where you’d entombed them. feelings you’d forced down so far you forgot they still lived inside you.

when bob left, you didn’t know how to feel. at first, you grieved like someone had died. you cried until your ribs ached and your throat burnt, until it felt like your entire body had been skinned raw by the sorrow. and then came the stillness. that dull, dissociative fog. like you were floating just above your life, watching someone else wear your skin, going through the motions.

that lasted for weeks.

until one morning, you blinked, and you were back in your body again. but everything felt… quiet. hollow. not healed, definitely not. just numb.

you tried calling him for weeks, too. every time, it was the same — no ringing, just that cold, mechanical voice: “the number you have dialled is no longer in service.” then silence. you’d sit with it for a second, hopeful it might suddenly connect, before finally hanging up.

that hurt more than you dared to admit. like a blade slipping between your ribs, turning slow and cruel, just to see how long you’d bleed. leaving for the other side of the world was one thing. but changing his number? cutting off any way for you to reach him? that was something else entirely.

it was cruel, selfish.

his last words haunted you for months. i love you.

words the two of you never really said, at least not like that. not with the weight they carried when he said them. you lost sleep replaying it in your head, over and over, wondering if he meant it or if it was just another goodbye dressed as a confession.

because the love you had for bob wasn’t sweet or soft. it was desperate. ugly. it twisted inside you, knotted and fraying, built on years of chaos and heartbreak. you loved him even when you shouldn’t have. even when he left you to pick up the pieces he shattered.

maybe that’s why you stayed so long. maybe love made you blind to how unwell it all was — how often he dragged you under with him and never once tried to help you breathe.

you didn’t even realise you were crying until you tasted the familiarness of the salt on your lips. you blinked hard, hurriedly grabbing the remote and switching the tv off, as though that could somehow shut off the ache growing in your chest.

but it was too late. the image was burnt into your mind: bob, truly smiling as he stood beside his teammates, cheering them on from the sidelines. he looked like he belonged there. although he appeared out of place in his corduroy pants and boyish sweater, he seemed to have finally found solid ground to stand on.

there had been a time when you were the one on the sidelines for him. when you were the one giving him soft encouragement, waving from the doorway as he walked into the newest rehab you’d scraped together enough money for. you were the one he leaned on when he was too afraid to face himself.

now he was celebrating victories with strangers, and you were back in your crumbling apartment, crying alone.

there was a time when you allowed yourself to break like this — alone, vulnerable, curled up on your ratty couch or buried beneath your bedsheets, sobbing until your body gave out and sleep took you in its cold, unsatisfying grasp. but you’d since learnt better. or at least convinced yourself you had. the crying never helped. no matter how many tears were spilt, that pit in your gut remained. deep, persistent, and unmistakably carved out by heartbreak.

so you wiped your cheeks with the heel of your hand, dragging your palm down your face as if you could scrape the pain away. you reached for your phone, knowing you shouldn’t, but habit and impulse got the better of you. you opened twitter, searching for distraction, maybe even some validation in the chaos of public opinion surrounding the announcement.

john walker as an avenger?? the same guy who murdered an innocent man in the street?? gtfo

isn’t that black widow’s sister lmaooo

santa got sick and tired of the ungrateful kids byeee

who tf is that weirdo in the back.

you paused on that last one, hovering over the tweet before finally liking it. petty? absolutely. but after all the years, the damage, the letting go, you figured you were entitled to a little pettiness.

you couldn’t say exactly how long you’d been scrolling. all you knew was that when you finally looked up, the sun was setting outside your window, casting everything in that familiar golden haze. it didn’t surprise you. this was life now: wake up, go to work, come home, have a drink, and doomscroll until sleep claimed you.

you sighed, thinking about getting up from the couch but finding yourself rooted in place. your body moved on instinct more than anything. when you blinked, returning from a place you had no idea you visited, your finger hovered over a name.

robert reynolds.

what were you thinking? he probably hadn’t bothered to reconnect his old number. and even if he had, what were the chances he’d answer? doubts crept in quickly — not just doubts, but facts you’d long accepted. still, some small part of you sparked to life, fragile but persistent. it wasn’t much, but it was just enough to push you to tap the call button.

you heard ringing.

that sound alone felt like a miracle, something you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. for a fleeting second, hope continued blooming in your chest. then a voice picked up on the other end.

“who is this?”

it wasn’t him.

you knew bob’s voice. you’d heard it in every version — high, low, broken, angry. this wasn’t it. and just like that, the hope drained from you completely.

“oh… i’m so sorry. i must’ve called the wrong number.”

you hung up before the stranger could say anything else.

you should’ve known better. hope like that was childish. he wouldn’t have kept that number, not after all this time. not after everything. he probably wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you anyway. too much of his past was tied up in you, the worst parts of it. now that he was better, you were just a reminder of everything he’d tried to leave behind.

that was all you were. a memory.

robert reynolds, 7 months later

it had been a month since that dreaded gala — the one where bob spent most of the night trapped in his own head. after the crowd cleared out, all his teammates had gathered in the common area, rehashing the evening, tearing apart the guests with true cruelty. but bob hadn’t felt part of it, not really. his mind was elsewhere, still haunted by the woman he’d stared at the entire night. the one he was so sure was you.

the guilt gnawed at him. after everything the two of you had been through, all those years tangled together, he couldn’t even recognise you in a crowd. couldn’t place the back he had watched walk away from him more times than he could count. he thought he knew you better than he knew himself. but maybe all those hazy highs had clouded his memory more than he realised.

he couldn’t recall many good moments with you anymore, just fragments. not of love or joy, but of the in-between. the times when he didn’t feel untouchable but didn’t feel like he was drowning either.

and during the time he’d lost control and torn through manhattan, he found himself strangely grateful. grateful that his mind hadn’t conjured your face for his new friends to see. yelena’s retelling had been humiliating enough, and the few flashes he remembered — especially that shame room of you — were more than enough for him. only he had seen that. and he wanted to keep it that way. because no matter how much better he was now, he didn’t want the people who’d accepted him to see just how terrible he had once been.

even a month later, bob found his thoughts drifting to you whenever they had the chance. any new idea, any idle moment somehow, you always surfaced. he didn’t blame you. you were probably still in florida, living your life, maybe even forgetting he ever existed. it was him who couldn’t let go. him who was still stuck in the past.

“earth to bob!”

a hand waved in front of his face, snapping him out of it. that thick russian accent unmistakable.

he blinked, turning toward yelena with a startled expression. “shit — sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away. embarrassment flushed through him. he hadn’t meant to ignore her; he just genuinely couldn’t stop thinking about you. and lately, it was starting to spiral.

“what’s going on with you?” yelena asked, tilting her head. “you’ve been… somewhere else.”

his first instinct was to lie. brush it off. “nothin’. i’m fine.” it came easily, automatic, there was no need for him to dump his baggage on her. especially not now, not when she was juggling enough since the avengers announcement. why burden her with old ghosts?

but he also knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn’t let it go. she cared. she always pushed, always made room for the people she cared about. because to her, sharing the weight didn’t mean weakness; it meant surviving.

so he took a breath, deep and slow, and nodded.

“i’ve just… been thinking about someone from before.”

she stayed quiet, waiting, giving him the space to open up.

“there was this girl,” he said, your name barely a whisper on his lips. his gaze dropped to the floor. “she stuck by me through everything. every fuck-up, every dark moment. she didn’t leave, even when i begged her to.”

he looked up again, meeting yelena’s eyes.

“thought i saw her at that stupid gala last month. got stuck on it the whole night.”

yelena’s brow furrowed slightly, but before she could say anything, bob added, “and before you start worrying — no, it wasn’t some fuckin' hallucination or anything. just some random woman who looked like her.”

she let out a quiet sigh of relief but didn’t interrupt.

“anyway,” he said, voice lower now, “i wanna reach out, apologise to her. i just… don’t know if she’ll listen.”

neither of them spoke for a while. the silence between them was thick, teetering on uncomfortable. bob knew the weight of it sat more heavily on his shoulders. yelena wasn’t the one struggling to open up; he was. especially when it came to you. because if he talked about you for too long, the rest would follow, the uglier parts. the truth of who he was when he was with you. and that wasn’t something he ever wanted yelena to see.

bob watched her scan the room thoughtfully, as if searching for the right words. it surprised him. she always seemed to know what to say, always sharp, always sure. seeing her hesitate made him want to pull it all back — tell her not to worry, apologise for even bringing you up. but then she spoke.

“i think you should at least try,” yelena said, cutting through his thoughts with quiet certainty.

he frowned, looking down at his hands, fingers nervously twisting against each other. he wanted to try. god, he did. but what if you didn’t answer? what if hearing from him just opened old wounds? what if you'd changed your number? he did.

he told himself that cutting you off would numb the guilt of abandoning you, that silence could somehow serve as redemption. but he was wrong. he thought if he let time pass, you'd fade, like ink left too long in the sun. instead, you haunted him. your face followed him through crowds, surfaced in strangers, lingered in dreams. you lived in every quiet.

“and even if she doesn’t want to see you again, for whatever reason, i think she’d appreciate the effort,” yelena continued, her voice softer now. gentler.

bob looked at her, sceptical. “how do you know?”

she gave a small shrug. “you left for malaysia, right?” he nodded. “if she follows the news, she’s probably seen you. one minute, you're gone; the next, you're standing next to earth’s mightiest heroes. that has to raise some questions.”

he didn’t respond right away, but she had a point.

you probably were confused. the last time you saw him, he was barely functioning — frail, high, falling apart by the hour. and now? even he was shocked when he saw the news footage, watching himself looking healthier than he had in years. you must’ve been wondering what the fuck happened.

he nodded slowly. “yeah. yeah, you’re right.”

“always am,” yelena teased, her familiar smirk slipping into place.

she stood, giving his shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze as she passed him. at the door, she glanced back and added with a lightness that almost made him smile, “if you need help writing some grand declaration or heartfelt monologue, you know where to find me.”

bob let out a quiet chuckle as the door clicked shut behind her. and just like that, he was alone again.

the laughter faded quickly, swallowed by the silence that always followed when the noise around him died down. he leaned back into the couch, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. his leg bounced unconsciously — a tell-tale sign he was thinking too much.

the room felt too quiet now, too big. his gaze flicked to the window across the room, where the early evening light spilt in golden and slow. a flicker of memory stirred, the way you used to close the blinds at that exact time of day, saying the light gave you a headache. he was surprised he remembered that at all. most of his time in your apartment had been spent teetering on the edge of consciousness.

he sighed.

what was he doing?

he stood up, paced a little, sat back down. tried distracting himself with his phone, scrolled without seeing anything. realised it wasn't working, and put it back down. your name kept crawling back into his thoughts like a song he couldn’t get out of his head.

he ran a hand through his hair and let out another breath, longer this time. then, before he could talk himself out of it, he reached for his phone once again. your number was still etched into his memory like a scar. he typed it in without hesitation and hit call before he could talk himself out of it.

the second he heard the first ring, dread clawed up his throat. this was a mistake. you were going to hate him. scream at him. call him every name he probably deserved. maybe you'd hang up the moment you heard his voice. and truthfully? you were entitled to.

all he had left was a prayer — one whispered to a god he was sure didn't exist, a desperate plea cast into the air that somehow, some way, you'd understand. that you’d hear him, really hear him, and know that this time… he was ready.

the line clicked. “hello?”

his heart stilled.

it was you. of course it was you. he’d know your voice anywhere: soft but edged with something sharper, something he once lived in and ran from all at once. his mouth opened, but nothing came. his thoughts scattered like startled birds.

oh, god. this was bad. worse than he’d imagined. he hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t thought beyond the call itself. and now, with your voice echoing in his ear, he was paralysed.

“who is this?” you asked, your tone clipped, impatient. so achingly familiar that it almost made him smile.

he swallowed.

“erm… it’s, er, it’s robbie.”

then came the silence. thick. suffocating.

he could hear you breathing — shallow and quick, the rhythm uncannily matching his own. a mirrored panic, a shared ghost between two people who hadn’t spoken in what felt like lifetimes.

in that stillness, guilt pressed against his chest like an invasion. this was a mistake. he knew it. he shouldn’t have done this. shouldn’t have called. you had probably moved on. maybe not fully healed, maybe not whole, but at least moving forward. and here he was again. dragging you backward, back into the tide he had spent so long pulling you under.

he almost hung up. the urge was there, hot and bitter in the back of his throat. he wanted to spare you — wanted to say never mind, forget i called, go back to your peace. but he couldn’t, not again. not after all the other times he’d left things half-said, shattered, and bleeding on the floor between you.

so he waited.

waited for your voice like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to the man he was trying to become. if it took a lifetime for you to speak again, he’d sit in that silence. he owed you that much.

then, a soft clearing of your throat. and finally, your voice. “hi…”

just one word, but it carried so much weight. the sharpness he expected wasn’t there. what came instead was something gentler, cautious, like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.

“hi…” he echoed, voice equally uncertain, both of you caught in the strange gravity of old ghosts.

he hadn’t thought this far ahead. he knew he wanted to apologise, but the words i'm sorry felt heavy, clumsy, unworthy of the damage they were meant to mend. did he ease into it? or tear the scab off in one go?

a pause. then you spoke again. this time stronger, but raw around the edges.

“why are you calling? i haven’t heard from you in two years.”

the words cut deep, but not as much as the ache behind them. even across the distance, he could feel your hurt, the sting of betrayal still clinging to you like smoke. and the guilt came back like a wave — not the gentle kind that laps at the shore, but the kind that crashes in the open sea, wild and unforgiving, built to drown.

there was always a different kind of guilt when it came to you. not the kind that passed with time or could be shrugged off. no, this was the kind that lived in his bones. the kind that turned in his chest like a storm. he couldn’t name it exactly, only that every time he made you cry, every time he disappointed you, it felt like the sky was falling, like something sacred had been broken. and now, he was on the line, trying to pick up the pieces without knowing if he even had the right.

"i miss you. so much." he whispered, already feeling the emotion crawling up on him, voice catching in the back of his throat, "and i — i wanna apologise properly."

he heard the quiet scoff slip from your mouth and winced, because he understood. of course he did. he had walked out of your life two years ago and only now decided it was time to apologise, through a phone call, no less. not in person, just his voice over static, like a poltergeist trying to make peace.

and maybe, in his mind, that had seemed reasonable. you were in another state — or at least, he assumed you were — and he was stationed in what used to be the avengers tower. still, he knew valentina had enough resources that getting on a plane wouldn’t have been an issue. he could’ve shown up, looked you in the eye, and owned what he did. but he hadn’t. because somewhere deep down, he was still a coward.

you didn’t say anything. the silence pressed, thick and unreadable. so he pushed forward. “it’s not gonna mean much, i know that,” he murmured, voice low and heavy. “but... m'sorry. i knew what i was doin' the whole time. and i still did it anyway.”

a pause.

then your voice, sharp and wounded: “that’s seriously all you have to say?”

on the other end of the line, you could hardly process what was happening.

seven months ago, you saw bob on the news and nearly fell apart. whatever progress you’d made, or tried to convince yourself you’d made, shattered in an instant. everything you’d built to survive without him crumbled like it was made of sand.

and so, you rebuilt. not through healing, but through denial. you buried everything you felt, shoved it so far down that you forgot what it was like to feel anything at all. you let your life shrink to the bare bones, just the dull rhythm of a nine-to-five that barely paid your bills, just enough to stay afloat while ignoring the hollow space where he used to be.

now here he was, once again threatening to unravel the frail life you’d pieced together without him. maybe he meant well — he said as much — but it was hard to believe that after seven months of silence, after aligning himself with them, now was the moment he chose to reach out.

you hoped he still remembered how you felt about the so-called heroes he now lived among. it was never about powers; you weren't prejudiced. you didn’t fear them for what they could do, but for what they believed they had the right to do. the god complex. the ease with which they levelled cities and called it salvation, the way they called themselves heroes with the blood of the innocent still on their boots.

and for bob to not just work with them but to live with them, to call them friends — it stung more than you wanted to admit.

"when i saw you on the news… you looked happy. healthy." you paused, swallowing hard, your voice already thinning. "and i know it shouldn’t have made me feel the way it did — because god, rob, i am so proud of you — but it... it still hurt."

you heard nothing on the other end. just the hush of his breath. it made the silence louder somehow.

"it’s selfish," you admitted, your voice cracking at the edge. "i know that. but after everything. after all the nights i stayed up, prayin' you'd make it through, after all that fuckin' money i spent on you, every time i tried to help you get clean. it just felt like none of that mattered. like it all meant nothin'."

you pulled your knees up to your chest, curling tighter around the ache building in your ribs.

"because now you’re better, but for them," you went on, more bitterly than you’d intended, "for a group of mercs you barely know. for people who don't know the worst parts of you like i do."

your voice dropped to almost a whisper.

"how do you think that makes me feel?"

and with that, the floodgates fully opened — not just in your words, but in your body, too. you hadn't meant to ramble. but years of grief, restraint, and unspoken heartbreak finally clawed their way out, heavy and breathless, collapsing between you like something sacred and ruined.

a heavy silence settled between the two of you, thick and unmoving, like fog that refused to lift. and now, in the stillness that followed, came the slow ache of guilt. the guilt of having finally laid yourself bare. you had never told him everything, never allowed yourself to unravel like this in front of him. you were always the one listening, never the one speaking.

you didn’t think you were allowed to. his pain had always taken up more space, louder, darker, and far more dangerous. that was never his fault. it wasn’t that he asked you to stay quiet. you just convinced yourself that your hurt didn’t matter as much.

not compared to his.

robert reynolds, age 19

you're surprised you didn't cry when you walked into your apartment and saw the destruction.

you had only recently moved out of your mother’s house and into the small one-bedroom apartment. it wasn’t much, but it was yours. yours, and sometimes bob's. it was the first place that felt remotely like safety, like something you’d built for yourself. and you were content, or at least as close to content as life would allow.

so when you opened the door and found every mirror in your home shattered, the air seemed to vanish from your lungs. it was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the fragile sense of peace you’d tried so hard to build.

then you saw him.

bob was in your kitchen, pacing like a man possessed. his fists were raw and bloodied, lips moving rapidly as he muttered to himself, oblivious to the crimson smears on your walls, the glass crunching beneath his shoes.

“rob?” your voice came out softer than you'd intended, cautious. like approaching a wild animal. “is everything okay?”

he jumped at the sound of your voice, whipping around with wide, panicked eyes. he was hyperventilating, chest heaving.

“they’re watchin’ me!” he rasped. “the cops, the psychiatrist — they’re behind the mirrors. they’re just waitin’ for me to fuck up so they can haul me in!”

you swallowed hard, stepping forward with trembling hands.

in that moment, you weren’t sure how to help him, not really. this was the first time you’d seen him like this, lost in the thick fog of psychosis, and you weren’t a trained psychologist. you were just someone who loved him, standing in the wreckage of your apartment, trying to piece him back together with nothing but trembling hands and good intentions.

what were you even supposed to say? were you meant to challenge the delusions? agree with them? redirect? you didn’t know the rules. you only knew that whatever he was seeing, whatever he believed — it was real to him. but if there was one thing you were sure of, it was this: panic only fed the fire. so the first step, you figured, was to steady your own voice. quiet the fear clanging around in your chest and try to calm him, even if you had no idea what you were doing.

“no, robbie… they’re not watching you,” you said gently, nodding toward the shards littering the floor. “you broke them all. see?”

your plan to calm him down unravelled the moment you spoke. he clenched his fists and yelled. loud, frantic, accusing. he said you were lying. that they were watching him. that he was scared.

you stepped forward, slowly, careful not to make it worse. close enough that he could hear your breath if he listened, but not so close that he’d feel crowded. you tried to be still, to be something steady in the chaos. a calm presence he could mirror, if only for a moment.

but you weren’t calm. not even close. inside, you were spiralling, panicking in ways you never had before. you just hoped he wouldn’t notice the thin glass sheen in your eyes or the quiet tremble threading through your fingers. you hoped he wouldn’t see the fear sitting just beneath your skin, because if he did, he would just get worse. and that was something you weren't ready to see.

“if they were watching… they’d be behind the mirrors, right?” you asked gently, voice careful, unsure of how to reach him.

his eyes widened with panic. “why can’t you see?” he shouted, his voice sharp with desperation. in an instant, he closed the space between you, grabbing your arms with shaking hands, as if clutching you might force understanding into your bones. “they’re there, i swear! why won’t you believe me?”

you didn’t flinch, even as his grip tightened. you just looked at him — really looked. the fear etched into his face, the wildness in his eyes, the trembling in his body. and then, as if the fight drained from him all at once, he collapsed forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“please,” he choked out between sobs. “i’m not lyin'. i swear i’m not.”

you wrapped your arms around him instinctively, one hand gently moving up and down his back. you held him while his body shook against yours, offering the only comfort you could in a moment far too big for either of you. there were no right words, only presence. so you stayed.

and you let him cry because you didn't know what else to do.

robert reynolds, present day

he didn’t know how to begin. no words felt right, or strong enough, to bridge the space between what you believed and what he knew to be true.

what you were saying wasn’t right, not exactly. you couldn’t have known about the serum, about how it sculpted his good and bad days into something monstrous, about how it rewired him in a way that made getting high impossible. but how could he explain that to you now, over a phone line already strained with years of silence?

“no — no, that’s not what happened,” he said quickly, his voice laced with urgency, but it felt like trying to plug a leak with trembling hands. you wouldn’t believe him, not like this.

he closed his eyes. it wasn’t enough. none of this would be enough unless he saw you.

he’d panic; he was sure of it. he’d say the wrong thing, trip over his words, and make it worse. but even with that certainty curling in his stomach like a threat, he knew he needed to see you. face-to-face, no barriers, no excuses.

only then could he try to make things right.

"listen, i wanna make it right. i'm in new york, but i can fly out," he said quickly, desperation bleeding into every syllable. "you're still in florida, right?" he clung to the question like a lifeline, to the hope that maybe he could still fix something when all he’d ever known was how to break them.

there was a pause. then your voice came, soft and aching: "no... i'm sorry, robbie. i don’t think i can face you. not right now."

and just like that, something inside him caved in.

it’s strange, he thought, how the heart makes no sound when it shatters. not a crack, not a thud — just silence, sudden and swallowing.

#bob reynolds recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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ఇ - peter parker [tasm] masterlist.

✦ one shots.

pros and cons | established relationship - by @/unrockstarr-xe

stay | friends to lovers - by @/lumosflairr

kiss it all better | established relationship - by @/elixirfromthestars

begin again | enemies to lovers - by @/webslingerslasher

pretty sounds | established relationship, pwop - by @/luveline

shy shy shy | established relationship - by @/biblio-smia

yelp reviews | established relationship - by @/gloomskulls

lipstick | established relationship - by @/literaila

loopy | established relationship - by @/luveline

harry's girl | friends to lovers-ish - by @/astxroiid

walking home | strangers to friends to lovers - by @/moonstruckme

isn't that crazy? | friends to lovers - by @/uhhhj13iguess

sticky webs | established relationship - by @/lostalioth

are you busy? | established relationship - by @/luveline

i miss u open the door pls | established relationship - by @/luveline

your boy who is a friend, peter | friends to lovers - by @/luveline

baby me | established relationship - by @/p3terparker

hands off | established relationship - by @/uramakimochi

bloom | strangers to lovers - by @/wolvisms

three strikes | established relationship - by @/ptergwen

agree to disagree | established relationship - by @/wokeupinmars

the peace treat-y (comes with sprinkles) | coworkers to lovers - by @/wokeupinmars

stacked against you | friends to lovers - by @/wokeupinmars

couldn't help myself | fwb - by @/ohcaptains

coffee at midnight | friends to lovers - by @/wokeupinmars

not known or seen | friends to lovers - by @/luveline

bend an ear | strangers/friends to lovers-ish - by @/atlabeth

one in the same | friends to lovers - by @/finnwrld

find you | established relationship - by @/luveline

crush | friends to lovers - by @/ptersparkers

pain relief | pwop - by @/luveline

the babydoll | established relationship, pwop - by @/luveline

keeping secrets | friends to lovers - by @/luveline

in the real world | friends to lovers - by @/luveline

first date | established relationship-ish - by @/luveline

honeybody | friends to lovers - by @/luveline

am i doing this right? | established relationship - by @/yasministration

can i borrow your sweater? | established relationshp - by @/t1red-twilight

notes | strangers to lovers - by @/kitywrites

heartbreak girl | friends to lovers - by @/uhhhj13iguess

on that rooftop | ex-friends to lovers - by @/nezuscribe

in the name of science | established relationship - by @/withahappyrefrain

✦ series.

you're too good to me (and you know it, too) | strangers to lovers - by @/fardwader part one. part two. part three. part four. part five. part six.

i saw nothing | roomates to lovers-ish - by @/ellecdc part one. part two.

stages | coworkers to lovers - by @/uhhhj13iguess stage one: infatuation. stage two: hunger. stage three: temptation.

✦ random.

nsfw twitter links. one (also included: mcu peter parker). two.

total count: 46 (61 links).

my masterlist of recommendations.

i'm going to keep updating this list as i read more!

last update: 14/07/2025

#peter parker recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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Unlucky in Love

masterlist

Gif credit to @ogledalo-moje-duse

Summary: Spencer is unlucky in love - until he isn’t.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, some suggestive content

Word Count: 3.4k

Spencer Reid is, by most people’s definition, unlucky in love.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. In his early twenties, Spencer often caught himself fantasizing about being on the receiving end of some great storybook romance straight out of one of the classic novels on his bookshelf. On the rare occurrence where his mind was able to slow down long enough, Spencer would daydream about what his future partner would be like. Would they share his fondness for the written word, or his penchant for foreign cinema? Would they find his tendency to go off on tangents endearing and his less than fashionable style of dress charming? Spencer liked to think so, but the likelihood of finding someone who could accept him despite all of his quirks seemed low.

But still he hoped, even though he knew hope was a dangerous thing. Hope gave life to the possibility of disappointment – and if there was one thing Spencer did not need more of, it was that.

Spencer Reid was in love with the idea of love – obsessed with the idea of his soul intertwining with someone else’s. But with his thirtieth birthday quickly approaching and absolutely no prospective love interests in sight, Spencer was feeling more than a little disheartened. It certainly didn’t help that everywhere he turned, love was running rampant. Hotch had Beth, Penelope had Kevin, Jennifer had Will, and Morgan had… any number of possible partners. Emily and Rossi were both unattached, but happily so in a way that Spencer just couldn’t quite manage.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like seeing the people around him happy – it was just that he couldn’t help but wonder when he’d finally get his chance at love.

A month before Spencer’s thirtieth birthday, everything changes.

Lees verder

#spencer reid recs

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worldfullofash · 2 months ago

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LIKE NO TIME PASSED ➵ spencer reid

A challenging case reunites Spencer with an old college “friend,” resulting in relentless teasing from the team.

➵ Based on this request here

cw: spencer reid x fem!reader. fluff (idk, it doesn't really have a genre). lots of teasing!!! silly oblivious people a/n: i love silly stupid people!!!!! i love derek morgan!!!!!!! if you want to submit a request of your own, you can use this link here :) w/c: 3k

During his second year of college, someone once asked Spencer if you were just a friend.

He said yes.

That wasn’t entirely true.

Because from the moment he met you – surrounded by the dusty, neglected shelves of the east wing library in the early hours of the morning – something had shifted. Something internal. Subtle, but seismic. You were there in an oversized hoodie, notes spread into carefully chaotic piles. And Spencer, who lived more in his head than in the world, had found himself suddenly grounded in the present.

There was something about you.

Something quiet, but not small. You offered gentleness and attention. You listened to him like listening was an artform. Like every tangled thought he offered was something beautiful. You nodded at the right moments, smiled at his obscure facts, laughed like you meant it – like he was funny. Like he mattered.

Maybe it was the way you never interrupted him. Or the way you’d pause your own train of thought just to make space for his.

Maybe it was even simpler than that: maybe it was the way life felt a little less difficult when you smiled at him.

You were friends.

Study partners. Midnight coffee co-dependents. Occupants of the same, forgotten library alcove. And in that quiet space, something grew.

It was never declared. Never defined. But there were moments – fleeting and silent – when it felt like you both knew.

He felt it. Physically. In his chest and his lungs, in the way his hands would tremble slightly when you brushed past to reach for a book.

He felt it when you brought him coffee without asking, just how he liked it.

He felt it when you saved him a seat during finals week, surrounded by books that created a fortress just for the two of you.

He felt it in the way you looked at each other: a split-second pause, an almost-confession hovering on your lips before it faded into something safer. Something certain.

He came up with excuses for never saying the words. Timing. Fear. Realness – because real things have edges, and real things can break.

And then life, as it tend to do, moved forward.

He graduated early, caught up in accelerated programs and ambition. You chased opportunities – internships and research grants, followed by a fellowship that took you across the ocean.

There was no dramatic farewell. No final moment when the truth spilled out. Just a slow, quiet drifting. The inevitable fading of something unnamed.

You still talked. Occasionally.

He knew when you moved: first to Nice, then Berlin, then Prague. You knew when he joined the FBI, even sent him a card when he earned his badge.

There were letters and long-distance calls filled with laughter and static.

And then the calls grew less frequent, the letters reduced to birthdays and Christmases. And then nothing. Only the nights when he thought of you, the still moments when he wondered what could’ve been if something had been said.

Until even those thoughts ceased too.

And then life, as it does, brought you back. Years and years later.

Not through a phone call or a letter or a carefully planned reunion, but through a case.

The BAU had a problem One that even Spencer Reid, with all his degrees and carefully curated brilliance, couldn’t solve.

A string of engrupted messages. Dozens of them. Each more convoluted than the last. There were codes layered in linguistic inconsistencies and cultural references, scattered across multiple languages and dialects. The meaning lay just out of reach.

Hotch made the call for outside help – someone wth a background in linguistic analysis and decoding systems used by foreign operatives. Spencer didn’t ask who. He was tired, too deep in the data, too frustrated with himself for not seeing the answers already. He expected someone from Rockport. Or maybe an overly confident private contractor with too much ego.

What he did not expect was you.

You were stood in the lobby of the precinct, visitor badge clipped to the lapel of your coat and a manila folder tucked neatly beneath your arm. The wind had caught your hair on the way in, causing it to fall just like it used to after sprinting through the rain from the library to your dorm.

Spencer was frozen in his seat.

His breath caught, all thoughts in his mind ceasing. He blinked, twice, as if expecting you to suddenly vanish. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hands remained rigid over the files like the case had fallen out of focus and you had taken centre stage instead.

Then you turned. And your eyes found his.

There was a moment of confusion. Then recognition. And you smiled. Slow and familiar, time slotting back into place.

You made the first move – just as you had all those years ago in the library – crossing the precinct and coming to a halt in front of him.

‘Hi,’ you said, breathless from the wind, and most likely the shock of seeing him there.

Spencer stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair into the wall behind him. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out at first. Just a wide-eyed, stunned silence.

‘Hi,’ he finally managed.

And then, without hesitation, he hugged you.

Spencer Reid hugged you.

Not politely. Not professionally. Not the kind of hug that said it’s nice to see you again.

No, this was something else entirely – a full-body, arms-wrapped-tight, press-your-face-into-his-shoulder, stay-there-for-a-second-too-long kind of hug. He took a deep breath, one hand gently curling into the fabric of your coat like he didn’t want to let you go.

Across the room, Derek Morgan visibly choked on his coffee. The loud splutter was enough to make JJ flinch.

‘What the hell—’ Derek wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyes wide as he stared.

JJ turned slowly, eyebrows high, amusement playing on her features. ‘Are his eyes closed?’

‘Uh-huh,’ Morgan nodded, looking mildly scandalized.

Emily rounded the corner with a file in her hand, only to be roped into the impromptu watch party when Morgan grabbed her arm. She looked between her fellow agents, before her eyes fell on Spencer.

‘What are we watching?’ she whispered, glancing between him and the mystery woman he was still hugging.

‘Reid. Hugging someone. Voluntarily,’ JJ said.

‘He’s gone, I tell you,’ Derek said, gesturing toward the two of you with the hand still holding his coffee. ‘Gone.’

Spencer finally – finally – pulled away. Reluctantly, and just barely. His hands hovered at your arms like he wasn’t quite ready to let you. He scanned your face like he was memorizing it again, like he still wasn’t quite sure you were real.

‘You—how are you—? I didn’t know you were coming,’ he said, releasing a stunned laugh. ‘I had no idea it was you they brought in to consult.’

You pulled back a step, tipping your head as if to get a better look at him.

‘I didn’t know this was your team either. I didn’t know you were based here.’

‘I—I mean, technically I’m not. The team travels. Quantico is home base, but we get dispatched on—uh— a case-by-case basis. This came in the day before yesterday, and we—well, we flew in yesterday, but I didn’t—’

‘Still talk too fast when you’re flustered, huh?’ you teased, voice warm.

‘I’m not flustered,’ he replied automatically.

‘Sure you’re not.’

Behind him, Morgan looked about five seconds from combusting.

And that only seemed to worsen when, without even thinking, you reached forward and straightened Spencer’s tie – crooked from the sudden hug. You didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. It was instinct.

Derek just about lost it, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing his coffee at the two of you with the other in stunned silence. This was the man who recoiled at high-fives and fist-bumps. And now he was letting you adjust his tie like it was an everyday occurrence. He then proceeded to gently smack JJ’s arm like are you seeing this.

Spencer’s smile softened further.

‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘You were in Berlin for a while, right? Then Prague?’

‘Yeah. Then Budapest for a bit. And now Texas, apparently.’

He let out a short laugh.

‘You look exactly the same.’ He paused, then corrected himself. ‘I mean—not exactly. You look… good. Great, actually. Not that you didn’t look good before—’

‘You look good too, Spencer. Really good.’

The years seemed to fold in on themselves. The air between you was suddenly thick with something that had never quite faded. Library corners, late-night coffees, unsaid words – they were all right there, shared in a single breath between you.

It looked like you might say something more when Hotch stepped into the room, calling your name and cutting through the peace.

‘Can I see you for a moment?’

You lifted the file in your hand and smiled sheepishly at Spencer. ‘Duty calls.’

‘Right. Yeah. I’ll be here…’ he said, nodding quickly.

He watched as you turned and disappeared don the hallway, your figure swallowed up by the curve of the corridor.

The second you were out of sight, Morgan spun around with wide eyes.

‘Okay,’ he said, practically vibrating as he stepped into Spencer’s path. ‘What was that?’

Spencer looked slightly dazed. Blinked once. ‘What was what?’

‘That whole reunion scene that looked like it was ripped straight from a Hallmark movie.’

‘We were just saying hello,’ Spencer frowned.

Morgan’s mouth dropped open. He looked around at the others as if to confirm he wasn’t the only one who’d witnessed the scene.

‘Reid, you hugged her.’

‘So?’

‘So?’ Morgan echoed, incredulous. ‘You don’t hug people.’

‘I hug people,’ Spencer said, looking mildly offended at the accusation, crossing his arms.

‘You absolutely do not.’

‘I’ve hugged people before.’

‘Name one,’ Derek challenged, crossing his arms right back.

Spencer opened his mouth. Hesitated. Thought for a beat.

‘…I’m sure I’ve hugged JJ at some point,’ he said, glancing toward her with hopeful eyes.

‘You actively recoiled when I hugged you at my baby shower,’ she said, stifling a small laugh.

Spencer opened his mouth again. Nothing.

Morgan continued to grin, relentless. ‘Since when have you had a girlfriend, man?’

‘Girlfriend?’ Spencer said, physically reeling back. His voice had raised at least two octaves. ‘She’s not—what? No! We went to college together. We were friends.’

‘Just friends?’ Emily asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously as she leaned in. ‘Because you let her fix your tie. That’s a big thing for you.’

‘That doesn’t make it romantic,’ Spencer insisted. ‘It’s just… a familiarity thing. We knew each other really well back then.’

‘You know us really well,’ Morgan pointed out, still gesturing wildly like he was presenting evidence to a jury. JJ and Emily seemed convinced, at least. ‘And you would rather look at a double homicide than let one of us touch your neck. She walks in and starts adjusting your clothes like its nothing.’

That had Spencer looking mildly horrified. His eyes darted between JJ and Emily, desperate for a lifeline.

‘We’re just friends! From college!’

‘And you were grinning like an idiot,’ JJ added beneath her breath. Not helpful.

‘I was not.’

‘You were,’ Derek and Emily said in unison.

‘And so was she,’ JJ added. More helpful. ‘You were both looking at each other like…’

‘Like a couple of college sweethearts,’ Emily supplied.

‘I was gonna say “like a Nicholas Sparks montage,” but sure, lets go with Emily’s thing,’ Morgan said, nodding.

Spencer opened his mouth to argue again – flustered, red-faced, completely overwhelmed – but the sound died in his throat as you reappeared. His posture straightened instantly.

Morgan coughed pointedly and stepped back with a knowing grin.

File in hand and eyes bright with focus, you made a direct beeline toward Spencer. It was like he held his own gravitational pull.

‘Agent Hotchner briefed me on the case details so far,’ you said, glancing up to offer him a quick smile. ‘He said you’d be able to walk me through what’s already been decoded?’

Spencer nodded a little too enthusiastically, smile wide and boyish. (Far too wide, if Morgan’s exaggerated hand gestures in the background were anything to go by.)

‘Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I—uh—I’ll get th notes,’ he said, turning in a quick, almost tripping circle to locate the correct files.

It was only then that you turned to the rest of the team, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes warm.

‘Sorry—hi—I should’ve introduced myself,’ you said, accompanied with an apologetic laugh. You supplied them with your name before continuing, ‘I’m the linguistics consultant. It’s really nice to meet you all.’

JJ smiled back instantly. ‘You too.’

Morgan grinned innocently, nodding in agreement. ‘Yeah. Real nice to finally meet Spencer’s girlfriend.’

You blinked, caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry—what?’

Morgan kept his smile angelic.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Girlfriend. Partner. Sweetheart. That whole thing.’

Spencer looked like he wanted to die and crawl into a hole.

You laughed awkwardly, eyes darting to Spencer, then back to Morgan. ‘Oh, no. We’re just friends.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Emily murmured.

JJ tilted her head, speaking to Emily behind her hand, ‘Just friends who stare at each other like they hung the moon…’

Before either of you could mount a defense, the door swung open. Rossi strolled in, brows furrowed as he scanned the room.

‘Did we pick up a consultant?’ he asked casually, eyes landing on you.

Morgan didn’t miss a beat, still not letting up. ‘Yeah. Spencer’s girlfriend.’

Simultaneously, you and Spencer blurted: ‘No!’

Rossi stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene: Spencer’s tie was slightly askew, his ears were crimson, your file folder was tilted in your arms, and you were standing too close for it to mean nothing.

‘You sure?’

Spencer turned and looked at you helplessly.

‘I swear, this is not what working here is usually like,’ he insisted.

‘No, the soap-opera commentary doesn’t exactly scream FBI professionalism,’ you teased. The gentle laugh behind your words caused a warmth to spread through his chest.

‘Come on,’ he said, leading you toward the small conference room at the end of the hall. ‘I’ll walk you through the code so far. Fair warning – it’s mess.’

‘That’s fine,’ you said, smiling. ‘You know I enjoy puzzles.’

The two of you fell into a quick and easy rhythm.

Whiteboards filled with scribbled notes. Coffee cups stacked beside discarded wrappers. The low hum of some piano music coming faintly from your laptop. You debated theories, challenged the syntax logic, bounced ideas off one another like you used to in late-night study sessions.

At some point, he forgot to feel self-conscious. You were just… there. Like no time had passed.

And then, as naturally as you'd appeared, you’d stood to go check in with Hotch with what you had so far. The room felt colder when you left.

Spencer found himself glancing at the door.

More than once.

Which is exactly what Morgan noticed when he casually strolled into the room minutes later, sipping from a fresh cup of coffee, holding another one out wordlessly.

Spencer accepted it with a way glance.

‘I wanted to say sorry,’ Derek added, his voice more subdued than earlier. ‘For the teasing. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.’

Spencer took a long sip. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yeah, okay – maybe it was too much. We just don’t see you like that very often. And… I guess it kind of surprised us.’

‘Like what?’

‘Smiling like an idiot,’ Morgan said, sitting down in the chair beside him. ‘Staring longingly at the door, waiting for her to come back... Look – I’ll put the teasing aside for a minute: you want talk about it?’

Spencer paused. Took another sip. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. She’s just a friend. And she has interesting insights.’

‘She could tell you the sky was purple and you’d write a thesis defending it.’

‘That sounds like teasing,’ Spencer pointed out, before continuing, ‘and I wouldn’t defend her on that. But it doesn’t take away from the fact she’s incredibly intelligent and her work on linguistic systems is genuinely—’

Morgan held up a hand. ‘Stop. Before you start spiralling. Let me ask you something simple: do you like her?’ he asked, leaning in slightly.

‘I’ve always liked her,’ Spencer responded. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘No. Do you like like her?’

‘What are we, twelve?’ Spencer asked, brows furrowing.

‘Just answer the question.’

Spencer hesitated and shifted awkwardly.

‘We were close in college,’ he began. ‘I don’t—nothing ever happened. And then we both went separate ways. Lost touch.’

‘Reid,’ Morgan said, gently now. ‘You’re avoiding the question.’

Spencer inhaled through his nose. Exhaled sharply. His fingers tapped against the lid of his coffee.

‘I just… I don’t know.’

Morgan nodded slowly. ‘Okay, tell me this, then: when you saw her today, how did it feel?’

That question didn’t require much thought.

‘Good. Like old times. Like everything was back in place.’

‘Exactly,’ Morgan grinned.

There was a very long pause. Spencer blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth parted slightly and a dawning look of horror crept across his face.

‘There it is,’ Morgan continued. ‘You like like her.’

‘No—I mean—I don’t—do I?’

Morgan just sat back, letting the truth settle in.

‘Oh no,’ Spencer mumbled, rubbing a hand across his face.

Morgan, smugger than he’d ever been before, nodded vehemently, ‘Oh yes.’

Spencer dropped his head back, letting out a sigh and staring up at the ceiling like it might provide him with the answers.

‘Was it really that obvious?’ he asked.

‘Yeah… I mean, the way you hugged her – you practically melted into her.’

‘In front of everyone,’ Spencer mumbled. ‘That's so humiliating.’

‘Spencer, it’s not humiliating. Look, I teased you, sure – but it’s completely human.’

There was a brief silence as Spencer fiddled with his coffee lid again, mind clearly racing. Morgan gave it a beat, then leaned forward.

‘Here’s the part you’re not going to overthink—’

‘There’s a part I’m not going to overthink?’ Spencer questioned warily.

‘—you’re going to ask her out.’

‘What?’

‘Come on. You’re a genius, Pretty Boy. You can figure out how to ask her on a date... She’d say yes, by the way.’

‘You think so?’ Spencer said quietly.

‘I know so,’ Morgan responded, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go get your girl.’

#spencer reid recs

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