There are literally so many amazing and incredible stories on here but these are some of my favorite ones out there. I am literally in love with all of these and the writers of these incredible stories.
•Let’s have a good time: https://www.tumblr.com/cosmicmunsonwrites/724489956660215808/reader-gets-super-drunk-with-the-pogues-so-they - @cosmicmunsonwrites
Drew Starkey:
•“Petah…the horse is here”: https://www.tumblr.com/r66dus/733919510365700096/heyyy-lovely-iw-as-wondering-if-you-could-write - @r66dus
•”She’s My Wife”: https://www.tumblr.com/kquil/731747952363716608/remus-lupin-2359-shes-my-wife-sum-you - @kquil
I literally have to thank @astonishment for bringing me into the marauders fandom. I LOVE Harry Potter but Mal made me fall in love with James and Remus with her incredible writing!! I literally read all her works in less than a week🫢🫣😂
•Why Did She Say Yes?: https://www.tumblr.com/astonishment/697329877925380096/%F0%9D%96%B6%F0%9D%97%81%F0%9D%97%92-%F0%9D%96%A3%F0%9D%97%82%F0%9D%96%BD-%F0%9D%96%B2%F0%9D%97%81%F0%9D%96%BE-%F0%9D%96%B2%F0%9D%96%BA%F0%9D%97%92-%F0%9D%96%B8%F0%9D%96%BE%F0%9D%97%8C - @astonishment
•All Of The Benefits: https://www.tumblr.com/astonishment/708662967233822720/%F0%9D%96%A0%F0%9D%97%85%F0%9D%97%85-%F0%9D%96%AE%F0%9D%96%BF-%F0%9D%96%B3%F0%9D%97%81%F0%9D%96%BE-%F0%9D%96%A1%F0%9D%96%BE%F0%9D%97%87%F0%9D%96%BE%F0%9D%96%BF%F0%9D%97%82%F0%9D%97%8D%F0%9D%97%8C - @astonishment
•If I Kiss You, I’m Sorry: https://www.tumblr.com/astonishment/711289099349311488/%F0%9D%96%A8%F0%9D%96%BF-%F0%9D%96%A8-%F0%9D%96%AA%F0%9D%97%82%F0%9D%97%8C%F0%9D%97%8C-%F0%9D%96%B8%F0%9D%97%88%F0%9D%97%8E-%F0%9D%96%A8%F0%9D%97%86-%F0%9D%96%B2%F0%9D%97%88%F0%9D%97%8B%F0%9D%97%8B%F0%9D%97%92 - @astonishment
•You’re Losing Me (series): https://www.tumblr.com/astonishment/718987676510978048/%F0%9D%98%A0%F0%9D%98%B0%F0%9D%98%B6%F0%9D%98%B3%F0%9D%98%A6-%F0%9D%98%93%F0%9D%98%B0%F0%9D%98%B4%F0%9D%98%AA%F0%9D%98%AF%F0%9D%98%A8-%F0%9D%98%94%F0%9D%98%A6 - @astonishment
•Stacked Against You: https://www.tumblr.com/delicate-dorothea/721251792081518592/stacked-against-you - @delicate-dorothea
•The Last Time: https://www.tumblr.com/delicate-dorothea/725983375860645888/the-last-time - @delicate-dorothea
•How You Get the Girl: https://www.tumblr.com/californ1asnow/721891388315320320/how-you-get-the-girl - @californ1asnow
Coriolanus Snow: I promised myself I would not like Snow because of the first hunger games movies but @runningfrom2am ‘s leveling the playing field series made me break, it’s just SO GOOD
•leveling the playing field (series): https://www.tumblr.com/runningfrom2am/735903707790819329/take-me-to-the-lakes-where-all-the-poets-went-to - @runningfrom2am
part twelve | angel // serial killer!Kim Seungmin/afab reader
WC: 14.4k
RATING: mature/mdni—contains: blood and dreams and angels
SYNOPSIS: Seungmin floats through life alone, haunted by his memories—keeping himself under control, and quieting his mind the only way he knows how…killing and watching the life leave his victims eyes. When you cross his path on a morning hunt, something new (something forgotten) starts to move inside of him, leading both of you on a path to confront the unspeakable past.
COMMENTS: thank you thank you thank you
[ ML — DEITY MASTERLIST / TAGLIST / PLAYLIST]
You’re not alone, but the quiet apartment gives the illusion of loneliness. It’s horrible. If only they would wake and start to fuss, need you…anything but this.
Seungmin left his phone on his nightstand, which you only figured out after two unanswered texts, and if you dwell on the fact that you can’t reach him, panic quickly sets in. What if you need him? What if something happens to one of the boys? What if It is still here with you, watching from a dark corner?
Picking that phone up right now and unlocking it would be so, so easy…it’s a line you have a hard time crossing. But what if there's something in there? It’s not even locked—Seungmin doesn’t have it pass code protected, or face ID turned on.
Is it worse than what he did? Is what he did enough to justify what you’re about to do?
The lock screen is just a generic image of the night sky, but it’s you on the main screen. An older photo of you, when you were still pregnant. There isn’t much to look at; phone, messages, music apps, camera and photos, and the alarm clock all sit at the top. You swipe and see his email, the weather, and the notes app. Back again to the messages—the last texts are from you, and below that is Heecheol, unanswered.
The phone throws you a little because you don’t recognize his most recent call. Last night, around the time he would have been taking your mother back, or getting home, he had a six minute phone call. “Gomo? Aunt?” Seungmin called his aunt, someone he’s rarely spoken of. He mentioned them briefly when you asked who cared for him, and you assume that’s who he was referring to when he said he was hard to love. His aunts were his main caregivers, and while you thought all of his family had died and left him alone, that isn’t the case. Someone is alive, and he spoke to one or both of them briefly before his episode early this morning. What did he talk about for six minutes, and what did they say to him?
You check his email, and it’s (unsurprisingly) boring. It seems to be mostly work related—bills, bank statements you have little interest in anymore, and when you hit show all mail, a few of his favorite places to shop pop up, and nothing else. Everything is just as tidy as you expect it to be.
The last thing to check is his notes app, but it’s not the typical iPhone notes app—this one is different, and a few of the entries are inaccessible without a six digit pass code. The ones you can open, you can’t read very well anyway. Translating it feels too intrusive, but when you see your name in one of the older notes, your real name, you can’t fight back the urge. Instead of translating it directly, you snap a photo and give it to Papago. The wording is a little lost in translation, but it’s enough for you to figure out…
24/11/25
I don’t know what to do. My brain is on fire, and my body is, too, but it feels so good. This isn’t how I’m supposed to feel…but her… why won’t she leave me alone? Butterflies in my stomach?? Or maybe I’m just so nervous I feel like I’m going to vomit. What’s the difference? I guess the difference is I like the way it feels.
You thought you knew how he was feeling pretty quickly after meeting him, but this puts everything into a new perspective. His own words. Seungmin was truly losing his mind over you. Each new sentence makes your heart jump a little more.
I can’t even allow myself to think something beyond my normal is possible, because I can’t hide who I am from her, not if I get her as close as I think I want her. It’s getting worse than that. I have to have her.
You pull up another.
24/12/06
I haven’t written much down lately. It’s strange having my head occupied by something other than my own thoughts, or the usual thoughts, even if it’s just small talk and sex…but the small talk and sex is so good. And she hasn’t left me yet, even after everything she’s seen. Is there something wrong with her, too? Maybe she’s planning her escape with each passing day. I’m so afraid she’s going to leave. At some point I will become too much...this will all become too much. I can’t stand the thought of that happening now.
There are so many. Seungmin made a little journal entry nearly every day, and they go back well before you met him. The most recent one is unlocked, and it’s the last one you read.
25/07/13
The boys are finally home, and I have never been so relieved, so happy, and scared at the same time. They’re so tiny, and I’m afraid I’ll break them every time I pick them up. I can’t stop picking them up, though. I need to hold them and keep them close. Tokki seems confident, and I think it’s coming to her naturally, like it should. The three of them have a connection I might never know, and sometimes I think I feel some jealousy, but they are mine. All three of them are mine. I feel that when I have them in my arms, because they look at me as if they know who I am. That’s why I can’t stand to put them down. I hope she knows what she has given to me.
There’s more, but you stop and hold back the tears for now. Seungmin is vulnerable with you, yes, but here he speaks so freely, so you decide you’ve crossed the line enough for today. He will come home soon, because he would never willingly leave his children behind. And you…he fought so hard against himself to get you here and keep you with him. He’ll be back.
But hours pass. Each feeding, each changing, and every song you hum and sing as you walk them around the apartment marks another two or three hours without him. Nothing pops out at you, at least. No shadows, and no dogs…but the dogs feel less and less threatening each time they appear. Eventually, you sit down with the remains of his music box, and you very carefully take everything apart. A few weeks after buying parts to help fix it, you realized how impossible it would be to give him back something that resembled what his mother left him, so you commissioned it, spent another $300, and now you need to remake it’s home.
Each piece of wood, some whole and some not so whole, get set to one side; the insides, not the mechanical parts, but the soft lining where the jewelry was, go to another corner. The moving parts that took you months to find are finally unwrapped.
“Okay guys, I’m gonna need some moral support. Can you handle that?” Haesung answers with a yawn, and Haneul seems to catch it from him. “Daddy is gonna be so happy when he gets home…if I can figure this out.” The first thing you do it set the old cylinder next to the brand new one. They don’t look quite the same, mostly because the old one is missing some very important parts, but when you wind the new one up, the music is identical.
Heecheol has never dreamed so much in his life, and now it seems like every night a strange new scene unfolds in his head. He keeps himself up until almost 3 am, flipping through hundreds of hotel cable channels, trying his best to nurse one, and then two coffees, just to avoid the inevitable. That’s not going to fix things, though, and it won’t help him figure out what the dreams are about. If he’s not buried alive and out of breath in one, he’s being chased in another. He can’t figure out which one is worse. Being chased takes him back to his stupid trip to the Uljin house, and his run through the woods. The memories of that night are still just fragments, but since the dreams started a few nights later, he feels like he’s remembering.
After the dregs of his second cup are finally behind him, he loses. Sleep takes him quickly, and with no fight. Tonight, the dream is different...
He feels and hears his careful steps across the hardwood floor, a creak here and there. If anyone is around, he can’t see them in the dark of wherever he is. He reaches for a doorknob, but it’s locked, and he begins to feel like a marionette as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out what feels like a wallet. No, not a wallet. The little metal things he pulls out slides into the lock until he feels a click, and then again, this time the deadbolt. The room he walks into is almost as dark, but he can make out where he is—someone’s tiny apartment. His dream self seems impatient, and he moves quickly, very unlike his other dreams. Across the room and down a short hall…the door he’s looking for is open, easy, but when he gets to the edge of the bed, Heecheol only stares at whoever is under the covers. No time passes, but so much time passes as he stands there and waits. Waits for what?
The lump beneath covers starts to stir, and that seems to be his cue, because he rounds the bed and gets a closer look. Why isn’t he nervous? Whatever he’s doing feels natural, so natural that it actually calms him. Heecheol feels good, and his lungs fill with a deep, satisfying breath as his hand reaches out and covers the man’s mouth, he swings his legs up and straddles his waist, and it’s now that the man in the bed realizes something is wrong.
“Shut up, don’t make a sound…” His muffled cries are too loud, though. “The louder you are, the slower I’ll go. Is that what you want?”
What is he saying? That’s not even his voice. That’s not his hand. Three silver rings shine up at him, and he remembers those rings. They were on the hands that gripped the steering wheel of the Supra outside the hotel. The man shakes his head, and the terror in his eyes is palpable. How can he feel this in a dream? He’s not even him.
“Do you remember me?”
Now his look changes to confusion, but it slowly turns to realization as his eyes adjust to being awake.
“Yes, you do. Your nose is healed, and your bruises are gone, but…you won’t be so lucky this time.”
If he wanted to, he could throw Heecheol (Seungmin?) right off of him, but he doesn’t dare when the sharp point of a knife is already drawing blood from his throat. His full weight is on him, and his legs are squeezing hard into his sides, making it hard for him to take a breath.
“I promised my girl I’d kill anyone that touched her, and I’m taking care of that tonight..better late than never. Look at me.”
The man’s eyes squeeze shut, and Heecheol feels the anger rise up in him.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
He mumbles a please, and squeezes out a tear, I’m sorry, and his eyes finally open.
The knife slides smoothly across his throat, and the blood flows. Heecheol’s nose fills with the coppery scent, almost chokes him, but his hands aren’t finished. The knife moves to the other side, just below his jaw, and slices again. He watches as his pupils dilate and contract, over and over as everything leaves him, and when he finally stops moving and the light appears to extinguish, he feels something warm move through him. He feels a twinge in his stomach, and maybe something more between his legs. Is this getting him off?
“That’s better…”
His dream self sighs, and Heecheol feels the release of breath as his eyes open, but he chokes on it and coughs until he sits up and manages to catch his breath. His own breath, in his own body. No rings on his fingers, no knife in his hand…no blood, except the smell. A drop of bright red falls on his good wrist, and then another as his nose starts to bleed. If that was a dream, it was the worst one yet. Heecheol checks the time on his phone, 4 am, and he decides the only solution is another type of drink.
When midnight rolls around, and then 2:30…and then 5am, it gets a little bit harder to keep your panic down. Seungmin hasn’t called to tell you everything is okay, and you know he would find a phone if he could. Do his fugue states last this long? Do they last days? You’re not even sure that’s what this is, because he’s never done it aside from his disappearance in the woods, but of course it’s a possibility…especially considering his state of mind last night. Cold-shouldering him is hanging too heavy over you now. Did he deserve that?
“Hi, joeun achimieyo.” Haneul wakes up first, followed quickly by his brother. “Do you boys wanna take a little walk?” It’s not quite feeding time, so first a diaper change, and then a second time breaking out the stroller. “I should be mad at him all over again for leaving me alone, but you two are so good. Thank you for being so good.”
The elevator ride, despite no interruptions this early in the morning, is slow, and you can’t help but imagine him waiting for you when the doors finally slide open. It’s a nice daydream, seeing him and his bandaged forehead, his hopefully evenly buzzed head…what a good look while he wanders the city. Nobody is there, though, no cute k-drama moment. All you’re greeted with is an empty lobby, but the sun is rising, and the light is just making it in, and that isn't a bad sight. It’s warm already—29° according to your phone. Maybe not the worst time to venture outside. “Field trip, guys?” Both of them look at you with Seungmin's big dark eyes and it pulls at something in your stomach; twists it into that homesick feeling you hate, but are still so grateful to feel for him.
It’s quiet outside. There is some traffic, but little foot traffic aside from you and a few very early risers. Typically, you’re not one of them, so being up and outside right now feels a little bit like a dream. “Oh, we can go in here!” The GS25 where you met him. It glows in the early dawn light, and when the doors slide open, the cool air moves across your face—it begs you to come in.. “I am pretty hungry.” The older woman behind the counter looks up from her magazine, and to your surprise, her face lights up. It’s the stroller, of course—she’s certainly not that pleased to see you, or any other customer.
“Joeun achimieyo.” She raises herself up a little to get a better look, and whispers, “ssangdungi?”
The quiet inside is a little eerie, but not enough to turn around and leave. Besides, you haven’t had a convenience store snack in weeks, and now you’re craving something. “Ne, ssangdungi.” Something about twins, especially tiny ones like them, never fails to grab attention. You'll have to get used to that. A moment later, music starts playing softly overhead, and you recognize the song. It’s on the playlist you made—some of your favorites, some of his. This is one that reminds you of him.
“Agideureun jameul jal ssu opsseumnida?”
It takes a moment, but she’s patient. “Uh…no…jameul jal ssu omneun goseun naya.”
“Maybe…” she starts, struggling the same as you, “some milk and snack.”
Seungmin is somewhere between sleep and consciousness. He’s floating, he thinks, and he doesn’t like it, because his eyes are wide open and seeing everything much too clearly. The sky above him is the darkest blue, splashed with stars, but no moon; beneath him is the forest floor, and right in the center of the clearing, a yin yang.
“What…” Speaking doesn’t feel right. “What is that?” Is that what I sound like?
He looks back to the sky and counts the stars directly above him, bukdu chilseong, and wonders if he should will himself back to earth. He doesn’t want to go down there, but he can’t stay here, either. Two feet on the ground is the only way he’s going to get home.
Okay, down…please.” Seungmin closes his eyes and imagines himself drifting downward, but he isn’t sure it’s working until he feels the grass between his fingers. Now open your eyes and deal with whatever is waiting for you here. That part is difficult. As hard as he tries to be brave for himself and for you, he’s terrified of It and what it might be capable of. Luckily, all he smells is forest—good, living forest. Fresh dirt and flowers. And then the unexpected smell of dog’s breath. His eyes pop open, and a long tongue slides across his cheek.
“Wah…ah, what the fuck? Where did…”
The black dog stares him down with eyes the same shade as his, tongue still out and hanging to the side. Its long legs shift, one paw moves up and back, and then the other as it adjusts its long body into a comfortable position. Now it just sits there and stares. The white one is directly behind him, still curled up and, he thinks, sleeping. The other half of the yin yang he spotted from above.
“Hi, uhm…do you have a name?” Does he think the dog is going to talk to him? “Do you want something from me? From us?"
No answer, but a grumble that definitely feels annoyed. If this is a dream, and it has to be a dream, then the dogs should be able to talk to him. Can you hear my thoughts? It’s worth a shot…
The dog stands again, and now the white one wakes and makes eye contact.
I’ll take that as a yes. Why are you following us around? You’re scaring my wife.
They might be able to hear him, but they still don’t respond.
Are you good? I don’t fear you like I fear the—
A bark cuts him off, and then a grumble. The dog advances, but slowly, as if they know they might scare Seungmin, but he’s still as a cold nose examines him a little more.
You are good? Both of you? Yeah, you come together, just like my twins.
The white one looks back again, closes its eyes, and yawns. The black one sits and lowers its head in what what appears to be submission.
Why can’t you speak to me?
A car alarm pulls him out of the comfort of his dream, and he opens his eyes to something far from the dogs and their forest. A side street, an overflowing garbage can, and him slumped in the corner where he assumes he passed out. Luckily, it’s still mostly dark, because Seungmin smells the scent of blood before he looks down at himself. His, or someone else’s? He feels intact, and as he stands up slowly, the only thing not quite right is the pins and needles going through his left arm. He drops the knife in his hand, touches his forehead and feels nothing but raw, warm bloody skin. The other hand slides over his shaved head, and he starts to remember. “What did I do?” He whispers, and as he looks down at his blood soaked shirt, the buzz in his brain returns.
I think he’s waking up
It gets worse. His left eyes goes dark, and blinking just makes it worse. Both eyes stop working, and no matter how hard he digs his knuckles in and rubs, the nothingness persists. “I can’t see…I can’t see!”
please relax
“Relax?” How can he relax with blackness all around him and hands gripping his shoulders. Pushing him down. Whose voice is in his head this time?
open your eyes, please relax and look at me…we’re just trying to help
He’s so afraid of opening them and seeing nothing; of never seeing your face again, but he listens and opens them one more time. A burning white light and shadows moving back forth, side to side…that’s what he sees this time. Is that better, or worse? “Where am I, who are you?”
"I’m Dr. Lim…Seungmin-ssi? Do you remember…"
“Doctor? Where’s Tokki?”
“Tokki? First let’s figure out exactly who you are.”
“I can’t see…”
“You can…” her voice lowers, “Pupils are dilated and responsive to light.” And then she returns, a few inches from his face. “Just relax and take a few deep breaths. You’re safe here, I assure you. Just in shock.”
Everything starts to come into focus. The room, the bright light shining down on him, his ripped shirt, and… “what the fuck?” A handcuff is tight around his left wrist, securing him to the bed railing. “Please, what’s happening? I need to call her, where’s my phone?” He feels around with his free hand, but there is no phone in his pocket, and no wallet or keys. “I need my phone.”
“All of your belongings are safe. And you had no phone on you when you arrived, just a wallet, and...”
“How did I get here?”
“A shop owner found you passed out next to his garbage, and an ambulance brought you in. You’ve only been here for about fifteen minutes.”
The handcuff, much too tight, brings up too many memories. “Why am I cuffed to the bed?”
The doctor finally comes into focus. Seungmin can make out her young face, her round glasses, and her tired eyes. Shelooks like she’s already over Seungmin’s hysterics. “Well, you’re covered in blood, and you had a knife in your hand. We are being extra cautious, because that much blood should not have come from that wound on your forehead. Did you cut yourself?”
A nurse walks in and he hears the distinct click of a cops two-way radio. She whispers something to the doctor, but Seungmin catches it. Psych is here.
You’ll love this, being thrown into more drama when you’ve already had enough at home. There isn’t much you can do with your limited Korean and even more limited knowledge of what he was doing before this, but he needs you here with him. “Can I please call my wife? Can someone call her?”
“Try this.” The woman heads to the endless rows of cold drinks and picks one out. “Chocolate. And, and…” now she slowly makes her way to the snacks. It seems like she’s trying to get a feel for you—trying to read your mind and guess what you might like.
“Cream bun?”
She nods and hands you one, chocolate flavor again. Not a bad pick, even if you do still remember throwing one up before you found out you were pregnant.
“Nampyoni dambaereul kkeunonnayo?”
“Nampyoni…” the rest doesn’t translate, and she can tell. “Jwesonghaeyo …I’m sorry.” A wave and laugh puts you at ease, though.
“Your husband quit smoking? He bought his cigarettes from me…before.”
“Oh, yes.” Did he? He still has a pack in his drawer, but you haven’t seen him smoke (or smell it on him) in a very long time. The question takes you back in time to your meeting on the sidewalk. Seungmin had a fresh cigarette between his lips when you walked by, head forward but eyes stuck on him. “Mostly.” You may have been in here with him once or twice, and she remembers.
“He must be sleeping.”
“No, but he…he’s sick.”
He’s left in silence as the hour passes, but eventually he can hear someone right outside the curtain; static and mumbles on his radio, the squeak of his shoes. The cop is back. These handcuffs belong to him, and he has the key, but it doesn’t matter…they have Seungmin’s ID, his knife. What did he get himself into? “Hello…excuse me…can I—"
The cop peers in and narrows his eyes.
“What day is it? What time?”
He looks at his watch. “6am, it’s the 17th.”
“Okay, I lost a day,” he mumbles under his breath. “A whole fucking day.” The stitches in his forehead itch, and he wonders if whoever did them did half as well as Heecheol. He’s out of the bloody shirt, probably taken as possible evidence until they realize that can’t keep him here, in an emergency room, for being covered in blood. That’s what he’s hoping…no surprise dead body.
Minnie?
Your voice is so soft and far away, it might be in his head. Seungmin closes his eyes and listens for you again, but he’s left with his own unsure thoughts. The doctor didn’t take a phone number from him, so there’s no way for you to know where he is. You’re home, worried and afraid; he’s here…worried and afraid. It’s difficult for him to admit that, to speak it (think it) out loud and into the universe, but he is. No more brave face, and no more being strong for you and the boys. Seungmin is scared. Helpless. Caught, maybe. Trapped, yes.
“Excuse me?” This time, his voice shakes, but the cop hears him. “Can I please give someone a phone number?”
“Not my job.”
He looks around for a call button, and he finds it, but he’s not sure anyone will bother with it. The emergency room is getting busier, and he’s not really a priority until they can send him away with the police.
The sound of his name perks him up until he realizes it’s just the voice of another doctor, but at least he won’t be sitting in here, stewing in the worst possible scenarios.
“Kim Seungmin…can you tell me your date of birth?”
September twenty-second, two thousand.”
“Can you tell me what medications you’re currently on?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“The on-call psychiatrist. I noticed nobody had asked or filled out medical history yet, but I suppose you did just wake up. Are you on any medications?”
Lying crosses his mind. “Yes.” But only briefly. He doesn’t need more meds pushed into him. Haldol, 2 milligrams twice a day.”
“Who prescribes it and why?”
“Dr. Mun Ji-Youn. For, uh, schizoaffective disorder.”
“Have you lapsed in taking it recently, or stopped completely?”
“I’ve been taking it every day for the last month, maybe longer. I’m not sure. If someone would call my wife…”
“And have you ever experienced time loss or memory loss while taking Haldol?”
Too many questions. He doesn’t want to do this right now. A headache is pulsing behind his eyes, and the constant pressure on his wrist makes him want to scream. “I’m not answering any more questions until someone listens to me.”
“I understand you’re upset, but it’s important that I know this information. Please.”
Seungmin goes quiet. It’s not that important, or it doesn’t seem like it is. The only thing he’s concerned about is you, the boys, and whatever the police might try to pin on him. And just like that, with the stomach-churning thought in his head, two more cops appear outside of his curtain. Three identical pairs of shoes all convene in a circle as the voice of the psychiatrist drones on in the background. “Why are there more?”
“More what, Seungmin?”
“Cops. There are three out there now. Why?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but I assume it has something to do with why you’re handcuffed to the bed. I understand you were unconscious when you arrived, and the doctor hasn’t ruled out a head injury. But there are no open beds in neuro right now.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of beds open on your floor.”
“We have one. You need a ct scan before you go anywhere, but I would like you to take that bed.”
“Seems like everyone else is gunning for a prison cell.”
The doctor fidgets uncomfortably, then decides to take a seat. He’s closer than he should be, probably, but maybe he doesn’t think Seungmin is as dangerous as everyone else seems to. He clicks the pen…twice, three times, before he starts to scribble on his clipboard, and Seungmin catches a few lines of his neat handwriting:
Suspected self harm to head and chest; suspected harm of another individual. His newest note; police are making him nervous.
“I didn’t do anything. I just want to go home to my wife and kids.”
“You have children?”
Seungmin feels a hitch in his chest before he even starts to speak. “Yes, two boys.” And he has to hold himself together now that he’s seeing their faces in his head. “They just came home from the hospital a few days ago. I really need to get home to them.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure I can contact anyone, considering the circumstances, but…”
“This can’t be allowed. I can’t be treated like a criminal unless there’s a…a real reason.”
Before the doctor can get his next words out, the curtain is pushed all the way open. Now Seungmin can see most of the room he’s in; the nurses station, where everyone not immediately busy is staring at him, and two of the three cops. They’re shoulder to shoulder, and one is holding the keys to his handcuffs. For the briefest moment, he thinks everything might be alright. The cop is going to free his wrist and he can relax a little bit.
Seungmin holds his breath as the cop approaches, but the key slides into the cuff attached to the bed, not his wrist.
“Get up.”
“What’s going on?” The buzzing in his head starts as soon as the words come from his mouth. Seungmin is forced to his feet as the other cop starts telling him what he’s suspected of doing, that he has the right to council, and that he can choose to speak in defense of himself or remain silent. Something like that. He can’t even catch a breath, let alone make sense of him firing off bullet points while both of his wrists are pulled behind his back. “Please. I didn’t do anything.”
The walk helped, somehow, and when your head hits the pillow again, you’re out. The dream seems to come to life immediately, but you’ve gotten good at taking control of them. Somewhere toward the end of your pregnancy, you became more lucid each time. Right now you’re wondering if Seungmin is sharing this dream with you; a clear, starry sky, a pretty forest filled with wildflowers, and the dogs…chasing each other in circles, playing in a clearing ahead of you. They seem so innocent from here. So sweet and a little bit ethereal. Every time you’ve seen them in the house, you were too scared to really look at them, but now you see them. They move like water. Or fire. They’re pretty. They don’t scare you here.
A scream brings you back in an instant. You know that scream.
“Haneul?” Lifting yourself out of it is still just as challenging, but his cries get you there quickly, and little brother follows a moment later. “Everything is alright, it’s just the alarm.” Or you think it is in your half sleep. This time, your phone is ringing, and you turned the volume all the way up just in case he called. The number comes up with a caller ID, but it’s a name you don’t recognize: Dr. Lee Dae-hyun.
A trembling finger swipes to pick up, “h-he…uh, yeoboseyo.”
“Am I speaking to—?”
Hearing your full name makes your stomach lurch. “Yes. Is he okay?”
“Are you family of Kim Seungmin? Are you his wife?”
“Yes, yes…please tell me he’s alright.”
“Your husband was brought into my hospital this morning…”
And the urge to vomit hits immediately. “Please tell me he's alright.” Your knees hit the floor, and despite the boys’ cries, you can’t move.
“Oh, he’s alright. I’m sorry. He’s alive and uninjured, mostly.”
“Oh my, I thought…fuck, he’s alive.” There’s a long moment of silence as you lift yourself off the floor and stumble to the cots. “Is he there with you? Can I please talk to him?”
“No. He was taken into custody by the police about an hour ago. I don’t know much else. It took me some time to track you down.”
“What do I do? I’m not sure what to do, I can barely speak Korean. How am I supposed to help him?” Another long silence. You think you can hear the doctor mumbling to himself, probably wondering who he can hand you off to so he can get back to his real job. “Where did they take him?”
“I’m not sure, but I would guess the police station in Mapo. Do you have any friends who can help you?”
Just one. “Uhm, maybe.” Of course Heecheol will help Seungmin, but if he wasn’t suspicious before, he certainly will be if you talk to him about this.
“I know you have two very young babies to care for as well, he mentioned that. I can hear them. I’m sorry if I woke them."
“No, thank you so much for calling me.”
The situation he is in now has haunted him a few times since the first night he killed, but never enough to stop him. How could he stop? If something could have changed the wiring of his brain, it obviously wasn’t the threat of prison. The voices taunting him were far, far worse than this. Were. Being away from you is worse than the voices; worse than It.
idiot, so stupid…how could you be so careless and get caught?
Your voice.
His mind is switching between nothing and everything. The adrenaline is making it worse. There’s nothing, just him. No voices. “Please, please not now.”
not now? I’m always in here, waiting
Seungmin raises his head just enough to see eyes looking back at him in the rearview mirror. The cop in the drivers seat looks at him with disdain, and then he hears one whisper to the other... "Geuneun michosso."
do you even know what you did?
Heecheol’s voice.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.” He whispers. He’s been on the verge of tears from the moment he was shoved into the police car, and he’s beginning to think the drive will never end. Maybe they’re taking him in circles just to watch him squirm a little more, or admit to something he doesn’t know. “I still haven’t been told why I was arrested.”
“Yes you have, you weren’t listening.” The cop in the passenger seat is clearly out of patience. “You’re being arrested for suspicion of destruction of property, breaking and entering, and theft. Did you hear me that time?”
The feeling slowly returns to his body. His racing heart finally calms. “Y-yes. I heard you.” Not murder. Not suspicion of murder. They didn’t find a body, if there is a body, at least not yet. “Can I—”
“Quiet.”
Seungmin listens. He goes silent, but his head doesn’t.
they’re going to fingerprint you, they might even collect your dna…don’t get too comfortable you little brat
Stepfather’s voice.
finally, some real punishment
They have to let him call you eventually.
Heecheol will help, but you can’t get your finger to hit the call button on Seungmin’s phone. Do you really want to risk them becoming even more tangled up in the string connecting them? It’s selfish, and the fleeting moment of distrust you feel in him makes your stomach hurt. You do trust him, with everything, but maybe you can do this on your own. What you can’t do is take the boys with you.
The bus route stops just a few blocks from the station Dr. Lee assumed he would be at, so that’s where you head first. The station is much bigger than you envisioned, so him being held here isn’t the stretch of the imagination it was before. Despite the chaos of your young life, and the stupidity of your early twenties, you never once saw the inside of a jail cell, or even a police station, so doing this on your own in a foreign country is probably a silly idea.
“Jega jom dowa deurilkkayo?”
The young cop behind the desk smiles, and when he looks up at you, you’re surprised to see his smile grow even more.
“Ne, chatkko itsseu—”
“Ah, can I help you with something miss?” He cuts you off mid sentence to switch to English, and his smiles fades when your face grows serious. “Mianhaeyo.”
“I’m looking for someone. Kim Seungmin.”
“Kim Seungmin,” he puts his nose into his paperwork in search of the name. “Kim…Seung…Min. Yes. He was booked about two hours ago. Are you immediate family?”
“Nan geue anaeda. Can I see him?”
“Have a seat. I’ll have someone come out and speak to you.”
That seems reasonable. You thank him and head for a row of chairs, all empty, luckily. The last thing you want to deal with right now is other people, but you don’t sit there long enough to check up on the boys. Another cop, older and more serious, makes his way toward you a few moments later
“You must be the rabbit he keeps crying about.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Follow me.”
The cop is being dramatic, but if Seungmin has been crying for you, you’re not sure you’re prepared to see him like that. The last twenty-four hours have been difficult without him; the strong one. Seungmin is your protector, but now that role has been flipped, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. “Why is he being held here? And can I take him home?”
“That’s not up to me. The judge that issued the warrant has to grant him bail.”
Bail? For murder? Not likely. Seungmin might not be coming home with you today, tomorrow…in a week. You feel like giving in to the tremble of your entire body, throwing up what little you have in your stomach, until you turn a corner and finally see his face. His beautiful face; red and puffy from crying. His hair is still a little uneven and the cut on his forehead is stitched up, but uncovered and angry looking. You have to wonder if the hospital treated him with any sort of compassion, especially if he came in under strange circumstances. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so tired and defeated, and you can’t even comfort him properly.
“You’re here, how did you know I was here?” His voice is scratchy and nearly gone. “They wouldn’t let me call you.”
“It’s alright, Minnie. I found you.”
“No touching. Five minutes.”
But the cop walks away, leaving you mostly alone. You’re left with only the prying eyes of a few fellow prisoners, who you don't notice until after the cop closes the door behind him...so, Seungmin cried and begged for you despite them. You reach out and set your hand over his—leaving here without touching him isn't going to happen. “A doctor from the hospital you were at told me you might be here, but he didn’t say why. Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m okay, just sore.”
The twitch in his arm makes you think withdrawal from his meds is pretty likely, and you didn’t think to bring any with you. They've gotten worse every time he's stopped and started again. “I’m trying really hard to stay calm, but I might be rejecting reality right now, or something. I can’t be without you, so I refuse to believe anything bad will happen to us.”
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He breathes deep and sighs. There might be the smallest hint of a grin on his lips, and looks around to ensure nobody is within earshot. “I don’t think they have much on me, unless they lied to me. Maybe we can go home soon.”
“They don’t?”
Seungmin knows the look you’re giving him. It’s full of doubt, and that’s despite the attempt at rejecting reality and staying positive. “Destruction of property, breaking and entering…theft, for some reason. I have no idea why, though.”
“How did you end up at the hospital?”
“I don’t know. I woke up from a dream, but then I woke up again...from another dream, I think. And I was handcuffed to a hospital bed, covered in blood. They stitched my forehead…” The strain in his voice gets worse as he speaks, and he begins to choke on his words. “My head hurts. Everything hurts. I wanna go home.”
“Everything will be okay, I promise.” Tears start falling down his cheeks and over his pouting lips. He’s never looked and felt so innocent before. You’re getting another glimpse of the little boy before he realized he was a killer. “You’re gonna get some sleep, and you’ll feel much better soon. Did they give you antibiotics?”
Seungmin shrugs as the cop returns too early. “No touching!”
“Can I post bail?”
“The judge went home for the day, so you’ll have to wait until morning and hope he wakes up in a good mood.”
It’s barely noon, and you have to leave him. You fully expected to go home without him on the bus ride here, even rejecting reality, but it still feels like a punch to the throat. “Can I please get his medication and bring it back down.”
The cop looks Seungmin over, sneers, stitches his brows together, so you can only assume he knows what meds he needs and why. Denying him his antipsychotic would be stupid, and he knows that.
“Make sure it’s in the prescription bottle with his name on it.”
Riding away might have hurt a little less if you could have kissed him. Just another eighteen hours, that’s all that sits between you…one more day. Maybe painting something will occupy your mind enough and make the time move a little easier—a finished portrait for him to come home to, a good breakfast, a comfortable bed. If not for being stuck in public, you would let some angry tears fall, but you manage to bite your trembling lip and hold it all in.
The bus drops you off two blocks from home, so the beacon-like glow of the GS25 finds you again. Of course you want to go in, but the sweet old woman probably isn’t manning the register this time. And the boys are waiting for you, hungry and cranky. Your mother made no fuss about watching them (but of course you didn’t tell her why you had to leave so suddenly, and why dad wasn’t there). She didn’t look up from her book when you flew into grab his meds, check on the sleeping boys, and leave again.
I’ll only be a few minutes, you think, and the cool air on your face wakes you from wherever you were on the ride here…thinking about your mom, the boys; worrying about how uncomfortable and alone Seungmin is; the dream of the forest.
Dasi annyong…
The old woman is behind the counter again, looking much more tired, as if she never left. Her white hair is pulled into the same bun as before, but it's starting to break free, and the wisps of strands give her a strange crown. “Oh, annyonghaseyo! You’re still here.”
“Yojonhi yogi. Did you return for more dessert?”
“Maybe. Or a coffee.”
Her eyes follow your every move as you scan the drinks. “Something is weighing you down.” She taps her acrylic nails on the counter. “But...”
The tone of her voice changes enough to make you stop what you’re doing and look. “Mworago?” But it’s still her.
"Why did you come here?"
Here, as in the convenience store? Perhaps she's asking why you came to Seoul, of all the places in the world. She can see your face, and hear you accent as you struggle to communicate, so she knows you're a long way from home.
“I see so much in your eyes—grief, happiness, anger, confusion…so much turmoil, no idea which way to turn.”
How do you respond to that? You’re obviously not masking as well as you thought, and were it not for the boys, you’d be heading straight for the alcohol. There is no numbing the sadness anymore. “I’m…” Fine? The furthest thing from it. A few days ago, you felt like you had the world in your hands. You did. “I’m—”
“I wish I could tell you things will get better, but I can’t see past it.”
"See past what?"
“There is something in the way.”
*
The apartment is too quiet, but pleasantly warm and fragrant from your growing moonflowers. It’s found a way up and around the window, and you can see new tendrils reaching out, looking for something else to hold onto. It needs a trellis. Seungmin will put one there if you ask him to, and he’ll be back soon to do it—he’ll be back to take care of the broken bathroom mirror, and to see his brand new music box.
The continued silence is concerning, though. “Mom?” A humming sound, a song, becomes more distinct as you get closer to the nursery. Your mother isn’t much of a singer, but it’s been a while since she was in the presence of an infant. Maybe something about them is softening her up. The hum doesn’t stop when you twist the knob and push. You sigh with relief and feel the growing panic leave your body. She’s here, standing in front of the crib, and you hear Haneul begin to fuss as you approach. “Hey, I’ll get us lunch as soon…uhm,” she doesn’t move when you speak, she doesn’t even seem to hear you. You worry briefly about what story to tell her, because she’s going to ask where Seungmin is. Still, she doesn’t budge. You move a few steps closer and see Haesung in the other crib. Both of them seem fine. “Mom…” It’s the way she feels when you reach out and touch her arm; the way she doesn’t react, or move. It’s her face when you finally see her. Eyes wide and unmoving, dilated pupils, the slight tremble of her lower lip. She’s looking straight ahead at the mural, and there is no awareness of you standing right next to her. “Mother!”
"We lost the house."
There's little concern or sadness in her voice, despite the obvious serious nature of that statement. "What? What are you talking about?" Before you got on your plane to Seoul, your mother and little sister were living comfortably in a very small house in Racine, Ohio. A house you helped them buy. Is that why she flew all the way here, because she had nowhere else to go? If so, you wonder where you sister is.
She's still staring wide-eyed at the wall. “Huh…what, oh you’re back. I just changed them and put them down for a nap. I guess they’re not very tired.”
Haneul is still crying, and you know that’s his wet diaper cry. They've been here for hours. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is your husband home in one piece? He seems like a handful.”
Concern quickly turns to something else. It takes no time for her to snap back to her normal, inconsiderate self. She must be forgetting who's paying the bill for her hotel room. “Seungmin is not a handful. And he’s been nothing but kind and welcoming to you since you’ve been here…” You push past and take Haneul into your arms. “He’s still at the hospital. You can leave. Thank you for watching them.”
Being away from you is so much harder than he expected, and as he lies awake in his new cell (alone, thankfully), he wonders what’s going through your mind at this very moment. Do you hate him for getting himself into so much trouble? Not just trouble, no, this is bigger than that. Just like the kiss, this should have you seeing red, but sadness, not anger, seems to latch onto you and hold tight. And then he remembers something that he keeps forgetting—he’s your husband. You filled out some paperwork, signed it, and bound yourself to him by law. But the two of you are bound by something bigger than anything temporal. The stars and planets came together the morning you met, and Seungmin laughs and rolls his eyes at himself when he thinks it. He thinks about it all the time, though.
He reaches upward and looks at his fingers, spreads them so the fluorescent light shines through each one. They took his rings when he got booked, one of those was the wedding band you picked out for him, and his stomach turns from missing it. He can handle this, though. This cell is just another version of the shed where he spent so many nights, and he survived that.
His mind remains full of you to keep the memories at arms length; conversations he could redo, and do better; things he could say that he’s still so afraid to speak out loud; taking you in as you sleep…your scent and the way you breath when you’re somewhere else. Seungmin does eventually fall asleep when the adrenaline finally wears off, and he dreams…
he hums a song that he's never finished, and slowly, the words start to come. they float up toward the sky he’s staring at.
...and I don't know what I'm cryin' for…I don't think I could love you more…
overcast, steel grey…it’s pretty, but a little gloomy. seungmin prefers a blue sky and big fluffy clouds, with the sun peeking out just enough to give the flowers what they need. the sky right before a storm, seungmin thinks, is your style.
soft footsteps quiet him. he holds his breath, and for a long moment, he doesn’t want to look to his right. who else could be here, in the middle of this clearing?
"minnie, what are you doing out here all by yourself?”
is it really you? he never dreams about you. “dream?” it comes out when he finally releases his breath. “am I dreaming?”
“are you?” a hand sets gently on his forehead, a thumb runs down and back up the soft curve of his nose, across his brow—a touch meant to tell him it’s you. a touch just to touch, to feel him and know he’s real. “I am.”
seungmin sits up, and the trees move in the breeze like water. “I never get to see you in my dreams.”
“maybe because I’m always right next to you.”
it takes him a moment to remember. “I’m not home, I’m not in bed with you.”
“why here?” you look around at the forest surrounding you, and a quick flash of white runs through the trees. “it doesn’t matter, I guess. I followed the sound until I found you.”
“sound?”
“the song you were humming, and then singing…”
he blushes, but why? you’ve heard him sing before…but that song is different. “I’m glad you found me.”
“yeah, I was feeling pretty lonely after the boys fell asleep.”
the grass is softer when his back hits it again. “are you in my dream, or am I in yours?”
“not sure. both?”
he feels every nerve catch fire when your lips touch his, but then it’s gone, and all he can feel is a ringing in his head.
The silence of his cell is disturbed by a brand new neighbor being locked in. The clang of metal vibrates in his chest, but it quiets almost immediately and his mind is left to think back on the dream. The moment his eyes close again, sleep finds him, you’re gone, and the rest of the night is dreamless.
The next thing Seungmin sees is a thin line of light coming in through the small window above him, and the next thing he feels is an ache in his chest. Each deep breath stings, so he flips to his back and focuses on pulling air into his stomach (like umma always told him when he was anxious), and it helps a little.
ireona…ireona
Despite the cop loudly milling down the corridor, the memory of the dream comes back, and it starts to ache in a new way. Are you already on your way to him? Hopefully—he needs to see you. He has questions.
“You! Kim…Seungmin.”
“Yes?”
A new one shows up and looks over his clipboard, and he takes his time. The papers fly up and down, as if the information isn’t right where it was a moment ago, and then the other cop interrupts to bullshit with him. Seungmin is quickly becoming impatient, but he continues to breathe deep and wait. No good will come from pissing them off.
“You’re being moved to Incheon detention center.”
“Moved…why? Has anyone come to post bail?”
“Bail? Oh, right. There was a young woman making a fuss right before I left. I remember her saying your name.”
He can feel his body going cold. “She came to take me home. There is no proof of—”
“Proof? Oh, we took your prints yesterday.” The cop lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers. “Did you forget?”
Inside he’s screaming, but he can’t let it show. “So?”
One of them snickers, the other nudges him. “It doesn’t say that, Bo-hyun. Hurry up, I want some breakfast.”
Seungmin hears every word and is still so confused. “What about my fingerprints?” The cop not holding the clipboard shakes his head and laughs as he goes for his keys. He’s opening it, and Seungmin is unsure what happens after this.
“You’re free to go, follow me.”
“I am?”
His body feels light again, but his stomach is still churning. Just a cruel, shitty joke between cops concerning his fate. Why should they care if inside he's falling apart? So no detention center. You must be out there, here to take him home, and the walk to his belongings is a long one. There’s more paperwork before he sees you, because the charges against him were dropped for insufficient evidence. The shopkeeper is the one that tried to pin something on him, and it didn't work. This was all a massive inconvenience and a really bad time, and god, he didn’t think he could miss someone, aside from his mother, the way he misses you right now. You’re moments away from him and standing here waiting for a few stamped papers and a nod is excruciating.
Clearly you got tired of waiting, too. It’s the back of you he sees as soon as the last door opens, slumped forward in the chair, head in your hands. Your hair is pulled into a tight braid, just long enough to reach the your back, and the naked curve of your neck and shoulders, the way you grab and squeeze your muscles in frustration as he approaches, perks him up a little more…you don’t typically leave the house showing so much skin, so it must be hot already. Seungmin can’t wait to take you home and kiss you there.
“Hey,” he whispers when he’s close enough to touch. You jump, and Seungmin can’t help but laugh. “Hi, love.” He catches a glimpse of two sleepy faces as you grip him with a not unusual sense of desperation. Seungmin has made you worry far too much over the last eight months, but he feels some of it leave your body when you touch him. “I missed you so much.”
The apartment feels different as soon he closes the door behind him, but you don’t seem to notice. You’re already occupied with freeing them from the confines of the stroller because they’re both starting get cranky from the heat. Seungmin thinks you might be, too. Tired, hot, and maybe not in the mood to deal with him no matter how relieved you are that he’s home safe.
Maybe he’s just projecting. “Do you need—”
“You should get cleaned up. I’m sure you feel awful after all of this.”
Two nights away; one on the street, the other in prison, is not good for his typical high maintenance needs. He wants you with him, but your stern face isn’t going away. “Would it be okay if I brought the boys in? After I shower, I mean.” You look at him, and a smile twitches on your lips. “For a bath.” Seungmin can feel himself getting softer every day, more passive. Obedient, even. He hasn’t made a journal entry since they came home, and his fingers are itching to get the mess of thoughts down.
“Yeah, they’ve missed you.”
Whatever strange connection you have with them seems to grow stronger each day, too, so he believes it. “You were in my dream last night.”
“Good.”
*
Seungmin sings to each boy as they lie on his chest. First Haesung, who gets a lullaby you’ve never heard before. It’s simple, but in his voice, it’s much more special. Haneul is wide awake and ready when it’s his turn, and his song starts as a hum. The words come to him slowly, and they’re barely more than a whisper…
“I know this song.” You lie your head on the edge of the tub and stare at him. Seungmin looked different in the dream—his hair was like it was before, and his forehead was smooth and uninjured. The eyes were the same; big and sad, like two dark pools of ink. Being away from him felt unnatural, and having him back is a relief you can’t explain.
“You do?”
You nod, but offer no explanation.
“It’s mine. It’s unfinished, but I don’t think I’ve ever sung it for you. Have I?”
“Last night, just a little bit. I want to hear it again.”
Last night. He wasn’t with you last night, and he can’t remember singing anything anyway. Your smile says otherwise. “Huh?” He loves your laugh, and sometimes he thinks he can hear your accent in it. “I’m confused.”
“Sing for us, please.”
He wants to, and he’s gotten used to singing for someone other than himself, but he still feels a slow warmth move over his entire naked body. First, he hums again, and he wonders if his voice will fall flat when he starts. His most important audience is here with him, and he wants it to be perfect. I want you to stay…
You sit up straight when his voice hits your ears.
Til I’m in the grave…until I rot away, dead and buried, until I’m in the casket you carry...
He stops to lift Haneul higher on his chest, to sneak a glance at you.
If you go, I’m goin too, cause it was always you…and if I’m turning blue, please don’t—
“Stop."
…save me.
A long silence hangs between you, until Seungmin starts again.
Nothin left to lose without my baby
Another long silence. Haesung is in your arms now, his face buried against your chest. You bury yours against him and try to regain some composure. “Please don’t leave again.”
“I won’t.” How can he possibly promise that? “I won’t, Tokki, I promise.”
*
“Where’s your lock picking set?”
Caging him up might be more simple than you expected, but there is no room for trial and error. Step one: a new padlock. It was the best one you could find—"unpick-able", according to the internet, but you don’t believe that. It’s already secured to the front door, locked with the rest of his security measures. Step two: hide everything from him. The keys, of course. You consider wearing them around your neck, but that would be too easy for him. The keys, his lock picking set, and the two screwdrivers in the house are somewhere only you know, but him finding them is still a possibility. Neither of you are sure how lucid he is when he wanders.
“I don’t know. The hospital took it, but I don’t think they gave it to the police. Or my knife.”
“They didn’t give evidence to the police?”
Seungmin shrugs.
“Oh well, even better.”
“I liked that knife.”
“Do you want—” Cuffed to the bed. No. You stop yourself just in time. He told you every detail he could remember from the moment he woke up in that hospital bed, and the bruises on his wrist are slowly growing. “We’ll lock this door, too. I’ll keep the key on me.”
He laughs at that, and you know why.
all he can see is a long row of cigarettes. several rows, perfectly lined up. just the sigh of them brings the memory of the smell and the cool burn in his throat, but when he reaches out for his usual pack, it’s suddenly behind a glass case. the pain in his fingers feels very real.
“you ready?”
me? he turns and faces the cashier; an older woman with a paperback in hand. “me?"
“there’s nobody else in here, honey”
“right…just a pack, uhm, the…” he can’t seem to form the words. he can’t even read the hangul on the packs.
“the usual?”
he nods and moves out of her way. why does his head feel empty? oh well. he smacks the pack on the heel of his hand a few times before ripping it open, can’t get it out and lit fast enough, and the first hit tastes as good as he expects. “much better.” everything feels a little clearer. he sucks in another lungful as you appear out of nowhere, like a rip in the universe spat you out just for him. you walk by without a glance in his direction. “hey!”
“oh, there you are. you don’t hold still.”
“what? I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“just stay focused on me.”
he can do that. what else would he focus on? “yeah, okay.” another drag, and though he tries to blow the smoke away from you, the wind brings it right back in your face. “sorry.”
“gimme...” you hold out your hand and wiggle your fingers at him, and a smirk twitches on his lips. he laughs when you take your own drag, hold it for a moment, and slowly let out the apple scented smoke. “still focused?”
seungmin nods happily. “only on you.”
“where do you wanna go?”
“home.”
Two big hazel eyes stare back at him in the dark, shining like he’s never seen before. The glow of the string lights behind him is what he sees, he thinks; a perfect starry reflection of whatever is inside of you.
“Did you have a dream?” You whisper.
The light fades a little when you blink. “Yeah, you were there.” Seungmin pulls his arms close to him, and you come, too. You tied one end of the soft nylon cord to your wrist, and the other end to his. Just another layer of comfort for you. “I can still taste the cigarette.”
“Me too.”
“How did you do that?”
“Practice. It’s kinda scary, though.”
He’s not sure you can give him an actual answer. “Practice? How is it…” Strange things have always happened to him, but you came along and made everything a little bit more strange. “Can you feel yourself doing it? Like, physically?”
“Yeah, it’s like floating, and then it slowly feels more real. The first few times I couldn’t get to you, or speak loud enough for you to hear. But last night…I think the distance made it easier, or maybe my emotions amplified everything.
“I like it.” He tugs the string and pulls you closer before drifting back to sleep.
*
…I think she might be—
He stops to think and glances at your sleeping face. It looks dreamless and happy, but he can’t know for sure.
…special. Well, I knew that, but more than that. Magical? Powerful. Is she like that with everything, or just me? Me and the boys. Maybe that’s why she makes me feel so weak.
When you wake again, Seungmin is up and typing away on his phone. A new journal entry, you think. You can’t see him until he pulls the screen a few more inches from his face, but he’s smiling when he does.
Why was she sent to me?
It’s not something he should be wondering, but Seungmin still knows he doesn’t deserve your love; your kindness; your care and your protection. He’ll never feel truly and completely deserving of the things you give him. If there is something in the universe that listens to prayer, maybe it sent you. If that monster in the woods is real, and those dogs, then maybe God is, too. It could be that all those late night prayers his mother sent into the sky came back down in the form of you.
I can’t let anything happen to her, and that means I can’t let anything happen to me.
“What are you doing, Minnie?”
But your sleepy morning voice, and the look you give him; the sun coming in to catch the green and brown and gold in your eyes—Seungmin would set the world on fire if you asked him to. He would kill. Has he killed for you already? “Just…thinking. Jal jassoyo?”
“Yeah, did you?”
“I did. Are you…does it make you tired? Seems like something that takes a lot of energy.”
“It does, but I’m okay. Did you turn my alarm off?”
He nods with a guilty look on his face. “They ate well.”
The cigarette taste is still on his breath when you kiss him, and you pull him until he wraps himself around you completely. The boys are asleep and comfortable, so you have one thing on your mind. Seungmin is well aware of that before you move a hand across his thigh. He must have been hoping for this, thinking about it, because he’s nowhere close to soft when your fingers touch him. And he moans sweetly in your ear when you start to stroke, slowly and gently.
“What are you in the mood for, hmm?” His whisper is laced with quiet laughter, and his soft kisses grow a little more desperate each time he tastes your skin.
“This…you…everything.”
Seungmin is up and pulling at what little clothing you have on, then dizziness hits—a moment of lightheadedness. It passes quickly, and he wants to ignore it, but you seem to notice. He's surprised at your decision to ignore it as well. It’s a stupid decision, for both of you, but you’re both touch-starved and deprived of each other. He braces himself and grabs your thighs…Seungmin has tunnel vision and all he wants is to look in your eyes and feel himself inside of you. He can taste it already, but the dizziness returns twofold, and then threefold. Everything goes black…again.
it’s a familiar dream, and a familiar feeling. until it's not. he can feel the grass on his back, cold and damp. the smell of pine burns his nostrils and the back of his throat, and if he just keeps his eyes closed, he’ll wake up eventually. a dog barks in the distance, that sweet little daengmo-like bark, and after what feels like hours, he decides it’s time to get up.
it’s exactly what he imagined in his head. the forest. he’s not sure if he’s dreaming, though, because his mind is full of memories. the dream of Heecheol in the woods with him, the kiss, the night he wandered into the woods and scared the hell out of you. no, he just recalls doing it, but not…he stops himself and closes his eyes again.
Seungmin woke up that night and watched you sleep for a long time. ten or fifteen minutes, maybe longer. He kissed your forehead, the tip of your nose, and you didn’t stir one bit. When he rose from the yo, you still didn’t stir. The t-shirt he pulled off before bed is thrown back on as he heads for the door, because he hears something odd. There used to be a flashlight in the kitchen drawer right next to this door, but it’s no longer there, so he can’t see a damn thing when he pulls the curtain aside to look. But he hears it—the sloppy sound of boots, feet…something unsticking from the mud, a grunt that doesn’t seem quite human. Why isn’t he scared? Someone could be out there, and he’s here, unarmed, and the most precious thing in his world is asleep in the next room.
Stepping outside for a better look feels stupid. It is stupid. He slowly twists the deadbolt until it clicks, and it’s unbelievably loud. Another grunt. Just twist the lock again and go to bed, he thinks, bit he doesn’t. Seungmin pulls the door open and is greeted with his backyard, dark and empty and quiet.
“I’m here puppy, I’m so sorry”
“Umma?” He whispers into the cold night air. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“come see me, please”
There is no hesitation as he hops over the threshold and descends the steps. No fear of the dark or of the sounds that came from it, because it’s quiet as he navigates the muddy pathway toward the greenhouse. But he doesn’t quite make it.
“Minnie, come see me”
He stops in front of the shed and feels his stomach churn. Bile and partially digested dinner burns there, and then in his chest as it searches for the fastest route out. “No.” he retches once, and the second time, everything comes out and onto the grass and shed door in front of him. He goes cross-eyed in an attempt to focus, and then the shed door swings ever-so-slightly outward, back and forth, like the wind is catching it just right.
“you will, or I’ll pluck out her eyes”
The voice changes from his mother to the gravelly sound of his stepfather. Cigarette smoke fills his nostrils as the shed door creaks, but it’s the sound behind him that gets his attention—the pull of something stuck in mud, a grunt, and a new smell.
“I’ll open her up and—“
“Stop!” He screams, but it comes out scratchy and weak from his burning throat. “S-st…” Turning was a mistake. Leaving the house and the warmth of the bed was a mistake. It takes a few more steps to the left, all four limbs on the ground, and stops. The bleach white of its face shines like the moon and cuts right through the dark, and the sound; the inhuman grunt, makes Seungmin’s legs tremble.
“…eat a little piece of you”
How can he hold back his fear. “You won’t touch her, or them.”
“Minnie, don’t listen to it, not again”
Is it really her this time? “Umma?”
“Go back, don’t listen to it”
The voice starts to distort and he can’t tell for sure. It could be the monster, or it could be stepfather. The smell still surrounds him and he’s feeling nauseous again. Lightheaded, confused. Why isn’t the medicine helping? he thinks.
“stupid pup…I’m betting impatient. let’s go”
The back of his head starts to throb and he thinks he feels something warm trickle down his neck and shoulders. Trembling legs won’t keep him up much longer. "Tokki!” the most feeble attempt at a holler reaches the monster. It certainly doesn’t reach beyond it. You don’t want her anywhere near it but he’s—
...he’s out. When he wakes again, after what feels like seconds, his face is shoved in the damp earth, mouth and nose filled with soil. There’s the sound of insects crying, and nothing else, for a few more beats. Next is the familiar grunt and a gruff exhale of breath. The thought of looking at it again makes him want to cry, and he can already feel the vomit crawling up his throat. His mind turns to you. Have you woken up and noticed him missing? You’ll be worried…sick with it.
“look at me”
It’s the buzzing voice he hears when it’s time, the taunting hum, the inescapable urge. The sides of his skull feels like it could break from the vibration. Seungmin rolls until he’s gazing at the night sky—no moon in sight, but he knows it’s close. If only he could lay eyes on it, maybe he could get through this, but he knows he won’t. What he sees in his peripheral is the horrible white face moving closer, first on four legs that seem too long for it's body, and then it rises until only two remain on the ground. It changes, he thinks, or maybe his brain forgets some detail when it’s gone. The smallest mercy, except it’s worse every time he sees it again.
The buzzing slowly subsides before returning much worse. The pressure makes his ears pop and his eyes water. a trickle of blood leaves his nose, and then another. Seungmin can’t catch his breath from the pain. He’ll die out here and you’ll find him, eventually...his cold, stiff corpse. But just as the thought of his death crosses his burning, static-filled brain, everything stops. Quiet, then the chatter of bugs. It won’t kill him, but it will take him to the very edge because it needs to.
“she’s made you weak”
It’s back on all fours as it circles him. The pain and vibration might be gone, but there’s a magnetic pull burning through him as the monster moves.
“you used to have so much in you, I’ll have to eat them if you starve me”
Seungmin sees flashes of light, and then spots of darkness as it continues to pull at him. It speaks once more before he passes out.
“…both of them”
*
Slowly, he comes to, and as soon as he does, he can tell he’s surrounded. But right in front of him is you, wild-eyed and as pale as he’s ever seen anyone, he thinks.
“Minnie, oh…you’re awake, don’t—”
“M-museun iriyaaa?”
“Hush, just stay still. Don’t you move.”
Everything is foggy and echoes in his head, but he hears you well enough. He hears the accent that seems to intensify when you’re scared, or excited, or mad. “Where am I?”
“You're at home, in bed.”
He feels the rug beneath his fingers, and then a bright light blinds him. Look at me. His heart races until he sees the paramedic shining a penlight in each eye. Seungmin flinches away from the pain.
“You had a seizure, according to your wife.” He grabs Seungmin’s wrist to feel his pulse. “I highly advise you come to the hospital for an assessment.”
“No, not again.”
“Seungmin, you were having a fit for almost three minutes. You have to.”
The paramedic speaks up again. “How recent is this forehead wound?”
The last few days are blurring together. “That’s from…uhm, about two days ago.”
“He may have a concussion if seizures are unusual for him. An overnight observation would be a good idea.”
Seungmin shifts a little, but winces. He doesn’t want to admit how spotty his vision is, even though he knows your safety depends on his well-being.
“Can you take him there, please?” The paramedic nods to you, and then to his partner. When you look back to Seungmin, he’s pouting. “I’ll meet you down there with the boys.” The pout stays, but he looks at you with the biggest, wettest eyes you’ve ever seen on him, and nods. "I'll stay with you, I promise."
The moment his head hits the flat hospital pillow, he’s out, even with the nonstop noise in the emergency room they shoved him in again. You can see why he was reluctant to return, and if they can get him to an actual room, he might be comfortable.
But you learn this is not the same hospital as before, so the nice doctor that called you won’t be here.
“Deuleogado doelkkayo…May I come in?”
A pair of expensive looking shoes stand below the curtain the four of you are behind. They’ve been sleeping soundly, but that won’t last forever. “Yes.” A young looking doctor enters slowly, eyes going first to the stroller by your side. It’s relatively small, considering it holds two, but it still takes up a good chunk of the space you’re in. Then his eyes move to you, look you over carefully (and respectfully), but his eyes sit on your necklace for a few long seconds.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Lee. We spoke very briefly a few days ago, I’m sure you remember.”
“Oh you are here! But this isn’t St. Mary’s…I didn’t think…”
“No, but they have a shortage of psychiatrists who can be on-call, so I jump between both when needed. Lucky to run into him again, I think.”
“You’re a psychiatrist? Do you know when he’s going to get his tests done? It’s so loud down here.” You don’t think he can help with that, but you’re desperate for him and the babies to be a little more comfortable.
“I’ll see what I can do. If he was brought by ambulance, he should be higher priority.”
He’s your savior a second time, because not ten minutes later, Seungmin is on his way to a private room, and then, finally, to get his head looked at. You get to stretch out and feed them in peace as you wait, but you’re nervous that they’ll find something wrong. Or is not finding anything worse? Can they even see a concussion on a ct scan? No, you don’t think, but it was written on his chart after a very brief visit from a neurologist—a mild concussion caused by self-inflicted blunt force trauma. 정신과 상담 (psych consult) is written directly beneath it, despite telling them he has a doctor and is already medicated.
A knock on the door startles you, but you finish up, clothe yourself, and invite them in. It’s Dr. Lee, who you’re relieved to see. “Thank you for everything.” You stand, and he gives you a no big deal type of wave. “I mean it. He might still be stuck in that jail if you hadn’t contacted me. How did you find me, anyway?”
“Oh, Seungmin’s regular doctor, Jiyoun, was a classmate of mine, and still a good friend. I told her what happened and she gave me his emergency contact, which was you. He was so desperate to get a hold of you, and clearly unwell, so…”
You thank him again and watch as he stares wide-eyed at the babies, both awake and satisfied. “They thank you, too. His absence did not go unnoticed by them.”
“I’m glad I could get their dad back to them. They…um, they’re very handsome boys.”
There’s another knock, and before you can get a word out, the door slides open and in he comes looking miserable in his wheelchair. You can’t remember the last time you saw that sour face, but it may have been the day he told you to leave. He says hi to you in his most pathetic, sleepy voice, and the nurse lets him crawl into bed on his own.
“All done, now you can sleep…unless you’re hungry.”
He carefully rubs his hand over his hair, maybe forgetting he no longer has bangs to push side. “I’m hungry.”
You spend the night with him, which you’re grateful for, but didn’t expect. The staff on this floor have been exceptionally kind and accommodating, providing a nursery cot for each boy, right from the maternity ward. If it’s anything like where you’re from, it’s because they know he has money. But maybe it doesn’t work that way here. You’ll take pity or ass-kissing if it means he’s being cared for, so it doesn’t matter much right now. There won’t be any answers until morning, so you watch him sleep for a while, and eventually, you catch up with him…
*
“Seungmin?” Quietly at first, always, because he might be close and you don’t want to scare him. “Are you here?” You’ve slowly gotten better at this, and maybe he’s become more receptive to it, even with a concussion. “Let me in, sweetie.” Everything around you feels wavy and uneven, like looking through a fish tank, but only when you lose focus. The rest of the time it’s just a little softer than real life. The softness is nice, though; it’s quiet and calm in here right now, and you wonder for a moment if you jumped into Haneul or Haesung by mistake. “Seungmin?”
There are no background noises this time. No birds or bugs, and no humming to lead the way. You’re a moment away from letting go when something in the atmosphere, or whatever it is, changes. The lines of his world are soft, but it starts to turn gauzy and broken every time you focus in one spot. The sky, clear and blue a moment before, grays ever so slightly, and your legs shake as if the ground below you shifts. He here’s somewhere, and you don’t see or hear him after what feels like a mile long walk, but you do catch a new smell in the air. It’s the same smell from your dreams about the shed, the ones you haven’t had in months. “Seungmin…” You don’t holler again, it just comes out in an exhausted sigh.
“Hello.”
You stop in your tracks, but you keep your head down, because it’s not Seungmin’s voice you hear. The voice is familiar, though. “Why are you here?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? You don’t think I make it into his dreams?” Heecheol takes a step out from the trees. “What do you think he dreams about?”
“Where is he?”
“Resting, I’m sure. Recharging. Quite a week he’s had, right?”
The twinkle in his eye makes you want to slap him until he bruises, until he can’t see straight. Touching takes a lot more effort, though. “Sure. Where is he?”
No words, just a quick glance to his right, and then he’s gone like you expect a dream person to dissolve away. You head in that direction until the smell makes your eyes water. The decay of plant and animal mixed with wet soil, mixed with pine, mixed with jasmine and almond. It’s not a good scent, but you keep going until, at last, you see him. He’s on the ground, face up, and it looks like he’s sleeping, so Heecheol was telling you the truth. Seungmin is sleeping in his dream, so does that mean he’s not really dreaming? You approach him anyway. This version of him looks the same as he did a week ago; no forehead stitches, hair sweeping perfectly across his forehead.
A grunt stops you from taking the last step. It almost sounds human, but not quite, so your heart skips a little before true fear sets in. Goosebumps move up your arms and every hair stands on end as you reach for him, but a louder grunt reels your arm right back against your chest. It echoes in the small clearing, and a crunch of footsteps makes everything go watery again. The focus is gone for a moment, and you wish it would have remained that way, but you reach for him again and touch his soft, cold cheek. “No…no, Seungmin?”There’s a thin line of blood coming from his nose and mouth, and a smear across his temple and cheek. You see what you didn’t see before, because you weren’t looking. Seungmin’s eyes are half lidded and heavy, lips dry and pale. His chest rises with a desperate pull for air just as something wet and cold and hits your face. It grips and squeezes your jaw and you somehow wonder in that moment if it missed your throat, but when you look to see what’s on the other end, all you can see is the blur of fingers moving closer. A muffled scream makes it out, but your hands find and grip Seungmin’s cold arm. It’s just a dream he’s dreaming I’m dreaming we’ll wake up. Why does your heart feel like it's close to exploding? Closing your eyes and relaxing does not help. That’s what you tell Seungmin to do when his sleep paralysis returns, but this isn’t quite the same, is it? They remained closed, though, because those sharp fingers were reaching for something. When they can’t get what they want, those fingers wrap around your throat and squeeze.
"Stay away from him, you little bitch. Who do you think you are?"
That voice. It belongs to your mother, and so does the body. Your eyes open to hers, identical in shape and color to yours, and for a brief moment it feels like looking in a mirror. The hands suffocating you are hers, and you start to feel deprived of oxygen as she grips tighter. Oh, I know this…I know this feeling. Whatever focus you had left slips away, and though you’re dreaming, it feels like falling asleep…
“Tokki? Hey…c’mon. I know you’re tired love, but please wake up.”
His voice is a comfort to hear. His touch is soft and warm on your arm, and then on the cheek he caresses. The warmth of the sun coming in from the window, and the scent of coffee already on his breath is almost like being home again. You think you hear Haesung cry a little—he’s a little quieter than his brother, so you need to go to him. Both of them.
“Please wake up.”
Why does he sound like he’s crying? And why can’t you move? Is this sleep paralysis? Open your eyes. No, relax. Breath. You can feel the movement of air in and out of your lungs, and the rise and fall of your chest. So why can’t you move to touch him, or open your eyes to look at him? You’ve never wanted to see his face so badly than you have at this very moment.
You say his name in your head over and over, and then beg for him to shake you or slap you or anything. And then you scream it. This has to be a dream.
Ok ok ok I am not here YET but i literally cannot wait to read this!! You are one of the BEST writers I have ever come across, I love your writing, your page, your stories, everything is literally a work of art. Thank you for making one of (if not the only) best series out there🤍🤍
Summary : Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Exes to friends to lovers. Fluff, angst, reader is a tracker with enhanced senses. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol consumption. Death(Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Requested by : anon
Word count : 15k whoops
Note : This story touches on the events of Civil War, IW, Endgame, FATWS, BP Wakanda Forever, and Thunderbolts*! I used google translate for the Xhosa, so please let me know if it needs to be corrected. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
You were a tracker.
Your body was a weapon, biologically improved by enhanced senses. You could smell a carcass from ten miles away. You could hear a pin drop on the other side of town. Your eyes could track body heat through a crowd of thousands— and it meant you were a hunter in a world full of invisible prey. Some people hunted with tools. You were the tool.
So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes.
After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash.
“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”
You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.
You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest.
You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.
—
By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.
When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.
Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.
—
When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.
He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you.
He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.
—
At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all.
He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage.
Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated.
For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.
You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.
Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.
“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.
You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”
You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.
You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand.
If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity.
Over time, it turned into more than jars.
He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal.
He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.
Days passed like water through your fingers.
You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.
At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.
One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”
“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”
He looked at you like you were a miracle.
And one of those days, you fell in love with him.
You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.
You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.
So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.
“I think I’m in trouble.”
Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”
“No,” you said, “but I—“
Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”
“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”
Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”
Nakia laughed.
“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”
“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.
“Because I might believe him.”
Nakia finally stopped laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”
You didn’t answer her.
—
Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”
T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”
“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath.
“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”
Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”
“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”
There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”
Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.
“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”
Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”
—
Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.
You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.
He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”
He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.
Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.
Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.
Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”
“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”
You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together,
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.
“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.
But then you leaned in, and kissed him.
At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him.
He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”
The next few months unfolded in pieces.
You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.
Neither of you said “I love you.”
You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.
But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.
You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.
You both knew you might die here.
So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.
“I love you,” he said.
You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”
And then you let go and ran into the fire together.
—
The battle was chaos.
Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—
You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.
Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.
“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.
You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.
“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.
And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.
Bucky’s knees gave out next.
His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.
There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.
And then— nothing.
—
Five Years Later.
You came back gasping.
One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.
When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once.
You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.
That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.
“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”
He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.
“Talk to me,” you whispered.
And then— he broke.
His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”
You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”
“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“
“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall.
And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it.
And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.
After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.
—
You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago.
You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out.
And Bucky—God, Bucky.
Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.
Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.
You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.
Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.
You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.
And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”
He would nod against your chest and weep.
And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse.
He was still obsessed with not losing you again.
He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.
It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.
He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.
You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do.
None of it mattered.
To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.
When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”
“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”
He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life.
But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.
It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.
Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation.
You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.
And then one day— it was too much.
You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”
When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”
“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”
You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”
“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”
“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”
“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”
“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”
There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer.
You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”
That night, he promised he’d do better.
He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.
And for a while, he did.
But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.
Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.
Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.
He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.
When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.
“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.
“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”
“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”
He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”
“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.
“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”
His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”
“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”
He flinched.
“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”
“I do trust you—”
“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”
He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”
“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”
Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”
Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.
“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy.
You took a breath.
“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”
He blinked. “What?”
“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”
He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”
“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills.
His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”
You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.
But promises can rot when fed with obsession.
Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”
He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”
“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”
His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.
So you did.
“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”
He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.
“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”
You didn’t answer.
Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”
He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.
And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.
—
Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest.
He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.
Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear that right now.”
“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”
Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”
Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”
“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”
Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”
“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”
Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.
“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”
Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you.
—
Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad.
He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.
She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.
He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.
Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”
He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”
That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”
“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”
Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”
Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.
“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.
He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”
She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”
Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”
Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.
“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”
Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.
Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.
Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.
—
Six Months Later
You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.
But there he was.
Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious.
“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”
The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky
You stopped breathing for a second.
Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.
You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.
You started to type.
Saw you on TV today. You looked—
You paused and backspaced.
Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.
Delete.
You looked okay.
No.
You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.
And then—
“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.
You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.
Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”
You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”
“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”
“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath.
Okoye gave you a really? look.
You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”
She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”
“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.
“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”
You laughed despite yourself.
—
One Year Later.
The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.
And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.
You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.
You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands.
You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.
And then the doorbell chimed.
You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.
In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.
It was a winter bouquet.
Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.
It was him. Bucky.
He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.
And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky.
You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?
You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.
Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?
Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.
You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.
You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.
And wasn’t this what you asked for?
You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.
You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.
A winter gift for a king.
You whispered, "I miss both of you."
—
You didn’t sleep much the year after that.
You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.
All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri.
But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.
You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.
You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.
But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.
You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.
Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.
At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours
You didn’t cry.
You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.
That night, your phone buzzed with a message.
Bucky : “You okay?”
That was it.
You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.
Are you okay?
You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.
Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.
A fucking text. Not even a call.
You set your phone down and didn’t respond.
You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb.
And that was the first night you drank.
You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.
You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.
It didn’t fix anything.
—
A Year Later.
You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.
You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.
You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.
Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”
You tilted your head, “What?”
She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.
You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”
Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”
“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.
You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”
Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.
“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”
Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.
For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.
Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening.
What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.
She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.
—
Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.
The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.
Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”
“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”
Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”
Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles.
Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.
He shouldn't be doing this, right?
Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs.
Focus, Barnes.
This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.
Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.
—
Call to Shuri, Wakandan Secure Channel.
“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”
“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”
A pause. “For whom?”
“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.
“Why?”
“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”
“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”
Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand.
—
You smelled him before he knocked.
He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood.
You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks.
The knock came a second later.
You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.
And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway.
His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it.
You froze for a moment.
“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”
You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”
Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”
You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”
He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”
“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”
“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”
Your brows rose. “You what?”
“Just for updates.”
“Bucky.”
“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”
“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”
“Okay, that was one time!”
“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.
“I know,” he said.
You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.
“You could’ve just called,” you said.
He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”
“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”
He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.
The silence stretched thin.
Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”
Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.
“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”
“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”
“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”
He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”
Oh.
He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”
Your breath hitched, just a little.
“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”
He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”
“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”
He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.
You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.
And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive.
Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”
You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.
“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”
Before you could respond, your nose twitched.
You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity.
“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”
He blinked. “...No?”
You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door. Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned.
You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.
Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”
You stared at them. Then at Bucky.
He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”
—
They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.
It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.
“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob.
Yelena, John, and Ava.
You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell.
You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.
“Got it,” you said, nodding once.
Then you turned, already moving.
Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.
You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.
—
Void, New York.
The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame.
People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.
You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him.
You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.
Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in.
The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.
Now it was just you and Bucky.
The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it.
You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.
And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.
You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.
You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.
But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand.
“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”
Right.
Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”
Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.
—
Bucky woke up in the snow.
He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.
Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.
He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.
He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.
Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.
He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey
And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.
He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—
Nothing.
No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.
“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”
He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.
“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”
But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.
He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.
He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.
He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.
He whispered your name over and over again.
The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.
Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier.
He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you.
You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.
The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.
You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.
You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.
You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.
You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.
It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked.
You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.
But they were gone.
T’Challa. Ramonda.
And Bucky.
He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.
Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”
The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.
You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.
And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”
Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.
The grief between you wasn’t just shared.
It was mirrored.
Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.
With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle.
It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.
And he was right.
He was there, with the real you.
You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.
That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.
Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.
And for a moment, you didn’t move.
But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.
You stayed like that for a while.
Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”
He just held you tighter.
You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”
“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”
Silence stretched again — for a while.
“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”
His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving.
You blinked up at him. “What?”
He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”
You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”
“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”
Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”
He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”
You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.
He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”
And this time, you walked out together.
—
Post-Void. New York, again.
You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him.
And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover.
Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.
Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?
You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.
Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?
And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.
M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.
You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.
The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest.
Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust.
“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”
You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”
He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”
You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”
Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”
You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”
Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”
She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.
As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”
You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.
You debated pretending you hadn’t either.
—
You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.
When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself.
The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.
Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.
Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.
The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken.
Oh.
The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.
You didn’t say anything at first.
You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.
You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.
Bucky stayed quiet.
He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.
When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.
He blinked, looking down to his feet.
“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.
And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”
He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.
“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”
You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.
“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”
Your throat tightened.
He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”
Silence stretched for a long moment.
Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”
Bucky straightened a little.
“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”
You looked around the room again.
“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”
“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”
You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.
You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”
He looked… relieved.
He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.
“Okay,” he said.
And somehow, it was enough.
Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life.
—
You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.
But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.
The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.
But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.
“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.
You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.
He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.
“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”
“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”
You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”
“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”
When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’
“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”
Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.
You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.
“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”
You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.
—
Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.
She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.
“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”
You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”
“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”
You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”
She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found.
“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.
“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”
Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.
“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”
“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”
You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.
She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”
That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.
You smiled. Just a little.
—
Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.
He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.
“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.
You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”
He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”
You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.
You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”
“What does?”
“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”
“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”
You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”
His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”
—
Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.
It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.
You couldn’t sleep.
You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.
But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.
You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,
He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”
“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him.
He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.
You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.
“This place is too clean,” you said at last.
Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”
You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”
That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.
“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.
His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”
You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours.
—
The next few months passed easily.
You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.
Of course, the team noticed.
Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.
John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”
You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.
But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.
You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.
Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”
You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”
Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”
Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”
Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”
You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.
“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.
“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”
Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”
And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.
You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”
He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You tilted your head. “About what?”
He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”
That shut you up, but not in a bad way.
—
The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.
You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.
But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.
The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.
Bucky.
His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow
He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.
That’s when you saw John.
“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”
John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”
“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”
“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”
“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”
He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement
“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”
“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”
And just like that, you shut up.
He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.
And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.
“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”
Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”
You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”
He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”
You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”
“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.”
Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”
You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”
You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind.
Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”
John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.
The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.
You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.
“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.
So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.
Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.
He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.
You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.
You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”
Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb
You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.
“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”
You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.
“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.
Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”
“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”
“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”
“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”
Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”
You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”
He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.
“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.
Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
He didn’t move yet.
“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.
“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.
“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”
Then he kissed you.
It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.
You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer
And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”
You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.
“You’re sure?” he asked again
“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”
His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.
“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”
You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”
He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.
You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.
Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.
“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.
You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.
Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.
“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”
Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”
“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”
You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified.
“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”
pairing- stray kids hyung line x reader
summary- given a situation, you and member are running away together. whats the reason and how will it go for you?
word count- 1.2k
warnings- criminal behavior (theft, fraud, implied violence), toxic family dynamics/emotional neglect mentioned, mentions of law enforcement, surveillance, accidental pregnancy, soft angst/comfort-heavy romance,
a/n- so i feel for a little darker themes i have to say: they’re all fictional—built on what-if scenarios and deep, messy emotions. Enjoy the ride !!!!!!! ahhh
maknae line
CHAN — "𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘭𝘺𝘥𝘦"
ride or die crime partners
The motel TV hums with static as you count stacks of stolen cash on the bed. Chan’s leaning against the wall, shirt half-buttoned, gun tucked in the waistband of his slacks like it belongs there.
“We're legends now,” he says with a crooked smile, tossing your passport into your lap. New name. New start.
You grin, blood still rushing from the getaway. “Think they'll catch us?” He laughs once, low and reckless. “They can try.”
You and Chan are smooth-talking, quick-moving, adrenaline-chasing chaos. But damn, you’re good together.
He does the planning—routes, disguises, backstories. You do the talking—charming your way past guards, sweet-talking anyone who gets suspicious.
After a job, he always takes care of you first: checking for bruises, giving you water, making sure you’re still riding the high, not the crash.
You steal a sports car once, just for fun. He lets you drive it. You’re laughing like you’re 16 again, no rules, no regrets.
In the quiet, he gets soft—telling you how he used to dream of this kind of freedom. Not the crime, but you. The “us against the world” kind of love.
One day, you watch the sunset from a rooftop in Prague. “If we go down,” you say, “we go down together.”
He grins, presses his forehead to yours. “You and me, baby. Until the end.”
with him its...
Lipstick-stained passports – new identities, new lives, but still the same reckless love
Bullet casings in a jewelry box – mementos of your past jobs, hidden like treasures
Motor oil on his hands, lip gloss on yours – partners, opposites, balanced chaos
A black duffel with multiple IDs and one photo of you two – the only constant in every version of your lives
Champagne in a convenience store cup – celebration anywhere, any time—because you survived again
MINHO — “𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦”
healing from toxic pasts
You leave a note on the table. Nothing dramatic—just “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” Outside, Minho’s waiting in his car, engine idling. He doesn’t say a word when you slide into the passenger seat, just reaches over and puts your hand in his. The road ahead is quiet. No sirens. No calls. No one yelling for you to come back. Just the soft sound of tires on pavement, and Minho whispering, “We’re gonna be okay.”
The first few days feel surreal. No screaming. No walking on eggshells. Just you, Minho, and silence that finally feels safe.
You stay in a tiny apartment with peeling walls and creaky floors. He makes it feel like home in a week—plants in the windows, a cat named Peach, warm soup on the stove.
He doesn’t talk much about what you left behind. Neither of you do. But when you wake up crying, he’s there. Quiet. Holding your hand until it passes.
He falls asleep with his head on your lap some nights, a soft smile on his face. You trace your fingers through his hair and think, I never thought peace could look like this.
He takes photos of you when you’re not looking. Says it’s so he “won’t forget this part of life.” You pretend not to notice, but you always smile.
One night, out of nowhere, he says, “Thank you for leaving with me.”
You whisper back, “Thank you for giving me something to run to.”
with him its...
Cat fur on everything – home is where Peach sleeps
Soup simmering at 3AM – because trauma doesn't keep regular hours, and neither does care
An old Polaroid tucked in your wallet – the only photo from the day you left
A chipped mug you both fight over – mundane arguments now feel like love
Sticky notes on the fridge with hand-drawn hearts – “Bought snacks,” “Feed Peach,” “I love you.” No grand speeches—just daily proof
CHANGBIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘕𝘰 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘜𝘴”
"framed" lovers on the run
The moment the security camera photo hit the news, you knew it was over. Your phone rang once—Changbin. “Pack a bag,” he said. “Only what you need. I’ll be there in ten.” Now you’re in the backseat of a stolen car, hands shaking, his hoodie draped over your shoulders.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, eyes locked on the road. You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” The city lights blur behind you like a life you don’t want anymore.
Every gas station is a risk. Every knock at the door makes you freeze. But Changbin always stays calm—for you.
He keeps your fake IDs in his boot and a map in the glovebox, tracing out routes like you’re in a spy movie.
When things get really bad, he’ll hold your face, eyes locked on yours, and remind you: “We didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let them make you forget that.”
In between the chaos, he finds little ways to bring you peace—humming your favorite song, buying your favorite snack, brushing your hair behind your ear.
He tells you once, under a thunderstorm sky, “If we have to spend our lives running, I’ll still choose you every time.”
You start to believe it. Even when the world wants to paint you guilty, you know what’s real—him, and the way he loves you like it’s all he’s got.
with him its...
Cigarettes out the window – not because you smoke, but because someone else does. And that means you’re being followed
Cash in a shoebox under the passenger seat – your safety net, escape fund, lifeline
Burner phones wrapped in napkins – disposable lives, but still texting each other goodnight
A cracked mirror in a motel bathroom – distorted reflections, unclear futures
His hoodie always on you – his way of keeping you safe, even when he can’t protect you from everything
HYUNJIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘛𝘰, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥”
accidental pregnancy + quiet escape
You stare at the test in your hand like it’s not real. One pink line, two pink lines, whatever—it doesn’t matter. Your world’s already changed.
Hyunjin walks in barefoot, hair damp from the shower, and freezes when he sees your face. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.
He crosses the room in two steps, takes the test from your hand, and says, “Okay. We’re leaving.” Just like that. Like love is enough.
Hyunjin doesn’t freak out. Doesn’t question. The second he sees you’re scared, he shifts into full comfort mode.
He books a train ticket to a quiet town by the sea. No paparazzi, no pressure. Just you, him, and the sound of waves.
He paints all the time now—your growing belly, your sleepy smile, your fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.
Talks to the baby like they’re already here: “Hey, little one. Your mom’s the strongest person I know.”
He’s overprotective but sweet about it—holding your hand when you walk, cooking every meal, refusing to let you lift anything heavier than a book.
You cry one night, scared of what’s next. He just holds you and says, “I don’t know how we’ll do it. But we will. Together.”
with him its...
Paint stains on your clothes – you stopped caring if you get messy; life’s already full of color now
Socks hung out to dry on a line – homemade life, gentle routines, building something quiet but real
A worn baby book at the bedside – filled with notes in Hyunjin’s handwriting, doodles in the corners
His rings left in a ceramic bowl – he takes them off now, wants nothing flashy, just you and peace
Sunlight through gauze curtains – a new kind of morning, one that doesn’t rush you
requested
pairing: bf!seungmin x 9th member!fem!reader
content includes: general swearing, minho gay and felix bf stealer ;v;
genre: fluff
word count: 820
"wait, quickly how much do you love stay?" you ask, sitting in the makeup chair as a stylist works on your hair. your voice carries out to anyone listening in the cramped green room, aside from the select few (minho) who had their earphones in.
your question had been aimed for one person in particular.
chan, as expected, lets out a small indignant noise. "love for fans should be unconditional." he argues, just as he always does in front of people, despite the angry rants you'd had seen in private. he loved them. but with conditions.
"unconditional? even though they mob us and we have zero privacy?" jeongin, your sweet, sweet child with a brilliant smart mouth, counters.
you giggle. chan starts to say something else, but you speak over him. "no, listen the point is—if seungmin and i ever come out, and they don't support us, would you love them still?"
you know the answer already. obviously. you're asking to pass time. and to stress out your dearest leader.
chan squawks, surprised you'd ask such a question. felix, who had been previously harmonizing(?) with jisung, joins the conversation. "come out? as gay and lesbian respectively?"
instead of entertaining the joke, you sneer at the younger boy, catching his eyes through the mirror. "you'd want that, won't you? you want my boyfriend all to yourself, homotron."
felix stares you down. "boyfriend stealer." you add, to fuel the fire. a smirk blooms on his lips.
"the only boyfriend he's stealing is mine," minho quips from where he's sitting on a couch. huh, apparently he'd been listening. the man then proceeds to send an exaggerated wink in jisung's direction.
"stop telling people we're dating, you have an actual boyfriend!"
your attention is taken away from minho boldly proposing a threesome by a pair of hands on your cheeks. you startle. why would a hair stylist do that?
but then you see big brown eyes and a smile peering at you. you smile back at seungmin.
"hi," he whispers, with no reason. you whisper it back.
through the mirror, you see his eyes wander around the room and then land back on you. he licks his lips, as if he's hesitating.
"what's wrong?" you ask, still whispering.
he shakes his head, all smiles. his palms slide from your face, resting on your shoulders. he massages your shoulders, and you wince. no one in stray kids should really be considering their career as a masseuse if they're not felix.
when you convey this to your boyfriend, he laughs. "my bad, princess. do you want me to call over lix for you?"
you must've made a face at his name, because seungmin laughs again. your heart stumbles, just slightly. "lix wants to steal you from me." you tell him as if it's a secret and as if said thief wasn't in earshot.
"is that so?" seungmin hums, a brow arched on his forehead. it nearly makes you sigh. you loved it when his hair was put up, revealing his forehead. you could almost empathize with men seeing women's ankles for the first time. but now was not the time to wax poetry about seungmin's forehead. "we can't have that, now can we?"
you nod sagely, lips pulled into a pout.
felix says something that you don't pay attention to, and then a certain c-word when you flip him off. you distantly hear chan's scandalized, "felix!?" and the familiar gremlin cackle from the blond.
"no one can steal me, you know that right?" your boyfriend's voice catches your attention back from the scene to seungmin. he still stands behind you, eyes boring into yours with a weird intensity.
you make a short noise of confusion. seungmin turns your chair around so that you're facing him, no longer resorting to speaking with his reflection.
"no one can steal me from you. i'm yours. fully. irrevocably. you know that, right?"
your heart melts, shatters, breaks, squeezes and dies in the same moment. god, did he have to be so cute?
you thought that the answer was a given. but seungmin stares at you with this gleam in his eye, looking so hopeful that you just ... malfunction.
half sentences and choked words later, seungmin leans down to kiss you. he lingers, hands on your shoulders still. when he pulls away, he's back to whispering.
"i love you." it's soft, just barely there.
for a moment, you forget you're in a music show's backstage green room, with a dozen staff and your own band members around you. that is, until felix is obnoxiously breaking the moment with a loud and unnecessary groan and a, "we get it, you guys are dating and i am totally happy about being single!"
"we need to get him a partner, he's being a pain in the ass." you're not sure who says it, but if you agree wholeheartedly then it's no one else's business but yours.
a/n: i wanna write bf seungmin more stop i love him so much. I *NEED* TO WRITE MORE SKZ honestly. working on the other parts of that one skz hc(?). there's another anton request that im working on rn and i can't tell if i want to keep it short on longify it like i am doing rn. eh. we'll see. requests are open! and so is the taglist. speaking of
taglist: @the-firstfruit @kochothehoe
Contact Name(s): Yn [My Princess Yn 🩶] Minho [A. Lee Minho] Changbin [A. Seo Changbin] Hyunjin [A. Hwang Hyunjin] Jisung [A. Han Jisung] Felix [A. Lee Felix] Seungmin [A. Kim Seungmin] Jeongin [A. Yang. Jeongin]
a/n: all for kicks and giggles, insomnia and boredom makes me creative. apologies if i misrepresented the group and the members. all for kicks and giggles. enjoy this mini series based off of chan’s message in Boyfriend SKZ: Mad and for what? NO hate to anyone, names included are not meant to hurt or disrespect anyone. this is a work of fiction. all for kicks and giggles, not meant to be taken serious. app social maker ʙɪɢ ʜᴜɢs 🫂 ʜᴏᴍɪᴇ sᴍᴏᴏᴄʜᴇs ᴀʟʟ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ💋
warning(s): sassy kings// top tier haters// profanity// name calling// friends being friends// constructive bullying// a bit emotional// maybe angsty… just maybe// ALL fictional
Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.
Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.
You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.
It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.
He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.
Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.
Still, you didn’t argue.
Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.
There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.
You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.
So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.
No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.
Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.
You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.
And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.
He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.
The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.
Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.
A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.
It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.
Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.
You grab a basket and move forward.
He follows without a word.
You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.
You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.
Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.
Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.
He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.
It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.
His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.
“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.
You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.
“What?” you ask softly.
His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.
“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”
He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.
For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.
Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”
Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.
You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.
Bucky watches.
He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.
His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.
He simply observes.
You step over to the plums.
Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
But you feel him.
The attention he gives you.
His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.
You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.
You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.
But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.
“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.
Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.
“S’ fine.”
But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.
So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.
Bucky doesn’t look away this time.
And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.
The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.
You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.
Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.
His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.
It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.
He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.
You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.
He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.
It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.
That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.
You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.
He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.
You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”
His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.
“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.
But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.
Something warm fills your chest.
You missed him, while you were gone.
He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.
You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.
You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.
He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.
It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.
He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.
You remember how he was when you left.
Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.
He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.
And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.
Maybe that’s why he came with you.
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.
Maybe he missed you, too.
He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.
You can’t have that.
Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.
“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”
Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”
You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”
Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.
“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”
You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.
“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”
Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.
You glance up at him, arching your brow.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”
“Uh-huh.”
He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”
You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”
Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”
“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”
Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.
You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.
You plan on keeping him that way.
You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.
“Creamy or crunchy?”
Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”
You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”
There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.
“You serious?”
“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”
Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.
“You’re wrong.”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”
You snort.
Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.
You watch him.
The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.
Because you want more.
More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.
So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”
Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”
You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”
For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.
You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.
You wait, patiently.
Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”
You gin. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.
You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.
“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”
Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.
His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
But there is no bite to it.
And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.
You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.
You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.
You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.
Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.
A soft thud.
Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.
Chocolate-covered almonds.
The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.
The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.
The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.
Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”
Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because you like them.”
Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.
Just a fact.
Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.
The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.
You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.
“How do you know that?”
The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.
Something about the fact that he’s been watching.
That he’s noticed.
That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.
His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.
He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.
“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.
You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.
Or if he just really is that observant.
That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.
So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.
“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”
Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.
“Don’t.”
“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”
Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried
Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡
Masterlist
You love sparring with Bucky.
Maybe because you love the man.
But there is so much more to that, honestly.
You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.
Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.
Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.
Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.
Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.
Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.
But Bucky.
Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.
He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.
And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.
You live for that laugh.
Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.
And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.
So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.
Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.
You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.
Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.
But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.
He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.
But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.
And then, about five months ago, something clicked.
Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.
A glaring one, in fact.
One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.
It’s you.
You are his weakness.
Bucky is a creature of routines.
The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.
You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.
You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.
Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.
He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.
Except when it comes to you.
You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.
And then there are the small things.
The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.
Little things. Automatic things.
And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.
Bucky is strategic on missions.
He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.
Until you are in danger.
Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.
Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.
Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.
You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.
And he does. Every time.
Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.
Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.
Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.
After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.
You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.
But you can’t fool Bucky.
He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.
And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.
And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.
It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.
Bucky does not share.
He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.
But he does with you.
When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.
He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.
Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.
Not to anyone.
But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.
You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.
With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.
He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.
He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.
It happened again. And then again.
After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.
Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.
One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.
He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.
You took him in your arms and then you took him in.
First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.
Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.
He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.
You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.
And you know what this might mean.
You certainly know what it means to you.
The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.
But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.
But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.
So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.
Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.
But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.
Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.
But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.
And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.
Because for him, you would wait forever.
****
“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.
And you know why it is there.
Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.
You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.
He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.
You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.
Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.
Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.
You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.
Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.
“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.
He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.
You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.
“That all you got?”
“Come find out.”
He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.
It’s definitely not all you got.
He is not expecting you to cheat.
Not that you call it cheating anyway.
You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.
After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.
Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.
Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.
His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.
“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.
He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.
“Lemme see-”
He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.
You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.
Silence.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.
You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”
Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.
The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.
The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.
Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.
You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”
Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.
He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”
“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”
He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.
“Can’t believe I was worried.”
“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.
Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
****
You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.
Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.
The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.
It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.
You feel terrible.
And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.
Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.
So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.
Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.
You ignore his gaze.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.
He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”
You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”
He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”
He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.
“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”
You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.
You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.
He sidesteps, but you strike again.
And immediately regret it.
Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.
It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.
It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.
But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.
“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.
His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.
You grit your teeth, saying nothing.
He thinks you’re faking.
Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.
Because it’s getting harder to hide.
It’s getting harder to see.
Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.
And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.
“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.
It doesn’t seem like it.
Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.
And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.
White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.
But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.
You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.
The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.
His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.
“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.
“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.
“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.
But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.
You whimper, flinching.
And Bucky freezes.
“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.
He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.
The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.
You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.
He curses under his breath.
“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.
“I didn’t think it was that bad.”
He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”
He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.
“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”
You open your mouth, then close it.
He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.
You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”
His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.
“How did that happen? Who did this?”
You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.
His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.
He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”
“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”
“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”
There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.
Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.
****
It took weeks for you to properly heal.
But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.
There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.
But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.
And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.
He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.
Then his eyes find yours.
“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.
You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.
Bucky’s jaw ticks.
There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.
You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.
He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.
Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.
He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.
You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”
His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.
He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.
You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.
His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.
Studying.
Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.
You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.
Bucky tests you, pushes you.
And you give as good as you get.
Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.
And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.
It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.
You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.
Shit.
You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?
But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.
Not hesitating. Not wary.
Rushing. Fast and frantic.
He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.
And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.
You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.
But there is none of that.
Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.
“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”
His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.
You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.
“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”
That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.
But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.
“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.
“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.
“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.
You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.
“I’m fine, Buck.”
His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.
“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”
Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.
“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”
That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.
“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.
“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.
“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.
His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.
“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”
“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”
You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.
Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.
“Alright, come on.”
You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.
“Bucky-”
“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.
You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t care.”
****
A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.
But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.
The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?
The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.
By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.
Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.
But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.
And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.
Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.
“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”
His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.
“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes.
“Bite me, Barnes.”
The moment you move, he matches it.
His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.
The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.
You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.
His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.
And you do.
Blow for blow, counter for counter.
You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.
The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.
Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.
“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.
“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.
You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.
Fuck, you missed this.
But then, he shifts.
And something changes.
It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.
Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.
You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?
His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.
It’s not soft.
Not hesitant.
Not careful.
It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.
It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.
You didn’t see it coming.
By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.
His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.
Smirking. So damn smug.
Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.
Because what else could it be than him?
“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?
“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.
And then he ducks down again.
He kisses you once more.
Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.
And you don’t fight it.
Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.
“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”
SYNOPSIS: Seungmin floats through life alone, haunted by his memories—keeping himself under control, and quieting his mind the only way he knows how…killing and watching the life leave his victims eyes. When you cross his path on a morning hunt, something new (something forgotten) starts to move inside of him, leading both of you on a path to confront the unspeakable past.
RATING: 18+ only—this story contains sex, death, murder, some supernatural elements, folie à deux...please read each chapter rating for more details (some ratings may contain spoilers!)
CURRENT WC: 124.4k
✦ INTRO (2k)
✦ Part One (10k)
✦ Part Two (12.7k)
✦ Part Three (14.4k)
✦ Part Four (10.4k)
✦ Part Five (11k)
✦ Part Six (10.4K)
✦ Part Seven (13.6k)
✦ Part Eight (13k)
✦ Part Nine (14.8k)
✦ Part Ten (12.1k)
✦ Part Eleven (wip)
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If someone can PLEASE write an angsty story or something using Olivia Rodrigo’s song The Grudge, then I would love you very much🤭 it’s SUCH A SAD SONG and idk lowkey want my feelings hurt a little rn🤣 whether it be if Drew Starkey, Bucky Barnes, Rafe Cameron, Sebastian Stan, ANY Stray Kids member, Remus Lupin, James Potter. PLEASE😭😭 #someonepleasewriteone #iwillloveyouforever
Concept: You're Felix's childhood friend, and you and he have been planning a visit to see him for his birthday for what feels like years now. Unfortunately, SKZ is a very busy group, and the week-long vacation you'd planned for doesn't seem possible. Until Felix decides to ask his bandmates a favor...
Current Total Word Count - 2,672
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Intro Part) - N/A Words, Posted 7/15/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Plead Part) - N/A Words, Posted 7/16/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU(Bridge Part) - N/A Words, Posted 7/18/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Meet Part) - N/A Words, Posted 7/22/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Plan Part) - N/A Words, Posted 7/26/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Worm Part) -N/A Words, Posted 7/29/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (STAY Part) - N/A Words, Posted 8/9/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (SLEEP Part) -N/A Words, Posted 8/9/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Bet Part) - N/A Words, Posted 8/31/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Angst Part) - N/A Words, Posted 9/8/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Filler Part) - N/A Words, Posted 10/04/24
Best Friend protocol SAMU (Blackmail Part) - N/A Words, Posted 11/03/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Crush Part) - N/A Words, Posted 11/10/24
Best Friend Protocol (Team Meeting Part) - 2,672 Words, posted 11/29/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Take Me OUT part) - N/A Words, Posted 12/01/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Fashion Advice part) - N/A Words, Posted 12/01/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Bite Part) - N/A Words, Posted 12/14/24
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Clurb Part 1) - N/A Words, Posted 1/30/25
Best Friend Protocol SMAU (Clurb Part 2) - N/A words, Posted 2/01/25
Warnings: Reader is pregnant (just that, nothing deep)
Genre: established relationship, flufffff
Summary: You've been distant lately, and Chan can't understand why. Because this is very unusual for the two of you as you two are on each other all the time. And Chan panics as you guys are getting married in a few months, and this sudden change is unraveling him.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Chan paced the living room, a deep frown etched into his forehead. You hadn’t touched him in days. Weeks, actually. That alone was already a catastrophe, considering the fact that you two were basically like bunnies.
But now? Nothing. You were dodging his touches like he was contagious. He reached for your hand? Oh, look, you suddenly needed both hands to text someone. He tried for a kiss? Whoops, you conveniently yawned. Bedtime? You were already asleep.
And that diamond ring glittering on your ring finger? It made him wonder if you were regretting saying yes to him already.
He’d spent way too many nights staring at the ceiling, feeling like the universe was punishing him for something he didn't even know he did.
Chan sighed and opened the group chat. This was bad. He needed to vent.
Chan: She’s avoiding me.
A rapid barrage of notifications followed, and Chan barely had time to process one before another arrived.
Minho: Y/N? The one who’s practically glued to your lap 24/7?
Hyunjin: LMAO. Not possible. I won't believe it.
Seungmin: You obviously did something.
Chan: NO, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!
Chan: She’s been acting weird for WEEKS. 2 weeks to be exact. No kisses. No hugs. No… anything.
Jisung: No sex? BRO. Are you okay?
Felix: What if she’s planning something? Like a surprise? Maybe a wedding thing?
---
Chan paused. That was… not unreasonable. But no. You’d never kept secrets from him before. Like you've given him enough surprises before so he knew this was different.
---
Minho: OR. She’s finally come to her senses about you seducing her into saying yes?
Chan: Minho. I will come to your house and end you.
Jeongin: But seriously, hyung. Did you say something? Do something? Forget an important date? You’re kind of a workaholic.
---
That hit a little too close to home. Chan frowned, scrolling back through his mental timeline of your relationship.
---
Chan: I didn’t forget anything. I swear. We were fine until a couple weeks ago, and now she’s avoiding me like the plague.
Changbin: Well. There’s only one logical explanation.
Changbin: She’s been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone.
Jisung: YES. I second this. The real Y/N would NEVER do this.
Felix: Omg guys!
Chan: GUYS.
Hyunjin: Okay. What if she’s mad because you’re not initiating? She’s waiting for you to grovel.
Seungmin: That makes no sense. If she’s mad, why not just say so?
Hyunjin: IDK, some people like drama.
Jeongin: That’s your toxic trait, Hyung.
Hyunjin: IS NOT!
---
Chan groaned, dropping his phone onto the couch. He missed you. Like, really missed you. Sure, he wanted to rip your clothes off 90% of the time, but he also missed the simple things - your cuddles, your soft laugh, the way you’d always need him by your side when you're stressed.
The cold shoulders and polite smiles were killing him.
---
Minho: Just confront her, idiot. Corner her in the kitchen and ask her what’s wrong.
Chan: You think I haven’t tried that?! Every time I ask, she changes the subject.
Jisung: Okay, hear me out. Seduction.
Chan: What?
Jisung: Set the mood. Candles. Sexy music. Flex those ridiculous arms. She won’t stand a chance.
Felix: Worth a try.
---
That night, Chan put the "seduction plan" into action. He dimmed the lights, skipped the candles, and put on a romantic playlist. He even went full drama, lounging on the couch with his shirt conveniently unbuttoned.
When you walked in, your eyebrows shot up as you asked, “What's up?”
Chan said nothing, just held held his hand out. You froze, guilt flashing across your face, and Chan knew he had you. You placed your hand on his and let him pull you close.
“Baby, what’s going on? You’ve been avoiding me, and it’s driving me crazy. Did I do something wrong?” His voice cracked, and that set you off.
Your eyes filled with tears, and in an instant you were in his lap, clinging to him like your life depended on it.
“I’m sorry, Channie! I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Then why -”
“Shhh,” Chan fell silent as you pressed a finger to his lips. “Just know that I love you, Channie.”
Chan was suspicious. Because, well, you’d shut him up in the best way possible, last night - all he remembered was his shirt coming off and yeah.
You’d seduced him. Thoroughly. And while his brain had short-circuited at that time, he was now absolutely certain that you’d dodged his questions on purpose.
At least he can't complain about you not touching him anymore, right?
---
Chan: It didn't work.
Minho: WHAT didn't?
Chan: She kinda caught me off guard. And avoided my questions.
Jisung: I thought we agreed on YOU seducing her and you got seduced??
Felix: Soooo… you still don’t know what’s going on?
Chan: NO. She’s hiding something, I know it.
Hyunjin: Maybe you’re overthinking. Or, maybe she’s secretly a spy.
Changbin: She’s NOT a spy, Hyunjin. That’s ridiculous.
Hyunjin: And alien clones aren’t?
Minho: Why are we even helping you? You let her seduce you and then just… forgot your goal.
---
Chan groaned, flopping onto his back. It wasn’t his fault! He was weak when it came to you. All it took was a look, or a whisper of his name and his brain turned to mush.
Still, Minho had a point.
---
Chan: Okay, fine. What do I do now?
Felix: She’s probably just stressed? Weddings are a big deal. She might just need time to sort her thoughts.
That gave Chan pause. Weddings were stressful. Maybe that was it?
Hyunjin: My bet’s still on spy.
---
Meanwhile, you were in the bathroom, staring at the little plastic stick in your hand for the hundredth time now. You’d known for two weeks, but the reality hadn’t gotten any less terrifying.
You were pregnant. Pregnant. With Chan’s baby.
The thought sent your heart racing. You loved him more than anything, but… you’d never talked about kids. What if he wasn’t ready? What if he panics when you bring it up?
There were only a few months until the wedding. You didn’t want to dump this on him now and risk throwing him into a spiral.
---
That night, Chan decided to take Minho’s advice (for once). No more distractions. He was getting answers tonight.
When you walked into the living room and his eyes locked onto yours - you froze. He looked so handsome, and a little…worn out? You felt so guilty for doing this.
“Come sit,” he said, patting the couch beside him.
You hesitated, but complied, heart pounding.
“Baby, we need to talk,” Chan said, his voice soft but firm.
You swallowed hard as you murmured, “About what?”
“You’ve been acting weird for weeks. And you obviously don't trust me enough to talk it out. I’m worried. What's going on? Is it the wedding?” He was giving you that puppy eyed look, and your heart shattered.
“No, Channie, it's not like that...”
“Then what is it? Please, just tell me.”
You opened your mouth, ready to spill everything - but then you panicked. The words caught in your throat, and instead, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
Here he was - caught off guard (again) but quickly melting into the kiss. You climbed into his lap, your hands tangling in his hair, and within seconds, all thoughts of questioning were gone.
---
Chan: SHE DID IT AGAIN.
Minho: You’re hopeless.
Seungmin: At this rate, she could rob a bank and get away with it.
Felix: Honestly, I’m impressed.
---
Chan sighed, glaring at the group chat before throwing his phone across the bed. Whatever you were hiding, it was big. And he was determined to find out, one way or another.
Little did he know, in the bathroom, you were rehearsing how to tell him the truth: that in just a few months, he wasn’t just going to be your husband.
He was going to be a dad.
Chan was officially losing it. His imagination had gone to some very dark places (thanks to Changbin’s clone theory and Hyunjin’s spy nonsense), but now he just felt defeated. What was so big and terrifying, that you felt like you couldn’t share it with him?
Chan: I give up. She’s unbreakable.
Jisung: Hey don't lose hope.
Minho: Pathetic.
Jeongin: Just sit her down and don’t let her leave until she talks.
Chan: I’VE TRIED THAT.
Chan was ready to lock himself and you in a room till you cracked, but unfortunately he was already cracking under the stress. And then a lightbulb went off in his head. There was just one person in the world who might be able to get through to you.
Felix.
---
Felix was, to put it lightly, concerned when Chan cornered him in his kitchen.
“Lix, you have to help me,” Chan said, his eyes wild and desperate.
“Help you how?” Felix asked cautiously.
“Can you please try to talk to her?” Chan literally begs. “She loves you, Lix. Maybe she’ll tell you if you ask?”
Felix hesitated, torn between loyalty to Chan, who was literally his brother and his friendship with you. But ultimately, his desire to help won anyway.
“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll talk to her.”
---
Later that afternoon, you opened the door to find Felix standing on your porch, holding a box of cookies and his sunniest smile.
“Lixie?” you asked, surprised. “So good to see you!”
“Just wanted to check on you, love,” he said, coming forward to hug you.
You stepped aside to let him in, and the two of you settled on the couch.
“I baked these for you,” he said, watching your reaction closely as you opened the box and munched on a cookie immediately. “You’ve been looking a little stressed lately.”
You stopped mid-chew, guilt gnawing at you.
“I’m fine, Lix. Just… wedding stuff, you know?” you said, carefully avoiding his eyes.
“Is it really just the wedding?” Felix tilted his head, unconvinced.
You froze, your hands tightening around the box.
“You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is, I won’t judge.” Felix said, reaching out and placing a gentle hand over yours.
Your eyes welled up with tears, and as you put the box aside gently. Felix scooted closer as he saw the tears fall, and before you knew it, the truth came spilling out.
“I’m pregnant, Felix,” you whispered. “And I don’t know how to tell Chan. We’ve never talked about kids, and I don’t even know if he wants them. And now the wedding’s so close, and I’m scared I’ll ruin everything. I already got my wedding dress and I don't think I'll fit into it anymore because by that time-”
Felix’s eyes went wide, and for a moment, he looked like he might burst into tears himself. But then he let out a strangled laugh.
“You’re… you’re pregnant?”
You nodded, sniffled and managed a soft, “Yeah.”
Felix threw his arms around you, nearly knocking you over.
“Oh my God, Y/N! I’m so happy for you! And for Chan! You’re gonna have the cutest baby in the world!” he gushed, his eyes sparkling with happy tears.
You couldn’t help but laugh through your own tears.
“You don't think this is a disaster?” you asked softly, wiping your tears away.
“Disaster?” Felix pulled back, shaking his head. “Of course not. This is amazing! But you have to tell Chan. He’s going insane trying to figure out what’s wrong.”
“I know,” you said softly. “I just… I’m scared.”
Felix gave you a reassuring smile and said, “Chan loves you more than anything. Trust me, he’s gonna be over the moon. And I'll always be here for you. Seriously, sweetheart, this is the best news ever.”
---
Hyunjin: Well? Did she tell you?
Jisung: SPILL, FELIX.
Chan: Felix? Please. I’m dying here.
Felix hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He couldn’t betray your trust, but he also couldn’t leave Chan hanging.
Felix: She’s okay. She’s just… working through something.
Minho: And you’re being suspiciously vague.
Seungmin: Should've known that sending her best friend to investigate wasn't your strongest idea… obviously he's gonna take her side!
Felix: I promised I wouldn’t say anything. But it’s nothing bad, I swear.
Chan: Seriously?? Nothing bad? Then why is she avoiding me?
Felix: Just… be patient with her, okay? She’ll tell you when she’s ready. I promise it's all ok. Trust me.
Chan frowned at the message, his heart twisting.
You had spent the whole night rehearsing what to say to Chan, your stomach churning with nerves. Morning came far too quickly, and as you watched him shuffle into the kitchen with his hair messy and his sleepy face, you nearly chickened out.
But Felix’s words echoed in your head. He’s gonna be over the moon.
“Channie,” you said softly, placing your mug of tea aside and taking a step towards him.
He looked up from the coffee maker, his sleepy eyes brightening instantly. You were trying to talk to him, and somehow that was enough. Anything was better than you avoiding him.
“Morning, baby.”
You smiled nervously, gesturing to the table. “Can we talk?”
His brow furrowed, worry flashing across his face as he nodded and sat down opposite you.
“Is everything okay?”
You took a deep breath, your hands trembling slightly as you said, “You know how I’ve been… weird lately?”
Chan nodded, his gaze fixed on you with a mix of concern and curiosity.
“Well,” you continued, “there’s a reason for that. And I’ve been scared to tell you because it’s big. Like, really big.”
“Baby, whatever it is, you can tell me. I promise, I’ll handle it.” Chan said, reaching across the table and taking your hand in his.
Your eyes filled with tears as you finally said it.
“I’m pregnant.”
Chan froze. Completely. His mouth hung open, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as his brain processed your words.
“You’re… pregnant?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
You nodded, tears spilling over.
“Yeah. I found out a couple of weeks ago, and I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it, or if it was too much with the wedding coming up -”
Chan cut you off by pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. His body shook as he let out a half-laugh, half-sob, and you realized he was crying.
“Channie, are you okay?” you asked nervously, your own voice shaking as you stroked his hair.
“Okay?” he choked out, pulling back to look at you with tear-streaked cheeks and the biggest grin you’d ever seen. “Baby, I’m better than okay. I’m… I’m gonna be a dad?”
You nodded, your heart swelling at the pure joy on his face.
Chan laughed, his tears flowing freely now.
“Holy crap. I don’t know what to say?! We’re having a baby. A baby!”
Before you could say anything else, Chan was peppering your face with kisses, squeezing you in the tightest hug ever.
“I love you so much. Baby, you’re…I can’t believe you’ve been carrying this on your own.” he said, cupping your cheeks with his hands.
“I didn’t want to stress you out,” you admitted, clinging to him as he pulled you onto his lap. “And…I've never been more scared about anything my entire life? I mean, I adore you, and I know I want this with you, our baby already means the world to me…but not knowing if you would want that too? It's been killing me, we've never even joked about this before, Channie… “
“You could’ve told me sooner, baby,” he said softly, kissing the tip of your nose. “I thought we were clear about this, with you, I'm ready for anything! But I get it. And I love you even more for worrying about me. But baby, we’re in this together. Always.”
---
Chan: GUYS. I HAVE NEWS. HUGE NEWS 🤩
Jisung: Finally!!
Hyunjin: I told you she's a spy!! No one ever listens to me!!
Minho: He’s too happy for that, you idiot.
Chan: WE’RE HAVING A BABY.
Jeongin: Excuse me, WHAT?
Changbin: STOP. Really?!
Seungmin: Wow, plot twist
Felix: Oh thank godddddd😭😭😭😭
Felix: I was dying here
Chan: SHE TOLD ME THIS MORNING. I’M GONNA BE A DAD. WE’RE GONNA BE PARENTS. OMG.
---
It felt like everytime he said it, it felt a little more real.
---
Jisung: Congratulations, bro. Wow.
Hyunjin: I AM CRYING. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE REPRODUCING.
Chan: 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
Chan: MY BABYGIRL AND I ARE HAVING A BABY😭💖
Minho: Jokes aside, this is such great news!! Congrats. Now go take care of your pregnant fiancée instead of spamming us.
Chan: I think I'm gonna faint
Changbin: Congrats, bro. But also… HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE SHE WAS GOING THROUGH SOMETHING?
Chan: I NOTICED! I just didn't think she was, you know
Jisung: Avoiding you because she was growing your spawn, apparently.
Hyunjin: “Spawn” makes it sound like a little gremlin. Oh my Gawd 🤣
Felix: STOP. My baby’s gonna be so adorable I’ll CRY 😭
Minho: Okay, Felix, you’re suspiciously calm about this. Did you already know?
Felix: 👀
Hyunjin: YOU KNEW.
Chris: WHAT?? FELIX, YOU KNEW BEFORE ME?!
Felix: SHE TOLD ME FIRST, OKAY? SHE WAS NERVOUS, AND I PROMISED I WOULDN’T SAY ANYTHING.
Jisung: Wow. Betrayal.
Chan: SO YOU JUST LET ME SUFFER FOR WEEKS??
Felix: Yes. And? I'd do it again for her.
Changbin: LMAO savage.
Jeongin: Shame on you for trusting him when everyone knows he works for her
Summary: You break up with Chan, but he won't let you go that easily.
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort?
Content warnings: there's a break up happening, lots of heartache and crying
Word Count: 985
Screenshots: 3
A/N: *my life, my love is you* U is just a great song and it hurts me so good every time I listen to it. Also, this went through several rewrites, but I also didn't really proofread it lol. I almost cried writing it though because hurting Chan even in fiction is just cruel and it hurt my soul.
♥--------♥--------♥
"Well, I'm sorry my passion is such an inconvenience for you!", Chan yelled. He was fuming, restlessly pacing through your living room. "That's not what I was saying and you know it", you retorted from where you were sitting on the couch. You were angry as well, but more than that you were tired. This was the third time this week the two of you blew up at each other. Once again you'd felt neglected, once again he'd gotten lost in his work, swamped with appointments, too busy being an idol.
And it was thoroughly exhausting to fight with him. Because you loved him with all your heart, you did not want to fight. But you also didn't want to feel left on the sidelines, like an afterthought. Things had been going downhill for a few months now. You wondered how you'd ever managed to balance the relationship and his profession. He'd asked you to quit your job and just follow him wherever he went. But that was not fair, you thought, that you had to give up your own dreams to be with him.
"This is not working, Chan." It hurt you in your soul to speak the words, but you felt yourself reaching a breaking point. "We are not working anymore." He stopped in his tracks and stared at you. "You don't mean that", he said, all his rage suddenly deflated. "No, I do, actually. Look at us, we're a mess. All we do lately is fight." "So what, you want to break up? Throw us away?" You felt the tears coming, felt your heart clenching painfully in your chest. "I don't know, Chan. All I know is that I can't do this anymore."
Chan took a seat on the couch beside you and reached for your hands, but you pulled away. "Please don't make this harder than it already is", you whispered as tears started running down your cheeks. "Baby...", was all he said as tears also filled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Chan. We tried...I tried....but I'm exhausted." "Don't do this, babe", he begged, reaching for your hands again. You didn't pull away this time, letting him grip you tightly. "I love you", he said. "I love you too", you said, "but it's not enough anymore."
***
The following weeks were torture. You went into survival mode, functioning at work and falling apart at home. You barely slept, and if you did, you were crying yourself to sleep. After three days of total isolation, your friends started to worry and showed up unannounced at your place. They kept doing that, making sure you ate and took at least somewhat care of yourself. They tried to cheer you up, tried you distract you, but all you thought about was Chan.
Everyday you asked yourself if you did the right thing. Everyday you reminded yourself of why you left, why you had to break it off. Everyday your thumb hovered at least once over the "unblock" button in his contact on your phone. Everyday you felt less like yourself, less like a person, less alive. It was as if breaking up exhausted you far more than fighting with Chan ever had.
Three weeks went by like that. Three weeks of you walking around like a zombie. Three weeks of missing Chan with every fibre of your being, missing his hugs, his voice, his love. And then you couldn't take it anymore, your thumb finally hitting that damned "unblock" button.
You were swamped by messages from him.
Your heart lurched in your chest with every message you read. You had to go over it several times, rereading every line, eyes blurry with tears. And by the end you finally realised what he was saying, so you got up and checked your mailbox. There was indeed an envelope in there, your name written on it in Chan's handwriting with a heart next to it.
Hastily, you went to the living room, opening the envelope on the way. There was a USB Stick inside and a small note.
Y/N, I miss you so much. I made this song for you to show you that I'm willing to fight for this relationship. Please give me the chance to fix this. I love you, Chan.
You started at the note, thumb brushing over the handwritten words. A tear landed on in next to his name. You missed him so much. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, then you grabbed your laptop from the couch table and inserted the USB Stick. On it was one singular audio file: For Y/N
With shaking hands you opened it and the song started. You fill up my mind 24/7... It was beautiful, hauntingly so, the lyrics piercing your heart. When it was done, it just started over again, and you let it. You played it on a loop, again and again, your quiet tears turning into full on sobs, as you fell apart on your couch.
It took you a while to process the song. To process Chan's messages and the lyrics and the fact that he had dropped a USB stick in your mailbox just a mere hour ago, because it was the only way he thought to get the song to you. He'd been outside your door, so close to you yet so far away still.
When your sobs finally died down and your mind stopped racing at light speed, you knew what to do. You picked up your phone, Chan's contact still open, and pressed the call button. He picked up immediately.
"Y/N?", he said hesitantly. You stayed quiet for a moment, words stuck in your throat. "Please say something", Chan said, voice shaky. "I listened to the song", you managed. There was another pause. "Can you come over?", you asked. You could hear him let out a breath of relief. "Open the door."
Summary: You break up with Chan, but he won't let you go that easily.
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort?
Content warnings: there's a break up happening, lots of heartache and crying
Word Count: 985
Screenshots: 3
A/N: *my life, my love is you* U is just a great song and it hurts me so good every time I listen to it. Also, this went through several rewrites, but I also didn't really proofread it lol. I almost cried writing it though because hurting Chan even in fiction is just cruel and it hurt my soul.
♥--------♥--------♥
"Well, I'm sorry my passion is such an inconvenience for you!", Chan yelled. He was fuming, restlessly pacing through his living room. "That's not what I was saying and you know it", you retorted from where you were sitting on the couch. You were angry as well, but more than that you were tired. This was the third time this week the two of you blew up at each other. Once again you'd felt neglected, once again he'd gotten lost in his work, swamped with appointments, too busy being an idol.
And it was thoroughly exhausting to fight with him. Because you loved him with all your heart, you did not want to fight. But you also didn't want to feel left on the sidelines, like an afterthought. Things had been going downhill for a few months now. You wondered how you'd ever managed to balance the relationship and his profession. He'd asked you to quit your job and just follow him wherever he went. But that was not fair, you thought, that you had to give up your own dreams to be with him.
"This is not working, Chan." It hurt you in your soul to speak the words, but you felt yourself reaching a breaking point. "We are not working anymore." He stopped in his tracks and stared at you. "You don't mean that", he said, all his rage suddenly deflated. "No, I do, actually. Look at us, we're a mess. All we do lately is fight." "So what, you want to break up? Throw us away?" You felt the tears coming, felt your heart clenching painfully in your chest. "I don't know, Chan. All I know is that I can't do this anymore."
Chan took a seat on the couch beside you and reached for your hands, but you pulled away. "Please don't make this harder than it already is", you whispered as tears started running down your cheeks. "Baby...", was all he said as tears also filled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Chan. We tried...I tried....but I'm exhausted." "Don't do this, babe", he begged, reaching for your hands again. You didn't pull away this time, letting him grip you tightly. "I love you", he said. "I love you too", you said, "but it's not enough anymore."
***
The following weeks were torture. You went into survival mode, functioning at work and falling apart at home. You barely slept, and if you did, you were crying yourself to sleep. After three days of total isolation, your friends started to worry and showed up unannounced at your place. They kept doing that, making sure you ate and took at least somewhat care of yourself. They tried to cheer you up, tried you distract you, but all you thought about was Chan.
Everyday you asked yourself if you did the right thing. Everyday you reminded yourself of why you left, why you had to break it off. Everyday your thumb hovered at least once over the "unblock" button in his contact on your phone. Everyday you felt less like yourself, less like a person, less alive. It was as if breaking up exhausted you far more than fighting with Chan ever had.
Three weeks went by like that. Three weeks of you walking around like a zombie. Three weeks of missing Chan with every fibre of your being, missing his hugs, his voice, his love. And then you couldn't take it anymore, your thumb finally hitting that damned "unblock" button.
You were swamped by messages from him.
Your heart lurched in your chest with every message you read. You had to go over it several times, rereading every line, eyes blurry with tears. And by the end you finally realised what he was saying, so you got up and checked your mailbox. There was indeed an envelope in there, your name written on it in Chan's handwriting with a heart next to it.
Hastily, you went to the living room, opening the envelope on the way. There was a USB Stick inside and a small note.
Y/N, I miss you so much. I made this song for you to show you that I'm willing to fight for this relationship. Please give me the chance to fix this. I love you, Chan.
You started at the note, thumb brushing over the handwritten words. A tear landed on in next to his name. You missed him so much. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, then you grabbed your laptop from the couch table and inserted the USB Stick. On it was one singular audio file: For Y/N
With shaking hands you opened it and the song started. You fill up my mind 24/7... It was beautiful, hauntingly so, the lyrics piercing your heart. When it was done, it just started over again, and you let it. You played it on a loop, again and again, your quiet tears turning into full on sobs, as you fell apart on your couch.
It took you a while to process the song. To process Chan's messages and the lyrics and the fact that he had dropped a USB stick in your mailbox just a mere hour ago, because it was the only way he thought to get the song to you. He'd been outside your door, so close to you yet so far away still.
When your sobs finally died down and your mind stopped racing at light speed, you knew what to do. You picked up your phone, Chan's contact still open, and pressed the call button. He picked up immediately.
"Y/N?", he said hesitantly. You stayed quiet for a moment, words stuck in your throat. "Please say something", Chan said, voice shaky. "I listened to the song", you managed. There was another pause. "Can you come over?", you asked. You could hear him let out a breath of relief. "Open the door."
✿SYNOPSIS. when chris texted an artist he found on instagram with the hopes of them designing an album cover for him, he never expected to fall head over heels in love with them.
PAIRING. bangchan x artist!reader
GENRE. smau, strangers to lovers
WARNINGS. little bit of suggestiveness, angst
CHAPTERS.
001. out now!
002. out now!
003. out now!
004. out now!
005. out now!
006. out now!
007. out now!
008. out now!
009. out now!
010. out now!
011. out now!
012. out now!
013. out now!
014. out now!
015. out now!
016. (final chapter) out now!
epilogue. out now!
A/N. this is dedicated to my favorite anon everrrr, aka 🦇 anon, as a congratulations for graduating and getting a super cool job. LOVE YOU POOKIE AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS
